“I am so surprised,” I promise Dr. Chugh, sinking into her warm, plump body like a cushion. This is how my mom would have felt if she had let me hug her more. This is how a mom should feel—soft but solid, with some weight on her, some permanence. Arch gets her stature and long limbs from Satya, her father. I wasn’t sure how the parents of a first-generation Indian woman would react to their daughter dating a tattooed American with a nose ring and nipples that lactate, but Arch pointed out that she introduced her first girlfriend to her parents when she was twenty-three years old, that she’s thirty-six now, and have I seen her ass? Do the math; there have been many who came before me.
The filthy family money comes from Satya’s side and the progressive female ambition from Dr. Chugh, a retired surgeon at Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital who thrust scientific literature onto her wary husband when Arch first came out. There is no medical cure for homosexuality and we have one daughter, Dr. Chugh said, extracting tolerance from reason. She has offered to talk to my father the way she talked to Satya, but the problem is, my father has two daughters.
I release Dr. Chugh and lean back to get a better look at her. Dr. Chugh wears the same uniform whether it is day or night, summer or winter: a dark blazer, dark soft jeans, red or navy loafers, and always, a colorful silk scarf that starts exactly where her gray-streaked bob ends. “Thank you so much,” I tell her. “You planned this?”
“We suggested Per Se but Arch says that is not your style.” Dr. Chugh deploys the bunny ears after she finishes speaking, though it’s clear the words they are meant to bracket. “We are not cool.” The bunny ears come after, again.
“I said Per Se is not cool, Mom,” Arch says, planting a kiss on the top of her mother’s head.
I laugh. “You are the coolest, Dr. Chugh. You too, Satya.” I rise up on the balls of my feet to hug Arch’s dad. His hug is weak; but it is a hug.
“We are happy for you both,” Satya says. He pats me on the shoulder and his hand gets tangled in my hair. We laugh, awkwardly, as I weave him free.
Arch rests her elbow on her mother’s shoulder. Like Kelly, she’s a head taller than the woman who bore her. “Mom and Dad want to know if there is any way they can convince you to have the wedding in Delhi.”
“We were married at the Roseate,” Dr. Chugh says. She swoons, remembering. “Beautiful.”
Satya nods, eyeing the boom pole above our heads uncertainly. “It really was.”
Arch walls her face with her hand and speaks out of the side of her mouth to me. “We’re not getting married at the Roseate.”
“What did you just say?” Dr. Chugh swats her daughter.
“We’ll think about it!” Arch laughs. “Oh, Brett,” she says, as the crowd starts to press forward. “I think you need to make the rounds.” I look up in time to see Jesse, moving through the room like an ambulance blaring. Women step out of her way as though lives depend on it.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” I cry, as she jumps into my arms and—oh, God, no!—straps her legs around my waist. I check quickly to make sure my future in-laws aren’t looking, but they are gawking. I pretend to stumble under the double-digits of Jesse’s weight, hoping she will take a hint and unravel herself from me.
“It was that or plunge headfirst into a bottle of Casamigos.” Jesse sets her feet on the ground, to my great relief, and locks her elbows around my ribs so tightly I grunt, like I’m being given the Heimlich maneuver. “You’re breaking my heart, woman.” She sighs, peering over my shoulder. I don’t have to turn my head to know she’s eyeing my fiancée. “If I had to lose you to anyone, I’m glad it’s to someone as special and, honestly? As camera friendly as Arch.” She rests her forehead against mine and whispers, loudly, “You are going to bring in a shit ton of wedding advertising dollars for me on your spinoff show and for that reason I am supremely happy for you.” She lays a kiss on the tip of my nose. “What do you think about Bride Pride as the name of the show? We could time it to Pride month.”
I wave a hand, unenthusiastically.
“We’ll work on it.” She turns to the camera and addresses Lisa. “Obviously this does not make final cut.”
“It doesn’t?” comes Lisa’s sarcastic, piercing voice. It’s impossible to see her on the searing side of the Fresnel.
Jesse lays her hand on my shoulder, in a departing sort of gesture.
“You’re not staying?”
“It’s my only night off from the aftershow this week,” Jesse says. “And this, Miss Bride, is work.” She spins me and steers me toward the crowd. “Please clock in now.”
I shield my eyes and scan the crowd that has formed a small circle around me. I’m looking for Layla, but I lock eyes with Lauren first. “Congratulations, gorgeous!” she cries, throwing her arms around my neck and sort of collapsing against me. She smells like an old blowout and a bender, and she’s wearing short jean shorts and a prissy white top. It makes no sense, but she looks incredible.
The Green Menace, on the other hand, greets me looking asexual as ever in a sack the color of an old Band-Aid. She tells me she likes my dress and it’s the meanest thing she’s ever said to me.
Vince is right behind them, with a hug that lifts my feet off the ground. “Steph is so sorry she couldn’t be here but she asked me to take a picture of your shoes to see if you’re wearing the ones she bought you.”
Vince slips his phone out of his pocket and turns it sideways at my feet. There is a burst of bright light, my blush shoes the star. “Whoa, Brett,” Vince says. “Those are a little sexy for you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Sorry. I’ve just never seen you in shoes like that before.”
Lauren sets down her glass of water (questionable) and takes my left hand in hers, swinging it like we are two schoolgirls turning a jumping rope for a third friend. She is rougher than she realizes—I feel like she might pull my arm out of the socket. “Have you seen the woman she’s marrying? Of course she’s feeling sexy.” She brings my knuckles beneath her nose, examining my engagement ring at cross-eyed length. “Were you so surprised?”
“No. Not really surprised.”
“Not really, huh?” Lauren smirks. “That’s the problem with relationships today. There’s no mystery. No spontaneity. You have a mature talk about where you are headed and then you go to Cartier and buy classic yellow-gold bands together.” She doesn’t just drop my hand, she slams it down, like you would an old-timey phone into its cradle after a heated conversation. “Where’s the romance?” Her voice catches on what she pretends she doesn’t want.
I laugh at the cameras as though I am confused by Lauren’s angry, despairing reaction, although I’m not. Lauren is tired of being defined by her colorful sex life. She’s getting older. She’s getting lonelier. But she has a role to play. I feel for her. “The reason I wasn’t surprised,” I say, “is because I was the one who did it.”
“You did it?” Vince gapes.
Technically both Arch and I did it, but for whatever reason, I’ve found myself telling people this version of events when Arch isn’t around to fact-check. Taking ownership of the decision is helping me feel more confident about the decision. Leap when you’re almost ready is an idiom in the business world, because you will never actually be ready to do something that has the power to change your life for better or for worse.
“Yeah,” I punch Vince’s pecs, playfully, “don’t sound so shocked.”
“It’s just, I don’t know. She’s the older one.” Vince runs a hand through his hair, distraught. “I guess I thought she was the . . . you know. The man in the relationship.”
“The man in the relationship?” I look at Lauren and Jen, assuming they find this stereotypical understanding of same-sex relationships just as offensive as I do.
“Mmm-mmm. Mmmm-mmm,” Lauren says, shaking her head in vehement agreement with Vince. “Arch is definitely not the man in the relationship. She’s so thin.”
I guess I should have known better than to have expected an enlightened rebuttal from Lauren when her eyes are approaching half-mast and her jaw is dangerously still. Tonight, it’s Xanax and whatever is masquerading as water in her glass.
A server penetrates our group with a small silver tray. “Sorry to interrupt. But dayboat scallops with lemon, olive oil, and espelette?”
“Bless your heart . . . what’s your name?” I raise my eyebrows in wait.