Page 48 of Sister of the Bride

Okay, then, here goes nothing.

I point toward an empty bench at the edge of Boston Common, and after giving it a quick once-over for obvious signs of bird poop or barf, we sit. I want to turn my body toward him, try to look him in the eye, but in the end all I can do is stare down at my coffee cup.

“We need to talk about the gala,” I say.

“Okayyyyyy,” he replies, as if drawing out the word will give him time to gather his thoughts. I search his tone for any indication of what he might be thinking, but he’s doing that serious doctor voice I recognize from when I ran into the lamppost. It betrays nothing. Do they teach that in med school? Like, do they bring in theater teachers who have worked with the cast ofGrey’s Anatomy?

Focus, Pippin.

“We kissed,” I say, as if he wasn’t there when it happened, but I can’t keep dancing around it.Be honest. “And it scared the shit out of me.”

Now I finally look up and meet his eyes. His curls are blowing back in the light breeze, and his eyebrows are knitted together, though I can’t tell if it’s with worry or concern or what. I pause for a beat to see if he’s going to jump in and save me, but he just keeps his eyes locked on mine, waiting to hear what’s coming next.

Shit.

“Toby, you’re my best friend in the whole world. You mean more to me than anyone outside of my family. Hell, youaremy family. And the thought of doing anything that could fuck that up terrifies me,” I say. I glance down at my hands, which are gripping my plastic cup so tightly I’m running the risk of popping off the lid and showering myself in coffee. I blow out a breath and try to calm myself. “It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Toby finally pulls his eyes away from mine, letting his gaze roam over the cobblestone sidewalk. He hasn’t touched his rapidly melting drink, and if he’s feeling anything like I am right now, he’d rather pitch the whole thing in the trash than take a single sip.

His gives this little bob of his head, a nod, like he’s agreeing with whatever conversation is happening in his head. Then he finally turns back to me, his eyes soft. “So why did you kiss me?”

Oh. So heisgoing to make me talk about it. Dr. Nora didn’t prepare me for this part, but I guess I’ll just keep going with the honesty thing. Which is good, because I don’t know if I could stop the words that burst forth.

“Because you looked liked a young James Bond if he were modeling for Gucci, and I was high on champagne and ice cream! Because we were standing in the moonlight and talking about old times and I got carried away! Because Iwantedto!”

I pause and watch Toby’s cheeks flush all the way to the tips of his ears.

“But when I thought about it after—when I think about itnow—I realize that I love you too much as a friend to do anything to mess that up,” I say, getting to the most important part. “I need you, Toby.”

He’s silent for a long time. Long enough to hear the entire chorus of Toto’s “Africa” blaring from a minivan stopped at the corner of Charles and Beacon. Long enough that I have to fight my instinct to leap up from the bench and sprint home and hide under my covers forever. Long enough that I think maybe Dr. Nora is absolutely full of shit and I should figure out how to contact Oprah and tell her that. Honesty is nonsense, clearly.

But then Toby turns to me with a little half smile, his one dimple appearing.

“Was the kiss good at least?”

My mouth drops open, then closes, then opens again as I blink at him like a freshly hooked fish. Am I hallucinating right now? Is this all a dream? Was the kiss good? Was the kissgood?

“Yes!” I shout, as if the blush on my cheeks hasn’t answered that question for me. It was the best goddamn kiss I’ve ever had, but I manage not to tackthatpart on at the same volume that I hear it in my head. Dr. Nora asked the same thing. Man, everyone is really obsessed with Toby’s making out skills.

Toby nods, his half smile cranking up to the full meal deal. “Okay,” he says. “As long as the kiss was good.”

Then he stands, takes a long sip of his disgusting drink, and reaches a hand down to pull me up off the bench. Which I take, even though I feel like that can’t possibly be it. Can it?

Toby starts walking toward Park Street, and I follow him for about four steps before I say, “Wait, are we okay?”

Toby pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah, we’re okay. I mean, I guess it was something that had to happen eventually, right? Now we’ve done it. And we’re fine.” He cocks his head, indicating that I should catch the hell up, literally and figuratively.

“We’re fine,” I repeat. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. And that this conversation hasn’t been nearly as painful as I anticipated. Shit, maybe Dr. Nora wasn’t just right—she’s a damngenius. Should I be honest all the time? Is honesty really the best policy? I always assumed that was a thing wesaidbut that it really only applied to, you know, not cheating on your spelling test or sneaking out of bed for extra dessert. I thought adult life was far too complex for actual honesty all the time. Honesty all the time seemed like a one-way ticket to getting punched in the face.

“I can’t believe you asked me that,” I say.

“Asked you what?”

“If the kiss was good.”

“Hey, it’s been a long time since I’ve kissed anybody new,” he says as we descend into the T station and tap our Charlie cards. “I deserve to know if I’m repelling women with my lips alone. I mean, you dumped that one guy just because he was a bad kisser.”

“Derek. And he wasn’t just a bad kisser, he was ahorriblekisser. Abominable. It was like having an encounter with a mastiff. I needednapkinsafter that kiss, Toby.” I watch him laugh and try not to remember the saliva pyrotechnics of Derek Easterly, a guy from my macroeconomics class at UMass. “You’re no Derek, trust me.”

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