Chapter 1
so, let me just make sure I’ve got this. You’re telling me you can’t come with me to my grandmother’s party this weekend because Saturdays are ‘for the bros’?”
I stop short on the sidewalk, my voice—and spine—stiff with indignation. Brett and I have just arrived back at my apartment building after grabbing a late dinner, one of a handful of dates we’ve been on since meeting a couple of months ago at Skye Verde, a rooftop bar my coworker and roommate Natalia had insisted we try out for her twenty-ninth birthday. He’d impressed me that night, as much due to his easygoing personality and wry sense of humor as to the fact that I never once caught him checking out other women over my shoulder (a transgression that should be the exception but, as all women know, is far more often the rule). I peer at his face now under the glare of the streetlamp to confirm this isn’t some misguided attempt at humor, but all signs point to him being serious. Just great.
Things had been going deceptively well until now, too. Brett’s gainfully employed as a lawyer (who doesn’t need free legal advice?), more than holds his own conversationally, texts back quickly, and hasn’t sent me any unsolicited dick pics. Perhaps not the highest bar, but he’s definitely the most impressive guy I’ve dated in months. I’d even been hopeful enough about his potential longevity to extend an invite to a family function—not a step I take lightly.
Brett massages the back of his neck, clearly annoyed. “I warned you that Saturdays are off-limits. I haven’t missed a Hokies game in six years, and I’m not about to start now. I was very up-front with you about this.”
I blink and step back. And to think I’d planned on inviting him up.
“Yes, I recall your dramatic monologue about ‘Sacred Saturdays.’ I assumed it was satire.”
“I don’t joke about football.”
“Evidently.”
He raises his hands defensively. “Look, you wouldn’t want me there anyway. I’d be distracted the whole time.”
I’m tempted to laugh. So gaslighting is his weapon of choice. “Actually, I did want you there. Hence the reason I invited you.”
There’s a beat of silence as we face each other in a stubborn standoff.
“Sorry, Cassidy, but I refuse to feel guilty about this.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his body language anything but apologetic. Strike two. “Saturday’s the one day per week that’s off-limits for me. Pick any other day.”
I stare at him. “I didn’t pick the day. It’s her ninetieth birthday.”
“Just as easy to have a party on a Sunday as a Saturday.”
Aaand strike three.
“Mm-kay.” I rummage in my bag for my keys. “You know what? Forget it. You’re off the hook.”
He drops his arms and his face relaxes, relief replacing irritation. Easygoing Brett has returned. “Thanks for understanding. You wouldn’t believe how many women won’t cut me any slack on this. I’m always the bad guy.”
This time, I do laugh. “I meant you’re off the hook permanently. Consider your Saturdays wide open from now on. And your Sundays, and your Mondays, and every other day that ends in -y. We’re done.”
Now he’s the one blinking at me. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. You made that decision very easy.” I reach past him to grab the door handle. “But I hope you enjoy your game,” I say, syrupy-sweet, and pat his arm before letting the door swing shut in his face.
And another one bites the dust.
I block and delete his number from my phone before I can second-guess myself, then shake my head in disgust as the elevator lurches upward to my floor. Despite my righteous indignation back there, I’m disappointed. Brett was the rarest of breeds: good-looking, smart, successful—and what’s more, he actually seemed to want a relationship (practically an endangered species in the urban jungle that is New York). But if he doesn’t know how important my grandmother is to me, then he hasn’t been listening . . . and the last thing I need is to sign up for a lifetime as a weekend sports widow. No thank you.
I sigh as I key into my apartment, setting my purse down on the console table in our entry and calling out for Nat. There’s no answer; not a surprise since she spends most nights at her boyfriend’s in Williamsburg. I usually don’t mind being home alone, though I wouldn’t mind having someone to commiserate with right about now.
As I brush my teeth in our shared bathroom, I peer into Natalia’s dark, empty bedroom, the pit in my stomach growing larger when I think about how close she is to getting engaged—and how I’ll be forced to find yet another new roommate, my fourth in five years. It’s become a running joke in our friend group: “Want your boyfriend to pop the question? Just move in with Cassidy! You’ll be engaged in no time.” I laugh right along with them, even if I’m crying inside. Don’t get me wrong, most of the time I’m happily single and embrace my independence, but even the most confident among us would be unnerved by pulling bridesmaid duty six times in three years. It’s not a great feeling to watch everyone around you stairstep into the next phase of life while you seem to be running in place.
Though my bed and Instagram feed are calling my name, I plop into my desk chair and open my laptop instead, forcing myself to tap out some thoughts before the memory of that Brett confrontation fades. While I don’t much feel like wallowing in my disappointment, it’s true what they say: Everything is copy (and by “they,” I mean the queen herself, Nora Ephron). Emotional turmoil fuels creativity, and when the Muse knocks, one must answer. I close my eyes and channel my inner Carrie Bradshaw: I thought I’d picked a winner, but when a man values football over family, I can’t help but wonder—in the game of love, will I always come out the loser?
Something Brett said niggles at my brain, so I open a new tab and google “Sacred Saturdays”—then groan out loud.
Of course.
***
“boy, i’d give my eyeteeth to have seen the look on your face.”
“Right? I don’t see how I could have reacted any differently.”
“I might’ve added a smack for good measure. You’d be surprised how quickly a well-timed slap can knock some sense into a man.” There’s a mischievous glint in Gran’s eye as she slices a hand through the air to demonstrate. “Besides, who would pass up the chance to meet me? I’m delightful.”
I snort. “Obviously.”
It’s early Saturday evening and my grandmother’s party’s just ended, the last of my extended family members trickling out in a flurry of Tupperware, overstimulated toddlers, and goodbye hugs. I stayed late to chat and catch up—and rehash all the fresh family gossip, of course.
My grandmother and I have had a unique bond from the time I was young, perhaps because like recognizes like and she sees herself in my quiet bookishness. Growing up I often felt out of place among my extroverted sister Christine and my natural athlete brother Colin, but Gran always paid me special attention, never letting me fade into the background or feel like the introverted nerd I surely was.
While my dad loved to regale us with childhood tales of her exacting nature and authoritarian brand of discipline, we rarely saw that side of her. With us, she was gregarious and fun-loving and lenient, perpetually spoiling us and slyly encouraging our mischief (as all the best grandparents do). To me she always seemed glamorous and impossibly chic, from the collection of Chanel scarves she’d style a thousand different ways to the extravagant doll clothes she’d sew for our Barbies: faux fur coats with pearl buttons and evening gowns made of gold chain mail or luxe velvet. She was a stickler for things like manners and etiquette, but also cool, like when she’d teach us how to origami-fold our cloth napkins into bikinis or pour us glasses of wine when we turned eighteen and practically dare our parents to chide her for it.
I lean my hip against the countertop as she putters around the kitchen making tea. I’d offer to help, but I know better—she’d accuse me of treating her like an invalid, maybe even mock me by calling me Thomas (the name of her worrywart second-born son, otherwise known as my dad). She spent the entire day today assuring anyone who would listen that she’s a “young ninety.”
“Where are you even finding these boys, anyway?” she asks, then stops bustling long enough to hold up a finger. “Wait, let me guess. An app.” She makes a face like she’s just licked a lemon. “Why your generation entrusts their romantic futures to a machine is beyond me. If you think a computer can accurately predict chemistry, I’ve got some oceanfront property in Kansas to sell you.” The kettle starts whistling and she moves to take it off the burner.
“It’s how things are done now, Gran. I don’t exactly have men lining up to fill my dance card at the sock hop.”
She swats me with a tea towel. “Some might consider your ageist jokes elder abuse, you know.”
“Now you’re elderly,” I tease as I squat down to pet her Himalayan cat, Pyewacket, so named after the feline sidekick in one of her favorite old movies, Bell, Book and Candle.
“Well, I’m sorry he didn’t work out, honey. Did you like him a whole lot?” She pours the steaming water into a teacup, the lines around her eyes crinkled in concern.
I think about that as I wander out of the kitchen and over to my favorite spot in the house, the vintage tufted couch in her sitting room that she had re-covered in a sunny yellow velvet after my grandfather passed away twelve years ago. She said the color cheered her.
I sink deep into the cushions, feeling myself instantly relax. “Honestly? I’m not sure. I think I liked the idea of him more than I actually liked him, if that makes any sense. It was nice to have someone to think about and go out to dinner with, but he didn’t exactly give me
butterflies.” Pyewacket jumps up onto the couch and I scratch behind her ears as she curls herself into a fluffy ball on my lap.
“Never underestimate the importance of butterflies,” Gran warns as she follows me out of the kitchen. “It’ll eventually wear off, of course, but when the going gets tough, sometimes just the memories of the butterflies are enough to pull you through.”
“Tell me a good Pop-Pop story,” I beg, reaching out to take her teacup so she can get settled next to me on the couch.
“Oh, you’ve already heard all my stories,” she says, waving me off, but I catch the tiny smile she’s hiding. She loves any excuse to talk about my grandpa—which is why I asked her, of course.
“Come on, just one that’ll restore my faith in men and prove that true love still exists.”
“Just one of those, huh?” she says with a laugh, then hums as she thinks for a minute. “Let’s see. There was this one time when we were newlyweds, and we’d just been transferred to a base in Texas. So we were in this brand-new place, didn’t know a soul, and I caught some bug. Maybe it was food poisoning, I can’t remember. Anyway, I got sick, and I mean really sick. You know, vomiting and . . . the other thing,” she says, raising her eyebrows and giving me a wide-eyed look, and I have to stifle a laugh. She’s so proper, she can’t even bring herself to say the word diarrhea. “And in those days, we were very private about such things. None of this ‘open door’ stuff you kids are into. I’m not even sure he’d seen me without my face on before we got married!
“So I was really in a state, just terribly embarrassed,” she continues. “I locked the door and tried to keep him from seeing me like that, but he wouldn’t have it. He demanded I open the door, and then he sat with me, and rubbed my back, and brought me ginger ale. He doted on me,” she says simply, the faraway look in her eyes tinged with sadness. “And I remember thinking, Boy, did I choose the right one.”
“Pop-Pop was a gem.”
“True enough.” She smiles at the memory. “So there’s my advice for the day: Pick a man who’ll hold your hair back.”
“Duly noted.”
She picks up her teacup again. “Now, enough of my blathering. What else is new with you? How’s work?”
“It’s good,” I tell her, the question earning a genuine smile. “Busy as always.”
For the last four years
I’ve worked as an editor at Siren, a female-run, female-focused news and entertainment website that covers everything from current events to fashion to relationship trends to pop culture. My boss, Cynthia Barnes-Cooke, founded the site out of her apartment nearly ten years ago, though today Siren employs more than twenty full-time editors and two hundred contract writers. We produce at a punishing pace, publishing more than two hundred pieces of content a day, and I love everything about it: the responsibility of managing a team of writers, the diversity of content I get to work on, helping shape the growth strategy. In our last funding round, the site was valued at more than $200 million.
“Any update on the book? How’s it coming?” Gran asks casually, focusing studiously on dipping her tea bag instead of on me. Even so, I feel myself deflate.
Gran is one of the few people to whom I’ve confessed my ultimate career ambition: to write the next great American novel—or at least, something buzzy enough to get picked for Reese’s Book Club or O magazine’s list of “Summer’s Hottest Beach Reads.” Natalia thinks I’m psyching myself out by starting with such lofty expectations, but I hardly think I’m setting the bar too high (and as Gran’s so impartially pointed out, Reese or Jenna or Oprah would be lucky to have me). The only problem? I have no clue what to write about. I know what it takes to stand out in the publishing world, and none of my ideas feels fresh or high-concept enough. What’s the point of writing a book if it’s just going to fade into the background like some sort of literary wallflower?
I’m a wannabe author with writer’s block. I hate myself for the cliché.
“No update. Still searching for a topic that’ll set the publishing world on fire.”
Gran hums noncommittally, sipping her tea.
“I’m going to be in another wedding,” I blurt before she can work her way up to a follow-up question I won’t have an answer for.
“What number is this one?”
I wince. “Lucky number seven.”
“Pretty soon you’ll be the girl in that movie, with all the bridesmaid dresses.” She looks tickled.
“I will not be that girl, because I sell all the dresses before the couple even gets back from their honeymoon.” Thanks to a bridesmaid’s best friends, eBay and Poshmark. “But you’re gonna love this next part.”
Her eyes light up. “Is it a destination wedding?”
“The Caribbean.”
She claps her hands in delight. “Can I be your plus-one?”
“You know what, maybe. I’d certainly have more fun with you than as the perpetual
third wheel with all my couple friends.”
“I wouldn’t want to steal the spotlight from the bride,” she says, deadpan.
“With great power comes great responsibility,” I respond, just as seriously.
“Or maybe you’ll meet someone by then!” Ever the optimist.
“Maybe I’ll win the lottery, too,” I say dryly. And frankly, I’m gonna need to if I have a prayer of continuing to afford the never-ending merry-go-round of bachelorette parties, bridal showers, and tropical nuptials I’m forced to attend. I have half a mind to start a GoFundMe to finance my lifestyle as a serial bridesmaid. No one would be able to resist my tear-jerking backstory: destitution via wedding gift.
I heave a sigh. I hate that I’m starting to hate weddings. “Let’s face it, weddings just aren’t any fun without a significant other. It’s like they’re designed to make single people feel pathetic and inadequate. And you know I hate saying that out loud, because it goes against everything I stand for.”
It’s the truth. I’ve never bought into the narrative that life doesn’t start until you meet “The One” or that I won’t be whole until I’ve found my “other half.” In fact, I’m that annoying friend you can count on to trot out trite platitudes like “A man can’t love you until you love yourself” or “A fulfilling life starts by being full.”
But I can’t deny that when I arrive back to my empty apartment each night, I wish there was someone waiting inside for me. Sometimes I even imagine I’ll see him when I swing open the door, this phantasm who looks a little like Henry Cavill or Scott Eastwood or maybe a Magnum, P.I.–era Tom Selleck (there’s just something about that mustache–chest hair combo that gets my motor running). Someone who’d be interested in the tiny, insignificant details of my day, who’d take my side on every petty grievance, then mount his steed and ride into battle, vowing vengeance on those who dared to wrong me. Someone who’d ruin my perfectly curated Netflix queue of time-traveler romance and angsty teen dramas with sweaty man shows like Reacher or Yellowstone. I ache for someone to curl my body against on the couch, to fall asleep in the embrace of a man who’d spoon me so tight I’d overheat.
“Wanting a partner isn’t a weakness,” Gran reminds me, as if she can read my thoughts.
“I know that. I just feel like all these weddings have turned me into this Bitter Betty, and that’s not who I am. Most of the time I like being independent.”
“Maybe you’re too independent,” she muses thoughtfully. “Men like to feel needed,
you know. Sometimes I would pretend I couldn’t open the pickle jar just so your grandfather could feel useful.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Women in your generation were different than mine. We don’t have to make ourselves small for men to feel big.”
She freezes with the teacup halfway to her lips. “I’m sorry?”
Crap. I’m so comfortable with my grandma that I somehow forgot the first rule of journalism: Know your audience. “That came out wrong. What I meant was—”
“Oh, I know exactly what you meant.” She bangs her cup down on the saucer so roughly, tea splashes over the side. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, Miss Modern Gal-About-Town? You think you have nothing to learn from the women who came before you? Never mind the hard-earned lessons learned from a nearly fifty-year marriage. What could this old fuddy-duddy possibly have to teach you?”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Point taken. That was very judgmental. I didn’t mean it the way it came out, and I’m sorry.”
She pins me under her gaze, her expression shrewdly assessing. “You know, the world you’re living in might look different than mine did, but the rules haven’t changed. Men still want the same things.”
I can’t help myself. “Like what, to be waited on hand and foot? To have their laundry folded and dinner on the table when they walk through the door?”
Her eyes narrow. Pretty sure if I wasn’t twenty-eight, she’d paddle me. “They want to feel like men. They want to pursue, provide, and protect. That’s biological, no matter what you want to tell yourself.”
“Maybe that’s my problem, then,” I muse. “I don’t need a man to provide for me. And I can kill my own spiders. Heck, I can even have a baby on my own! Honestly, sometimes I think women have evolved past men entirely.”
“Well, keep telling men you don’t need them, and don’t be surprised when you find yourself all alone.”
Ouch. “That was harsh, Gran.”
“The truth hurts, doesn’t it? I swear, your generation needs a reprogramming. You’re all too liberated for your own good. I should sign you up for The Bachelor,” she mutters, then suddenly straightens and snaps her fingers. “Wait.”
“You are not signing
me up for The Bachelor.”
She ignores me, squinting into the air as if racking her brain. “Yes, I’m sure I still have it. It’s got to be in the study . . .” she murmurs, then gets to her feet, padding down the hallway that leads to the back of the house.
I resign myself to going along on this tangent and follow dutifully behind her, and eventually she veers off into her home office, heading straight for the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves spanning the back wall. She slips on the glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and starts grazing the spines with her fingertips, brushing past my grandpa’s old engineering texts and Ludlum thrillers, and her own cozy mysteries and romance novels.
While she hunts for whatever it is she’s looking for, I peruse the framed photos lining the shelves, which is akin to taking a trip through time via fashion. My favorite is the one of my grandparents all dressed up—he in his Navy dress whites and she in an off-the-shoulder red dress and fur stole that would fetch a mint in one of the city’s upscale vintage shops. In a posed family portrait, she’s every bit the stately matriarch in a boxy Jackie O suit and white gloves. There’s one of my grandpa with his arms around their boys, the Jersey shoreline in the background, the sea air wreaking havoc on their windblown hair. And then I spot a picture of them with my siblings and me from a family trip we took to the Grand Canyon, my awkward stage on full display in braces and curly bangs. “Ugh, why is this the picture you chose to frame?”
She pauses her search to glance over, then clucks her tongue. “Oh stop it, you look adorable. A little gawky, maybe. But look at the swan you grew into.”
“You used to tell me I looked ‘gamine’ instead of ‘gawky.’ ” I remember this detail so vividly because it’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with the written word, that just a slight variation in letters had the power to improve the mindset of an awkward, gangly teenage girl. “Anyway, it’s a real mystery why I never heard back from those model searches I was constantly entering at the back of Teen magazine.” I place the frame back on the shelf, stealthily nudging it behind a couple of others.
“Aha! I knew I still had it.” She pulls a dark hardback from one of the lower shelves and hands it to me triumphantly—and when I see the title, I nearly choke on my tongue: I Do: Rules & Etiquette for the Military Wife.
“Oh my . . .”
I drift toward an overstuffed floral love seat set up in the corner of the room and switch on the reading lamp. Inside the front cover is a faded inscription on the flyleaf: Welcome to the club, ...
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