Now
The patio at Carmine’s is crowded. It seems half of Chicago had the same idea to dine al fresco and take advantage of the break in the July heat wave.
Jeff is already seated when I walk in, flanked by Maks and Margaux. I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. I’d always imagined myself marrying someone Jewish, with brown hair and brown eyes like my dad, but Jeff is as un-Jewish as a man can get, with his angular features, blond hair, and blue-gray eyes.
“There’s the birthday girl!”
Half the restaurant turns toward the source of the loud, obnoxious voice at the same time I do. Ross, Jeff’s college roommate, current coworker, and dinner-party crasher.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. I make a beeline for Jeff, keeping my head down to avoid making eye contact with all the strangers I feel staring.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, as he stands to give me a hug. “He asked what I was doing tonight.”
“You didn’t have to invite him,” I whisper back.
Jeff gives me a kiss to keep up appearances, even though Ross is socially clueless and Margaux and Maks know exactly what I’m thinking.
“He invited himself.” Jeff’s breath tickles my ear, and I smile, even though I’m less than happy about our change in plans.
It’s not unusual for Jeff to bring along a stray—it’s a side effect of his being a genuinely good guy who puts others’ feelings first. Although I would think that he’d put my feelings first on my birthday.
He knew I didn’t want to celebrate at all this year. I caved only when he said it could be a small group, just my closest friends. And that does not include Ross, whose only redeeming quality is the fact that he’s the one who dragged Jeff out to the bar on the night we met almost two years ago.
I hadn’t wanted to go out that night, either. It had barely been a month since my dad’s accident, and I was still in a fog of grief. But my two best friends showed up uninvited and went full intervention on me. Margaux turned on the shower while Maks dug through my closet for an outfit he deemed acceptable.
An hour later, we were at Four Farthings, one of our go-to bars for karaoke night. Maks had just finished butchering a Shania Twain song when a preppy man with blond hair and an electric smile took the small stage. He started singing “Friends in Low Places,” and I couldn’t look away. His voice wasn’t anything special, but there was something about his easy confidence that made me smile—which I hadn’t done in the past thirty-three days.
The bar was packed, but he found my face in the crowd and couldn’t seem to look away, either. By the end of the song, it felt like it was just the two of us standing there. Everyone else disappeared as he stepped off the stage and walked right up to me.
He offered to buy me a drink, and I said yes. Two hours and three drinks later, he asked if I wanted to go somewhere quieter, and I said yes. Six months after that, he asked if I wanted to do the whole forever thing, and again, I said yes.
I’m not usually the type to move so quickly, but like they say, when it’s right, it’s right. And it felt right with Jeff from the first moment we spoke.
“What do you think, Paige?” Margaux asks, jolting me out of my memories.
“Sorry?”
“Do you want the calamari grilled or fried?”
“Let’s get one of each,” I say. The grilled is my favorite, but I know Maks likes it fried.
“What she said,” Margaux tells our waiter, who smiles before walking away to put in our appetizers.
Ross picks up his glass to make a toast, and I wonder if I’ve been too hard on the guy.
“Cheers,” he says. “To the future Mrs. Parker.”
My face falls as I look at Jeff, who lifts his hands in defense. “Don’t look at me,” he says. “You know I’m okay with you keeping your last name.”
“He doesn’t really mean that,” Ross says.
“Oh, but he does,” Jeff says. His voice sounds firm and almost convincing.
“I’m just saying, it’s traditional for the woman to take the man’s last name,” Ross says. He adjusts the Windsor knot in his tie, and I wonder if it’s a power move or a sign of insecurity.
“It was traditional,” Margaux says, getting her lawyer on. “But women are allowed to vote now, too.”
Ross laughs, dismissing Margaux, which only fuels her fire. “Paige doesn’t have to change her name if she doesn’t want to,” she says.
“And she’s not going to,” Maks says, jumping in. “Would you want your initials to be PP?”
I can’t help but laugh, grateful for my best friends and my understanding fiancé.
When I found out Jeff’s last name the morning after our first “date,” I told him I wouldn’t be able to take his name if we ever got married. At the time, I was joking. Never in a million years had I thought I’d end up marrying what I thought was just a one-night stand. Being single was as much a part of my identity as my name, and I couldn’t imagine changing either.
It had been more than a decade since my last serious relationship, and I’d honestly stopped looking for anything meaningful. I wasn’t sad about my single status. Quite the opposite, really. We had big plans to be like the Golden Girls—Maks was our Sophia, and Margaux and I fought over who got to be Blanche.
If Jeff was a Golden Girl, he’d be Dorothy. The responsible one with a good head on his shoulders.
“Enough,” Jeff says. “We didn’t invite you guys here to fight over whether or not Paige changes her last name—which she’s not going to, by the way. We invited you to celebrate her birthday.”
After Jeff’s declaration, the rest of dinner is blissfully uneventful. My favorite four-alarm chicken calabrese is as spicy and delicious as ever, and Ross is too busy eating to stir up any more debates. Even if he tried, I’m sure Margaux would have squashed it. She seems on edge and ready to rumble. I’m not sure what’s going on at work that has her so out of sorts, but I feel bad for whoever is up against her.
Once the waiter clears our plates, Jeff reaches under the table and comes back up holding a giant blue gift bag with yellow tissue paper artfully coming out of the top.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him, giving him a quick kiss.
“Don’t thank him till you open it,” Maks says.
“I’m sure I’ll love whatever it is,” I say. It’s not just a line. Jeff is an excellent gift-giver, which I credit to his growing up with three sisters.
I carefully lift the tissue paper out of the bag. There’s more of it than I expected. I keep going, wondering for a minute if anything else is actually in the bag. Finally, my hand knocks against something hard.
My face lights up as I wrap my fingers around what feels like a small jewelry box.
“What did you do?” I ask.
Jeff shrugs, but he looks proud of himself.
I’m less careful with the box’s wrapping paper, tearing off the edges to see what’s inside. It’s a box from my favorite jewelry store. I slowly open the lid and gasp at the sight of a gorgeous diamond tennis bracelet.
“Jeff,” I say through a shocked laugh. “This isn’t a big birthday.”
He takes the bracelet out of the box and clasps it around my wrist. “Every birthday is a big birthday—and it’s a chance to celebrate you.”
I hold out my arm to admire the bracelet and lean in to give him a kiss. “Thank you.”
“We should have gone first,” Maks tells Margaux, before handing over an envelope.
“You guys didn’t have to do anything,” I tell them. “Your friendship is enough of a gift.”
“Okay,” Maks says, reaching to take back the envelope.
I snap it back from him, quickly opening it up before he changes his mind. I pull out three gift cards—one for Starbucks; one for Hollywood Nails, my favorite nail salon in Lincoln Park; and one for my favorite local bookstore.
“It’s like you got me the perfect day,” I tell them. “Thank you!”
Maks blushes but shrugs. “It’s no diamond . . .”
“I’ve got a diamond for you,” Ross says. I brace myself, hoping he’s not going to take another shot at Jeff. I know guys do friendship differently, but I’m over it. “The boss gave me his Cubs tickets for next Friday,” he says. “It’s a one o’clock game—Jeff can take you.”
“That’s so sweet,” I tell Ross. “But I’m a Cardinals fan.”
He laughs a little too loudly and slaps Jeff on the back. “It’s not too late to back out of the wedding, bro.”
“Never,” Jeff says, bringing my hand to his lips.
I force a smile and narrow my eyes at Ross. From the stories Jeff has told me about their office antics, I’ve gathered that Ross is angling for the promotion Jeff has all but earned. I’ve worked with enough smarmy men to see right through Ross’s plan with the tickets. Get Jeff out of the office and then sweet-talk the boss, trying to convince him that Ross is the one who’s been putting in all the late-night and weekend work.
Jeff might be too nice to play hardball, but I’m not. And I’m more convinced than ever that he needs to stay in Chicago next weekend. As much as I’d love to have his steadying presence by my side, he needs to be focused on work. Not driving five hours to sit through an hour-long service at Temple and dinner with my family.
Mom doesn’t understand why I’m making the trip, either. There’s no religious or societal reason for me to go back home to mark the second anniversary of my dad’s passing. There won’t be anything official like last year’s unveiling of his headstone. But his name will be read out loud during Friday night services, and someone should be there to hear it. If I wasn’t going, I doubt Mom or the twins would, either.
Dad would want us to be there for each other. He’d want me to be there. So I’m going. And I’m going to try my best to smile through it.