Of course, the story of how I got here starts well before the events of Megan’s engagement party. I could take the David Copperfield approach and begin with my birth, but then we would be here for way too long and you would completely lose interest before I got to the juicy stuff, like sleeping with an anonymous groomsman and going viral for being the world’s worst bridesmaid. So it’s probably best to start with the basics.
My name is Lily Weiss, and I am my mother’s worst nightmare. In other words, I am a single, thirty-two-year-old spinster who lacks even the hint of a marital prospect and who is therefore increasingly unlikely to provide her with the grandchildren that she wants yesterday.
Or, as I like to spin it, I am a fabulous career woman who refuses to settle for anything less than true love.
Which would be an easier sell, I suppose, if my career weren’t the most singularly boring job on the planet. Unique? Definitely. Well paying? Nothing lavish, but I’m doing okay. Fabulous? Absolutely freaking not.
I work as the Director of Communications at the Foundation for Scientific Technology. Capital letters theirs, not mine. Such a great title. Such a lame reality. It boils down to writing a lot of press releases for a huge science nonprofit. The foundation funds research experiments around the world, and I write about the findings of those experiments. Which sounds cool until you realize the experiments have no practical application to everyday life. Studies on marine sponge life don’t exactly cure cancer.
It would probably be a total dream job if I liked science, but I don’t. I majored in journalism in college because it was as far from my particle astrophysicist father’s world as I could get. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my dad. But he started his crusade to convince me to follow in his footsteps as soon as I emerged from the womb, and even that early, I wasn’t feeling it. For my eighth birthday, he got me a telescope and a journal to chart the stars in. That telescope sat there collecting dust while I scribbled my first story, about a pony named Chloe, in the journal.
But even majoring in journalism, I was told every time I had to write a technical article that my calling was science journalism. Apparently I have a knack for explaining complex concepts in layman’s terms—maybe that’s what comes from being raised in a household where neutrinos and quarks were dinner-table conversation. And writing jobs are scarce. Writing jobs that pay enough to keep me from sleeping in my childhood bedroom and eating breakfast with my parents every morning are even scarcer. It may not be groundbreaking journalism, but my science-minded colleagues seem impressed with my ability to communicate their efforts to the rest of the world daily.
It is also the one writing job that makes my father as proud of me as he would be had I actually gone into a scientific field. And with my mother suffering the constant agony borne of knowing exactly how ineffective my dating life is at providing me with a husband, it’s nice to have at least one parent’s undying approval.
All of this is well and good, but it’s really just background noise to get to my current predicament. Which is the weddings. All five of them.
The foundation, or FST, as it’s called in the scientific community, isn’t exactly a bustling hub of the young and the hip. It’s full of old men who think it’s perfectly acceptable to wear a tie with a short-sleeved shirt and a jean jacket with jeans. And the handful of women are basically exactly like the men, except sometimes with longer hair.
Except for Caryn.
Caryn, like myself, grew up with absolutely zero interest in science. Technically, she’s the Administrative Assistant to the Director of the FST. But call her a secretary at your own peril. She runs the whole operation, largely because social skills are not exactly the strongest suit of the higher-ups here. Without her, the entire foundation would disintegrate within twenty-four hours. She also has more tolerance for people than anyone I have ever met in my life.
Our lack of interest in science was where the similarities in our career goals ended though. Caryn was still actively pursuing her MRS degree, having failed to achieve that particular title in college and somehow, inexplicably, for the seven years thereafter. Which meant that this job, for her, was a nice little marital résumé booster to show she could hold her own in an intelligent conversation and run a home and family while looking like a supermodel.
She’s where the craziness began.
“Good morning!” Caryn trilled as she came gliding into my office.
I looked up warily. No one was that happy at nine fifteen on a Monday morning. At least no one I would voluntarily be friends with.
“Coffee?” she asked, wiggling the clear plastic, mermaid-bedecked cup that told me she had gotten my favorite iced skinny vanilla latte after her morning exercise class.
“Oh no. You want me to completely rewrite the Higgins proposal again, don’t you?” Caryn didn’t drink coffee—especially not mass-produced coffee from a chain. Organic juice cleanses? Yes. So if she was supporting Starbucks, whatever she wanted was going to be more than I could handle on a Monday morning. And she had bought a venti!
Caryn laughed. “Can’t I just bring my friend coffee on a beautiful Monday morning?”
I glanced out the window. It was overcast and supposed to rain for most of the day. I looked back at her to see if she had finally snapped and was ready to go on a killing spree while decked out in Lilly Pulitzer and Chanel perfume, but she just stood there, smiling sweetly, her left hand holding out the coffee.
Then I saw the dazzlingly giant gemstone on that hand.
“Oh my God!” I jumped up, banging my knee and scattering papers in the process. “Caryn!”
She managed to set the cup down on my desk before I tackled her in a giant hug. “Tell me everything!”
She sank gracefully into the chair at my desk, while I grabbed the coffee like the lifeline that it was.
“Well, you know our anniversary was last night.” I nodded, despite knowing nothing of the kind. They had only been dating since January and it was early July now. Was she counting month anniversaries? “So Greg took me to the restaurant where we had our first date. And I honestly didn’t expect a thing.” This was a bit of a stretch. She had bridal magazines in her desk. Granted, she had been hoarding those for years before she met Greg. But still. “And we ordered drinks, but the waitstaff brought a bottle of champagne instead. I looked at Greg, thinking he was going to tell them they’d brought the wrong drinks, but he wasn’t at his seat, he was down on one knee.” She held out her hand for me to admire the ring.
“It’s perfect,” I said. And it was. Which was no surprise. Caryn had honed the appearance of effortless flawlessness in absolutely all aspects of life. Sometimes I felt twinges of jealousy for how easily everything seemed to come for her, but in the seven years since she had started working at the FST, I had snuck enough peeks behind the Wizard’s curtain to know there was genuine effort involved in that appearance. Some people, like my little sister, fall backward into everything without trying. Caryn never stopped trying. I tended to fall somewhere between the two of them—I tried more than Amy did, but I couldn’t reach Caryn’s level of perfection even if I wanted to. Which, if I was being perfectly honest, I didn’t want to. I liked being able to skip the gym when I was tired and eat refined sugars.
“When are you thinking for a wedding?” I knew the answer, but still wanted to ask the right questions. “And where? What did your mom say?”
“June. Somewhere outside, maybe by the water. But not destination. It’s just too much of a strain on people. She was thrilled, obviously!”
I grinned. Caryn’s news was possibly the only thing that could put a smile on my face first thing on a Monday morning.