“She got it,” Jillian said, her eyes growing soft.
“She got what?” I asked.
“She realized it wasn’t about the wedding; it was about the marriage. Her. Him. Together. She got married barefoot because all she cared about was him. That guy. And throw-up shoes weren’t going to stop that from happening.”
“Yeah, she did seem a little Zen after that,” I said, thinking back to the look on her face. “Also a little horny.”
“I remember that,” she replied with a dreamy look on her face.
“Officially, I should be saying eww. But it’s about Benjamin, so please be free with the details.”
“Shush. How are things with you and Simon?”
“Hello, segue,” I said, shaking my head.
“Hi, deflection, how are things?” she asked again, chasing a carrot around her plate.
“I’m not deflecting; things are good. Things are very good.” I smiled, thinking about balcony sex. And when we got back to our home last night, the hallway sex. And this morning in the shower sex. And—
“I can tell by the look on your face, and the way you’re sucking that egg roll, that things are very good,” she said, pursing her lips.
“Hey, you asked.”
“I did, I really did. So, friends getting married, friends having babies—is that making any bells go off for you?” she asked.
I pointed my pot sticker at her. “Do I have a sign on my back that says Will Work for Wedding? Why is everyone asking me that all the time now?”
“Really? Everyone is asking you that?” she repeated, pointing her own pot sticker.
“Okay, not everyone. But it feels like that’s all anybody is talking about lately. Seriously, it’s in the air. It’s in the water. It may very well be in this pot sticker.”
“It’s that time—your friends are all moving into a different phase of their lives. When my friends were all getting married and starting their families, I was too busy to date anyone. My entire life was Jillian Designs. Every wedding I went to for one of my girlfriends, everyone asked me who was I dating, and when was I going to think about getting married. It’s like, if one goes over the cliff, we all have to.” She sipped her tea, then shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to nudge you toward that cliff.”
“You didn’t. I guess I’m just realizing lately things are changing. I mean, we’re all still ridiculous and childish in our own rights sometimes—so it’s hard to imagine now that Sophia and Neil are going to be, like, in charge of a person. A tiny person, but still a person.” I leaned my head in my hands, having a hard time narrowing down on what I wanted to say. “It’s just weird, I guess, everyone growing up.”
“Hey. Growing up and being a grown-up are two very different things. I can’t see Neil ever being an actual grown-up. And he’s on the news, for pity’s sake,” Jillian said, laughing.
“Are you glad you put in all the time that you did?”
“What do you mean?”
“Back then, building your business. If you could go back and do it the same way, would you have wanted to get married sooner?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I’d met Benjamin sooner. I never wanted to get married until I met him. And we didn’t get married for a long time. But I knew it’d happen. Because he was my guy. And luckily, I’d been smart enough to wait for my guy.” She smiled at me with a knowing look. “Don’t you think Simon’s your guy?”
The smile that spread over my face was instant, and broad. “Oh. Simon is most certainly my guy.”
“So relax. Enjoy it. Worry about you two, and let your friends do their own thing. Marriage is different things to different people, and not everyone needs it. Some people want the piece of paper, some don’t need it. Who’s to say which is the right choice? Not me, that’s for damn sure.”
She finished her tea and signaled for the waiter. “Now, if you want to ask me which choice is correct for Peggy Wimple’s sectional in her new theater room, I’d be happy to tell you. Because you got it wrong, little miss protégée.” She laughed, slapping down a tear sheet from a project I’d in fact just ordered the sectional for. “Let me show you why I’m the Jillian in Jillian Designs.”
And she proceeded to do just that. And when she was finished, I had no choice but to agree with her.
Back home, a few nights later.
“Babe, where’d all the little golf pencils go?”
“No one has ever said that sentence before, Simon.”
“You know, the little pencils that came with Scattergories? Where are they?”
“Oh. Right, I think Mimi broke them all at the last game night. You know what a sore loser she is.”
We were having everyone over to the house tonight for game night, since Jillian and Benjamin were home from Amsterdam. We knew it would be harder to plan these once the baby came, so we wanted to all get together while we still could.
“Why do we always get stuck hosting this night?” Simon asked, poking his head around the door to the bathroom, where I was trying to get ready.
“Because we have the biggest house now, the best entertaining space. That’s why,” I said, applying my mascara.
“You look like a fish.”
“Huh?”
“When you put mascara on. Your mouth hangs open and you look like a fish waiting for bait, every time I’ve ever seen you put that stuff on. Why is that?”