Page 30 of Sunny Side Up

thirteen

Even at thirty-five, I still get a little nervous when my parents come to town. I love when they visit, and every time they leave, at least for the first day, I feel like a homesick kid at sleepaway camp.

But before they arrive: There’s the urge to scrub the bathroom top to bottom so that my mom doesn’t comment on the cleanliness of the shower floor.

There’s the trips to three different grocery stores to get all my dad’s favorite snack brands.

And now, in this era of my newfound singledom, there’s the checking and double-checking to make sure nightstands are cleared of contraband because my mom lacks boundaries.

This weekend in particular, I knew I would have to work extra hard to repress my inner bratty fourteen-year-old-self attitude that would try to come out the moment my mom began the nit-picking. Because while my parents were the ones staying in my apartment, the occasion was for my brother, Michael.

His fiancée Ellie’s bridal shower was this weekend, and I was throwing it for the soon-to-be newlyweds at one of my favorite restaurants, Palma.

While Ellie and Michael met, fell in love, and still lived in Chicago, Ellie was a Jersey girl, born and raised.

Her parents and relatives were all still in and around the Hoboken and Union City radius, so a tristate shower was an early-on request from the bride’s side.

Since I, like any proper New Yorker, tended to avoid crossing the tunnel into the Garden State as much as humanly possible, I suggested a trade: I’d be more than happy to take charge of all the planning reins, if we could compromise with an NYC locale.

When they said yes, I called Palma immediately: Their event staff are seasoned pros, their food is to die for, and if you book their private courtyard, they throw in floral arrangements and centerpieces for free.

There’s something about divorce that can make you allergic to someone else’s love.

Maybe it’s the proximity to the life you lost, or almost had, or always wanted.

Weddings, engagement parties, bridal showers: It all felt a little hive-inducing.

So when I arrived at Palma for the final fine-tuning on Sunday morning, I was full of nerves (and nausea) that had filled my stomach all morning already.

They got worse when my parents arrived.

“Sunny!” my dad called out as he joined us on the terrace. “This place looks beautiful!”

My parents had been in Manhattan for only thirty-six hours, but their presence was already making me tense. I blamed the stress of work and the start-up, the prep of the bridal shower, but I knew there was something else to it, too.

My mom had conspicuously brought up Zack only once. In every conversation, it was like I could see her actively trying not to mention him. Even in the silence, I felt his shape. Especially when the occasion for the weekend visit was matrimonial.

“I can’t get enough of those Nuts4Nuts carts. They’re practically on every corner!”

“Your dad keeps dragging me back to Grand Central—”

“It’s an architectural majesty!” he defended himself.

“Dad, shouldn’t you be at Chelsea Piers with Michael by now?

” My dad, my brother, and Ellie’s dad were all set to spend the afternoon relaxing and golfing.

I never understood why only women had the exclusive privilege (punishment) of bridal prep activities while men’s typical pre-wedding activities included drinking beer, watching sports, and playing golf.

My dad checked his watch, confirming he had to head out. “I just wanted to say hi to my favorite daughter before seeing my favorite son.”

“I’m your only daughter,” I said, but I accepted his hug.

Before he released my elbow, though, his face grew a little more serious. I knew a Dad Question was coming. “I know this is probably a lot for you today, Sun. Just call me if you need rescuing.”

Suddenly, my throat felt all choked up, like a piece of gum had lodged in my pharynx. It was an unexpected, but pitch-perfect, emotional check-in from my dad.

“I’m okay,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t waver, hoping my words didn’t expose my lie. He gave me one last hug and then went in search of my brother. My mom and Avery were readjusting the place cards—making sure my Aunt Pat was far away from her sister, Aunt Irene.

I breathed in, trying to find all my confidence, continuing to push away reminders of Zack and what I’d seen on Instagram.

I traced my fingers along the embroidered tablecloth and leaned in to smell the artfully arranged bouquet of pastel-colored flowers.

Today was about Michael and Ellie’s future. Not my failed past.

Palma’s cozy covered courtyard could transplant even the most die-hard of New Yorkers to another place: a magical greenhouse in the Parisian countryside or maybe a Tuscan farmhouse, with a space already set for you at the rustic family table.

I turned toward the entryway into the terrace just as Ellie walked through it, which meant I got to see her delighted face, her lit-up eyes at what she’d just walked into.

Hands over her mouth, eyes wide, she looked like she truly couldn’t believe it.

Her expression was so sweet that I took a quick picture of her before running over to say hi.

“Ellie! Congratulations,” I said, leaning in for a big hug.

Ellie and I still hadn’t figured out our relationship, and the last time I saw her, we’d still been in the “polite stage” of getting to know someone.

But her effervescent energy was so immediately contagious, I wanted to skip all of that today and embrace her like the family she was.

“This is so exciting,” I said. I meant it.

She held my hands and squealed, so I took the opportunity to lean into my feelings.

“This is so cheesy, but I’ve always wanted a sister,” I told her. It was true. Her eyes started to water. But then I added, “I love Michael so much it hurts, but he’s no fun to shop with.”

She started cracking up. “Tell me about it. We tried to register for our new bedding at the mall the other day—”

“Oh I remember going crazy with the registry gun when I was picking things out with Zack—”

A look flashed across her eyes like she couldn’t believe I brought him up.

I couldn’t either.

“Um, do you want a drink? I interrupted you, keep going! So you went to the mall with my brother, because you’re a hero…”

I grabbed a premade mimosa, standing up all pretty and orange in a champagne flute on the table behind me, then handed it to her.

She hugged me again. I needed it that time, unexpectedly. I’d just been flashed by the memory of going to buy stuff for Zack and my new apartment. It hurt to go there again. So stop going there, Sunny .

“Okay, speaking of wedding shower gift—” She gestured to the greenery all around us, warm and happy in this magic little bubble amid the dreariness of New York City in March. “Sunny, this is over the top. It’s incredible. It’s too much!”

“It’s nothing. And it’s my pleasure ,” I told her. And I meant it. “Don’t let me hog you! I think a ton of your friends are about to walk in.”

As more guests started flooding in, I busied myself with a quick scan to ensure everything was perfect, adjusting little things that didn’t need adjusting.

My own family members started coming up to me, most of whom I hadn’t seen since my own wedding.

I tried to lose myself in small talk and pleasantries, commenting on how excited we all were for Michael and Ellie’s big day, and did I book my room in the hotel block yet?

Wasn’t I just so over-the-moon excited for my little brother to get married?

But with every conversation about Michael and Ellie and their wedding, I flashed back to the exact same one I’d had about Zack and me, before our wedding, with the same exact people.

I tried to keep my words measured and warm, but I could feel my heart starting to speed up, the inside of my chest tightening, while the outside began to itch.

This whole scene felt too familiar. I’d seen this movie before; I hated the ending.

I wanted to turn it off before the car crash but couldn’t seem to find the remote.

I’d had the bridal shower of my dreams, and what good did that do?

Luckily, even though my brain had not, it seemed like everyone had received a collective memo: Do not mention Sunny’s wedding, shower, or divorce.

We sat down to eat. I had the seat of honor, next to Ellie. While everyone else dug in, Ellie pushed her bread dish toward the middle of the table.

“I love bread but wedding diet,” she said to the table.

Her tiny friends all nodded approvingly. Her tiny mom did, too.

“The best thing happens before you get married,” said her friend in a little yellow sundress. “You get so stressed the month before, I swear, weight will just fall off of you.”

“You girls are so petite,” said Ellie’s mom. “I’m the one who has to lose ten pounds! I can’t be that M.O.B.”

I just sat there, quietly fuming. I was so sick of women speaking about themselves like this. I wasn’t mad at them; I was mad for them, this table of interesting, capable, lovely human beings who were consumed by these constant thoughts about what was wrong with their bodies. Nothing was wrong!

The table had erupted: Various “shedding for the wedding” tips crashed alongside a variety of self-critiques (“the last five pounds,” “enormous thighs,” “adult acne out of nowhere,” “too much arm hair”), followed by a chorus of denials that restarted the spiral (“No way, you’re perfect!

I, on the other hand…”), followed by acknowledgments of gratitude that Ellie’s wedding was at the start of summer, which meant everyone would be at their skinniest, their least hairy, their hottest, by June.