Page 39 of Sister of the Bride

Toby reaches up and dislodges the burnt-out bulb in the pendant light, replacing it with a new one, not even needing to rise up on his toes. I feel envious, as I always do when I see him reach for high things. Being five foot two is rough in the normal world, but in a kitchen, where you’re always trying to reach the high shelf in the walk-in or the overhead pot rack or the top of the spice rack, it sucks extra. The number of times I’ve nearly taken a header off a step stool during the dinner rush is…well, let’s just say it’s a common occurrence.

“Oh, honey, I got an email from Dr. Foley,” Dr. Sullivan says, finally looking up from her laptop, but only to lock Toby in a tractor beam of alook. “He said they had a dropout, which means there’s a spot open in the lab if you want it. Same fellowship, same funding. He’d love to have you. And Jen is still there. It’s not too late.”

Wait, what?

Toby pauses, his jaw clenching. “Mom,” he says, the word loaded with all kinds of warning.

But if Dr. Sullivan clocks the tension in his voice, she ignores it. “What? I just thought that maybe after a month of this, you’d have come to your senses. Surely you can’t want to keep this up for four full years of training plus, you know, an entire career. I just can’t believe you really threw away a fellowship like that to stay up all night getting covered in bodily fluids. It’s not a great way to spend your time.”

The set of Toby’s jaw is razor sharp, and I notice he steps awfully hard on the pedal for the stainless steel trash can. Its lid slams hard into the wall tiles, and the clatter makes me jump and wobble on my heels. “Tell Dr. Foley no thank you, and please stop interfering on my behalf,” Toby says. “You’re my mother, not my academic advisor.”

Dr. Sullivan sighs, but she clearly doesn’t see this as the end of the discussion, no matter how much Toby obviously wants it to be. And since this is apparently a conversation that has happened more than once, Toby seems to know what’s coming next and heads for the door before his mother can say anything else. “We’re going. I don’t want to be late.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me standing there in the kitchen, where I finally catch the eye of Dr. Sullivan, who seems less impressed with my dress than Toby or my sister.

“Good to see you,” I say again, like an idiot. I’ve never really known how to talk to Toby’s parents. Every interaction feels like a job interview combined with an oral exam, and I never get the job or pass the test. So before I can say anything to embarrass myself, I turn and trot after Toby, stumbling slightly in my borrowed shoes.

I find Toby standing out on the street, tugging at the cuff of his shirt beneath his jacket. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him look this pissed off before.

“What wasthatabout?” I ask, but by either luck or design, our Uber pulls up and keeps him from having to answer, which he seems pretty pleased about. He opens my door, and I slide into the back seat, a move that takes a little bit longer and requires a lot more coordination than normal in this dress. He walks around the front of the car and slides in next to me, and I decide not to let it lie. Because Toby and I are friends who have always vented our problems—parental, educational, and otherwise—to each other. And what better way to get my subconscious back tojust friendsthan to let him unload his problems on me? “Seriously, you going to tell me anything about what just happened back there?”

Toby lets out a long, deep sigh that makes his shoulders drop a good two inches, and then he leans his head back against the headrest and stares out the front window. “I got a fellowship at a lab at Stanford doing biomedical research—full funding, prestigious, working with one of the preeminent researchers in the field—but I turned it down because I want to be an emergency medicine doctor. My parents are…not pleased.”

The car lunges out onto Charles Street, knocking us back against our seats. “Why? Doesn’t having a kid who’s a doctor mean you won parenting?”

“Nah, not in the Sullivan family,” Toby says, his jaw set so tight I can see a muscle twitching just below his ear. “Matching at one of the top programs for emergency medicine isn’t prestigious enough, apparently. My mom thinks I’m wasting my talent and intellect.”

My stomach turns at the venom, yes, but also the hurt in the voice of my brilliant, caring best friend, who has always wanted to help people and who, though exhausted by his first few weeks of residency, also clearlylovesbeing a doctor. I would make it through maybe a day and a half of what he’s doing before deciding no matter what the job, I’m out. Toby regularly stays longer than he needs to look after patients, help out his fellow residents, or polish his skills in the lab. I don’t know what it takes to be an ER doctor, really, but whatever it is, it seems pretty clear he’s got it. And the fact that his parents can’t see that makes me sad for them. And for him.

Toby looks away out the side window, but I can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a campfire. I hate how miserable he seems, my eternal optimist of a best friend. It’s not right seeing him like this.

“Well, joke’s on them, because you don’t have talentorintellect,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, and it works. Toby’s shoulders shake as he barks out a laugh.

The tension eases just in time for us to pull up to Copley Square and climb out of the car. As the Uber drives away, Toby crooks his arm, and I thread mine through his, mostly because I worry I won’t make it across the cobblestones without eating shit in Polly’s shoes.

But also a little bit because I’m wearing this dress and letting myself be Not Pippin tonight, and Not Pippin really wants to hold on to the hot guy in the fit suit who’s getting stares from women passing by on their way into the library.Look all you want, ladies. Tonight he belongs to…well…Not Pippin.

I can’t shake the memory of the scene in the kitchen, though. Especially the part about Jen being in Palo Alto. Does Dr. Sullivan not know that they broke up? And whydidthey break up?

Toby has never talked very much about his relationship with Jen. I mean, he told me when they met and when they moved in together. She was always present in his stories about his day or their travels, but he never talked about theirrelationship. We’ve always told each other everything, but with Jen he implied that there was nothing to tell. Which was fine because, like I said, she never seemed like a very big personality. I was always half surprised it went on for as long as it did. To me, Jen was mostly smiling photos on Instagram and a few awkward meals filled with stilted conversation when they visited Boston. It didn’t seem weird, really, that I didn’t have details. It’s not like I ever wanted to hear about the nitty-gritty of their relationship. I didn’t expect him to talk about sex with me or anything—ugh, just the thought of it makes me squeamish. Toby and I have talked about a lot of things in our lives; there’s basically nothing he doesn’t know about me. But the nitty gritty of our sex lives? It’s never come up.

And because I’ve been tangled up in my own shit since Toby’s return, I haven’t pushed him to talk about the breakup. He said he wanted to move on, and I went with it. But something is not right.

With just a few minutes left before we disappear into the hotel with its aforementioned dim lights, loud music, dense crowds, and open bar to ease any remaining tension, I ask the question I’ve been dying to ask ever since Toby showed up in Boston and told me he and his girlfriend of four years were no more.

“Is that why you broke up with Jen? Because she wanted to stay and you wanted to come here?” I ask.

The toe of Toby’s shiny leather shoe catches the corner of a raised brick and he stumbles, but he quickly catches himself, then keeps walking. “Um, yeah? I guess?” he says, though it hardly sounds definite. And that’s all I get.

“You guess?” I ask. “Toby, what happened between you two? You’ve been so cagey about it. I’m starting to think you discovered some hideous secret about her. Is she in the Illuminati? Does she run an illegal squirrel fighting ring? Does she prefer Pepsi to Coke?”

Toby laughs, as I wanted him to, but I also want an answer. But he just shrugs. “Yeah, that was a big part of it, I guess—me coming here. She’s doing a postdoc, and I’ve got four years of residency. It’s an awfully long time for long distance.”

“Did you consider staying in California? Or did she consider coming here?” I ask.

“Not really. I mean, I guess, but…I don’t want to talk about Jen tonight. I’m here with you, and you’re in this amazing dress, and I’m wearing atie, so can we just…be here together?”

There’s an intensity in his eyes that makes my breath catch in my throat. I’m not sure what he’s asking, exactly. Be here together…together?

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