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I’d rather have something private somewhere outdoors. Maybe a ceremony in Fairmount Park, surrounded by trees, or in a garden. I’d love to get married surrounded by flowering bushes with little bees buzzing through the air.
Instead, I’ll be sayingI dobeneath an oil painting of Ronald Reagan.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s going to be amazing.” I force a smile and jab my finger at a random dress. “I like this one,” I announce.
Sophia makes a face as she stares down at the page. “Seriously? You want to go vintage?”
“Vintage is cool now,” Maya quips.
“We can do a whole flapper theme,” I say, mostly because I know Sophia’s going to hate it.
And she totally does. “Absolutely not. No, nope, no way, we’re not doing atheme, no thank you. I am offended that you even suggested something so obscene. No, thanks though.”
I laugh, unable to help myself, and Chiara tries to defend my dress choice, but we eventually move on. They keep assaulting me with more suggestions and ideas, and I pretend like I’m doing my best to care about all this, but really, I’m only barely hanging on.
Another hour of wedding stuff, and I’m so exhausted that I’m relieved when my phone starts ringing. “I should take this,” I say, excusing myself.
The screen says it’s Michael Williamson. He runs a series of charity kitchens all over the city. I worked for his organization for a few years after school, mostly doing administrative work. It wasn’t my dream job, but it looks good on my resume, and Michael was a solid boss.
I answer it out in the hall. “Hello?”
“Hey, Allegra, how are you? I heard you were back in town.”
“Got in not that long ago. I keep meaning to call, but?—”
But I’m getting married.
“No worries at all. You know how it is, summer’s always a busy season.”
“So is winter. Actually, aren’t all the seasons busy?”
“That’s a good point.” He laughs, deep and low. Michael’s a good guy—grew up in North Philly, went to Harvard, and founded Feeding Philly the year after he graduated. Now he’s managing one of the largest nonprofits in the area. “Hey, listen, we’re a little understaffed right now at a few locations. I’m doing the usual labor drive.”
“Oh, no, how many calls have you made?”
“A dozen.” He laughs again, easy and genuine. “Probably more. Still got positions to fill if you’re interested?”
“I’d be happy to take a few shifts at a kitchen. Email me some dates and we’ll get it ironed out.”
“Absolutely. Sounds good. And hey, I’m just putting this out there, but we haven’t filled your old job yet?—”
My stomach tightens. I look down at the floor, biting my lip. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t.”
“Sure, no pressure. We’d just be happy to have you back. But hey, you’re going to volunteer, so that’s great. I’ll have Cathy send over the info, alright?”
“Sounds good. Thanks again.”
“Anytime.” He hangs up and I stay in the hallway, taking deep breaths.
I quit on him when I ran out to Italy. He was so nice about it—the guy’s a freaking saint, I really don’t know how he does it—but I sort of left without any notice, and I still feel guilty about it. He won’t hold it against me, so it’s not that big of a deal, but it reminded me that I won’t ever work for him, or anyone like him, ever again.
Doing administrative work for a nonprofit isn’t glamorous and didn’t pay well, but I felt good about myself. And the dream of becoming a guidance counselor didn’t seem all that far away when I was working in an adjacent industry. Helping feed homeless people, helping high school kids figure out what they want to do with their lives, it’s not all that dissimilar. I could tell myself that it was a stepping stone to the next level.
Instead, all the stones are gone.
Gian’s voice floats back into my head.Marry me. His offer hasn’t been far from my mind since he made it, and I wish I never went back to that office. If I hadn’t spoken with him, I wouldn’t be in this stupid dilemma, and I wouldn’t have any hope.
Which is actually pretty depressing, all things considered.
