The next morning, Savannah was shaken awake by Arj, one of her new roommates. The skinny bartender did not look pleased. “There’s a crazy bitch downstairs who says she knows you. Also, I work nights. I was in the middle of my REM.”
Confused, Savannah pulled up her blind and peered down at the street. Liv was standing on the pavement, leaning on the horn of a beat-up Subaru. Savannah heaved the window up, bracing against the rush of cold morning air. “Mrs. Goldenhorn?”
Liv was wearing oversize sunglasses and a hot-pink pussyhat, the one made famous by the first Women’s March. “Hurry up, Shipley. We’ve got things to do.” She got back in the car, calling through the window. “And for God’s sake, call me Liv!”
An unseen neighbor yelled, “Shut the hell up, Liv!”
Liv almost smiled.
It took a long moment to land. Then Savannah bolted out of bed, threw on some clothes, and flew down the stairs. She’d never been less put together when she climbed in next to Mrs. Golden—Liv. But her business partner didn’t seem to notice.
After missing Sam Woods’s test meal thanks to a subway drama, Savannah figured she’d blown it and was planning on spending the morning booking a flight home. But now, she was in Liv’s inner sanctum. Faded stickers on the glove box. A blue evil eye charm hung from the rearview mirror.
“Here’s how it’s going to go down.” Liv clicked in her seat belt. “Rule one: I’m in charge. Rule two: I’m in charge. Rule three?”
“You’re in charge.”
“Exactly.” Liv was wearing lipstick. It made her look pretty, softening her edges. She started the car, and Alanis Morissette’s snarl blasted: “A slap in the face, how quickly I was replaced, and are you thinking of me when you fu—” Liv hit the eject button, mumbling something about breakup music. She reached into the back seat and groped for another CD from the dozen sliding around. Savannah had never once purchased a CD.
Savannah got her license at sixteen, eager to have the freedom and responsibility of a car. She’d only ever driven in Kentucky, never in New York. And at this moment, as Liv careened between lanes, riding the brakes and the horn, all while fiddling with the CD player and gulping coffee from a thermos, Savannah didn’t think she’d ever have the chance. It’d be a miracle if they got wherever they were going alive.
“The thing about wedding planning,” Liv shouted over the nervy jangle of vintage-sounding rock, “is it’s less about what they say they want and more about what they can—out of my lane, prick!—afford. Everyone comes in with big dreams—the cake, the dress, the destination wedding, but—what the hell are you doing?—all that adds up. So do they want to double their budget, or do they want some creative solutions? Because even though people hire a wedding planner because they’d rather spend their money than their time, you have to—learn to drive, ya dildo!”
On the three-hour drive north to the Catskills, Savannah tried to scratch the surface of twenty-odd years of wedding-planning wisdom while Liv blasted bands Savannah had never heard of. Despite the terrible first meeting the week before, Kamile was still open to working with In Love in New York. No other wedding planners were interested in exchanging two months of unpaid work for social posts, and Kamile was not prepared to fork out ten grand for a planner, or do it all herself.
In the Catskills, the rustic red barn was huge and completely empty, surrounded by apple trees. Twenty feet away, a pond glinted. The first thing Savannah said to the owner was “Adorable! What a perfect place for a romantic spring wedding!”
The first thing Liv said was, “I need to know about parking, power, liability insurance, sound restrictions, your preferred vendors, and the wet-weather plan.”
And they were off. The pace never slowed. The list of tasks was endless: design the wedding website, negotiate vendor contracts, connect with the officiant, coordinate the cake tasting. It was less “sophistication and tradition merging in surprising and delightful ways” and more… matter-of-fact. Budgets, dates, deadlines. Decisions were made quickly and often. Savannah assumed wedding planning would be about love and logistics. But it was so much more about anxiety and assurance. Kamile’s anxiety. Liv’s assurance. Was it okay to not do a receiving line, even though her parents expected her to? Of course it was: receiving lines were out of style in the era of a newer, more casual approach. Was this dress too short to wear to the rehearsal dinner? Of course not: great legs should be shown off! Anxiety, due to the fact that the first thing an engaged couple was expected to do was plan an enormous, expensive event that was part family reunion, part group holiday, for everyone who’d ever meant anything to them, that would also express their identity as a couple, without going broke or mad. Assurance that it could be done. Tradition and ritual were being reimagined, or revoked, every single day.
A few weeks in, the two women sat working in the front office, still surrounded by dust and debris. Savannah was testing the new submission form on their website, wondering how many referrals they’d get from Kamile’s posts. Five? Ten? Fifty? Liv looked up from her ancient laptop. “Have you got a contract?”
“For what?”
“For Kamile. And all this”—Liv waved her 1:00 p.m. glass of white wine around—“exposure you think she’s going to get us. Me. Get me.”
Savannah gave the older woman an indulgent smile. “Kamile is my friend.”
Liv put her wine down with deliberate accuracy. “So, we’re working for free, for months, and if Kamile decides not to post about us, then legally we can do absolutely nothing. Correct?”
“Liv! Kamile is a sorority sister. If she says she’ll do it, she’ll do it.”
“If you’re not comfortable with sending her one, I’ll do it.”
“A contract will make it seem like I don’t trust her! Like I’m expecting her to screw me over! It’s like a prenup. Why would you get one unless you were expecting a marriage to fail?”
“Because so many do,” Liv said. “Even if you don’t expect it.”
Alarm spiked in Savannah’s chest, making her angrier. “I don’t need a contract. Kamile will post for us, on the Sunday morning after her wedding, just like she promised.”
“But what if she doesn’t? What if she forgets? What if she gets so used to having free wedding fairies at her disposal that she mistakes our hard work for her due in life and heads off on her honeymoon, totally oblivious?”
“I can guarantee that won’t happen.”
“No, you can’t,” said Liv, and Savannah wanted to scream. Liv didn’t get it at all. And she wasn’t much of a teacher, either.
As Savannah put it to Honey, later that night, over a plate of crunchy fried chicken, “It’s like she’s keeping me at arm’s length, and I only learn things if I squint real hard and happen to catch her doing it.”
Honey splashed more Pappy Van Winkle into Savannah’s glass. She’d heard the backstory of Liv and Eliot from Savannah’s regular appearances on a ’Shwick Chick barstool. “Be patient, darlin’,” said Honey. “You didn’t expect to be weaving friendship bracelets together from day one, did you?”
“No. We’re very different people.” Savannah chewed her drumstick thoughtfully. “I think she’s still trying to work out if she trusts me.”
“That takes time.” Honey folded her arms and cocked her head at Savannah.
“What?” Savannah asked, worried. “Don’t you think I’m trustworthy?”
Honey smiled, shaking her head like That’s not it, as she took a drinks order from another customer. With her tattoos and short hair, it was hard to picture her from small-town Alabama. Her lack of makeup had inspired Savannah to experiment with wearing less. Now, instead of primer, foundation, concealer, bronzer, blush, eyelid primer, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, brow pencil, lip liner, lipstick, lip gloss, and a setting spray, she was only doing primer, foundation, blush, mascara, brow pencil, and lip gloss. It felt nice not to have on a full face. Liberating.
“When did it start feeling like home for you?” Savannah asked when Honey returned. “New York, I mean.”
Honey pulled beers for the couple next to Savannah, thinking. “That’s a good question. I’ll have to get back to you.”
Savannah sipped her bourbon. Still the taste of tailgating and bluegrass and long summer evenings on someone’s porch, listening to the screech owls. “Do you miss the South?”
“Nope.” Honey cleared Savannah’s empty plate and tossed the scraps in the trash. “I really don’t.” She didn’t meet Savannah’s eye when she said it.