HARLEY: So we went out to dinner with Nick’s parents last weekend . . .

ME: AND?

GEMMA: Did you double-check to make sure he’s not on this thread?

HARLEY: Like ten times.

ME: OK AND???????

HARLEY: And it was great. His mom said, “We were wondering if the two of you were ever going to get your shit together.”

ME: Awwwww yay!

GEMMA: I call dibs on the KitchenAid mixer!

HARLEY: Haha.

GEMMA: You think I’m joking. One of Nick’s rich-ass friends can buy you a new one for your wedding

ME: I’m so happy for you, Harley!

GEMMA: Me too! I promise those aren’t sobs of loneliness and abandonment you’re hearing coming from my room every night.

ME: Sooooooooooooooo

ME: Remember when I was all like I don’t need your help and I’m a strong independent woman and I refuse to rely on a man?

JACK: I don’t recall those exact words, but yes, I remember the general conversation.

ME: I really need your help.

ME: Please.

ME: Pretty please.

ME: With a cherry on top.

ME: I’ll buy you drinks if you come to the bar tonight!

JACK: I’m just putting a shirt on, I’ll be right there.

ME: Hmmm. Shirtless floral delivery, you might have something there.

Ten

Okay. So, Harley, you’re delivering these two to the Williamsburg addresses. Gem, you’re on the Park Slope deliveries. There’s four of them, but they’re closer—stop whining. I’ve got the three in Gowanus, and, Jack, you’ve got the solo delivery in Windsor Terrace.” I load up the final orders in their respective carriers, wagons for me and Gemma, little crates on wheels for Harley and Jack.

“Why does Jack get the solo delivery? He’s the dude.” Gemma accepts her wagon handle with a pout.

“That’s sexist. Also, Jack allows me to live in this sweet house—which you happen to use almost as much as I do—for practically free, so shut up and get moving.” I kiss her on the cheek before shooing everyone off in their respective directions. “Thank you and I love you, don’t forget to spritz while you walk!”