Page 1 of That's Not a Thing

Chapter One

January 2017

Iam working my way through a spicy entrée calledrenegade scampini, savoring the hypnotic combination of unusual flavors, completely unaware that my life is about to implode. As I take in this swanky restaurant in TriBeCa, an upscale venue full of beautiful people and thousand-dollar shoes, I want to be above the hype, to be unfazed by the billowing satin sheets draping the walls, the way they dance beneath the incongruous industrial ceiling fans. The nearly haphazard combination of materials decorating the space—sleek glass and decadent fabrics offset by distressed wood and conspicuous, bulging light bulbs—creates something unexpectedly sassy and chic. I have been attempting to adopt an imperturbable attitude in my recently affianced state, as though I have graduated from the excitability of my youth, but I must concede that this place is impressive.

“You can’t—I mean reallycannot—have the wedding in Jersey,” Lana is complaining. Always trying to prove herself an authentic city girl, she’s reluctant to go anywhere that requires traversing a bridge or tunnel.

“But my mom ...” I start, between bites of my pasta, a concoction of angel hair, shrimp, and a creamy, herb-infused avocado sauce that’s wickedly delicious. Then Lana cuts me off.

“You know I love my aunt Karen,” she lobs at me as she pushes broccoli rabe around in concentric circles on her plate, “but who are you going to trust on this—a suburban woman who’s had the same hairstyle since the Reagan administration, or a young Manhattanite who works at a fashion magazine? Wouldn’t that mean I know what’sin fashion?” She raises her blond eyebrows at me in challenge.

As I struggle with which part of her statement to contradict first, I feel Aaron’s hand travel to my thigh under the table, squeezing lightly in a show of support, reminding me to be patient in my response. I reach underneath the white tablecloth and squeeze back, grateful that at least one person at the table understands my priorities for this wedding. Lana and Reese are treating us to this exorbitantly overpriced meal in order to celebrate my recent engagement to Aaron. The coveted reservation for four at this hot spot originally belonged to Lana’s boss, the accessories editor ofMode à la Mode, a haughty fashion magazine that showcases items mere mortals could never afford. When the editor was called away to a last-minute meeting in London, Lana, her dedicated and ambitious assistant, landed first dibs on the booking.

I had expected another dark, cramped Manhattan nook where we would be forced to maneuver between tightly packed tables and shout at each other to be heard. Instead, we are settled in a wide, airy space with whimsical, fresh decor. There is white everywhere; a white patina covering the exposed-brick walls, white tablecloths, the aforementioned flowy white fabric suspended from the surprisingly high ceilings, and a long white bar lining the entire left side of the restaurant. The bar top is one long plank of repurposed wood, now bleached to match its surroundings, and it’s stunning in its simplicity. The only splash of color comes from an oversize arrangement of twigs placed near one end of the bar, yellow buds sprouting forth from them in triumph.

I’ve already explained to Lana that I am not concerned with cachet in regard to the wedding. My objective is to create a meaningful ceremony without too much fuss, something that will allow Aaron and me to celebrate our future without getting caught up in the tragedies of the past. As I open my mouth to argue, I suddenly feel so stodgy in my navy pencil skirt and tan silk blouse—items I purchased with the specific purpose of appearing more conservative and mature. Maybe something about the ambience in this restaurant is loosening me up, but I begin thinking that perhaps Lana is right. Maybe we should have the ceremony in the city, keep it small and elite, utilize an unlikely venue.

As my thoughts careen in various directions, I keep quiet for too long, and Aaron picks up my slack, answering for me. “We’re pretty set on using the synagogue in South Orange,” he tells Lana with a casual shrug, holding his ground with the gentle authority that is his hallmark. He isn’t particular about where the wedding should take place, but he is defending what I have been claiming to want.

My eyes roam up, back to the enormous steel blades of the room’s two ceiling fans, which is when I have the idea that maybe we could do it here, at this restaurant, never mind the ridiculous name of the place. Thunder Chicken on Greenwich. It’s a good thing they added that last bit with the street name—as though there are so many other Thunder Chickens out there from which it must differentiate itself.

“There’s a woman at the temple,” Aaron is elaborating, “she handles the catering, and she’ll take care of all the prep work. We won’t have to deal with any of the nitty-gritty.”

“Meredith!” Lana nearly shouts at me. “How can you delegate your wedding planning to a woman you barely know?” She looks like she wants to burst out from her seat and shake me.

“What about doing it here?” I blurt, surprised that I am seriously entertaining the idea.

“Here?” Aaron and Lana both ask at once, looking at me and then at each other.

Reese finally looks up from his iPhone. He’s been typing away on it for the last ten minutes, dealing with some sort of catastrophe at the investment bank where he works.

“That’s a cool idea, Mer,” he offers, before returning his attention to the device in his hands.

I look at Aaron to gauge his reaction and see his dark brown eyes traveling around the restaurant as if he’s seeing the space for the first time, considering what I’ve suggested.

“I like it,” he ventures. “It’s different, quirky. Definitely more convenient for most of our friends than having them schlep out to Jersey. But it’s whatever you want, Mer.” He lifts his hand, signaling to a scantily clad, redheaded waitress who is hovering near our table.

“What can I get you?” She glides over, standing too close to Aaron as she eyes him from head to toe, probably admiring his expansive chest and thick, dark hair. People always say that Aaron looks like a younger, broader version of Ben Affleck, but Aaron is built so athletically that I’ve never been able to see the resemblance. After one quick glance at him, you can guess that he was once a football player. In addition to the typical bulk of a line-backer, he has eyes that are bright and alert in the way of an athlete who is always one step ahead of the other team’s play. But it was other details about Aaron that first drew me to him two years ago, when he approached me in the elevator of my office building. His brown eyebrows are velvety and expressive. His lips are naturally upturned at the corners, even in his resting state, as if he knows the punch line to a salty joke and he’s just mulling it over again.

“Do you guys do private events?” Aaron asks her, and I melt a little, seeing him so eager to explore any plan I’ve hatched.

“Private events?” she asks, stepping even closer to him and moving her silver pen to her mouth in a seductive gesture. It’s almost as though she thinks he’s asking for a lap dance—and come to think of it, “private events” does sound kind of suggestive.

“Like weddings,” I interject pointedly, marking my territory.

“Because they areengaged,” Lana adds, motioning from Aaron back to me with her fork.

“Oh.” She purses her lips around the pen she’s been mouthing—too tightly, as if she’s trying to suck a hamburger through a straw. “I don’t know.” She glances from Lana to me. “We’ve only been open a couple of months, so no one’s done that yet. I can ask the owner what he thinks,” she offers tepidly.

“Yes,” Lana responds. “Go do that, and then come tell us what he says.” Lana is as bossy as ever, but the waitress seems unfazed.

After the woman flutters off, Reese finally puts his phone into his pants pocket. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes again. “I thought finishing my first year as an analyst meant I’d be able to dial it back a little at work, but apparently I’m still one of the little people.” He unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt and begins rolling up one sleeve, then the other.

“Not to me, you’re not,” Lana turns toward him on the banquette, her round blue eyes full of adoration.

“Uh-huh,” he answers. His eyes dart to his watch before he finally digs into the crispy duck dish that has been languishing on his plate.

I feel a stab of sympathy for Lana. Reese still treats her like an inconvenience, an interruption, instead of the love of his life. They have been dating since high school, and Lana is desperate to get engaged. Reese, on the other hand, seems prepared for several more years of urban independence and boondoggling before he will be ready to settle down.