A baby Graham, I could tell by the eyes, he had very striking eyes, sitting on his mother’s lap, her hair and outfit reminiscent of the ’80s, back when they had a lot of money, but not this much money.

A photo from a ski trip, Graham and his family completely anonymous underneath their helmets and gaiters and orange goggles.

I made my way slowly into the kitchen, running my fingers over the soft marble counters, the white cabinets, the black knobs. One plate was in the sink—crusted with yellow egg yolks and brownish-green avocado. He cooks. I pulled the garbage out from underneath, a brand-new bag in the trash, a bottle of Stella in the recycling. Hmm.

On the refrigerator were two wedding invitations—Lynn & Jack, Kate & Clarissa—and next to them a family picture. It was recent—Graham looked the same. Candid around a fire in the dark—his mother, uptight even in the way she sat; his father, cross and stern; Graham, smiling because he was told to do so; and his brother. Reed.

My phone in one hand, I dialed the number I’d memorized all those years ago and listened to it ring. It always rang. Like the ringing would never stop.

“Hi, it’s me, leave a message. Or don’t. Love ya!”

Beeeep.

Oh, I miss your voice.

I wish you were here.

Then I did something I hadn’t done in years. I opened the fridge, pulled out the first thing I saw—a half-finished bag of fresh four-cheese ravioli—and fisted the cold chewy cubes into my mouth until the bag was empty and I could remember how this felt. The moment before the dread sinks in. Before the nausea and panic and calorie counting. A moment, so brief, of pure unrestraint. A moment I could finally relax.

Freedom.

FIFTEEN

Molly holds the fork in her fist like a vengeful woman in an Oxygen Network true crime reenactment finding out her husband cheated with their twenty-four-year-old babysitter. When she stabs the slice of cake with it straight through, handing the golden plate to my future mother-in-law, she smiles like it’s as much a game to her as it is to me.

“I know it’s strange,” Molly assures us as Cheryl reluctantly takes the plate from her hands, staring bewilderingly at the fork that stands erect from the cake’s brown belly. “But it’s a real crowd-pleaser. I want the food and presentation to combine the edge of the couple, with the raw wilderness we’ll all be surrounded by on the big day.”

She sounded like my yoga teacher, Feather, but with less body hair.

“I guess it ensures the utensils won’t fall to the ground when the cake is being handed out,” I offer, a sign of peace between the two women.

“A well-trained waiter would ensure that as well,” Cheryl says under her breath, pulling the fork from the cake like King Arthur.