Page 49 of Sister of the Bride

“Good,” he says, leveling me with a wicked smirk that banishes all thoughts of Derek Easterly, leaving behind only thoughts of how good Toby’s lips felt on mine.

The train comes whooshing into the station. As the doors open, Toby steps aside and holds his arm out like he’s welcoming me into my own personal subway car. “Shall we go taste some cake now?”

Still mildly shell-shocked that I both fixed my friendship with Tobyandconfirmed that he’s an incredible kisser (and also wondering if I can askhimifhethought the kiss was good, which I haven’t so far because I need to put the whole kissing thing behind me as soon as possible startingnow), it takes me a minute to step inside the car. But I hear a woman waiting behind me loudly clear her throat, jolting me out of my panic. I step into the train and realize that I got what I wanted. I wanted us to move past this, to pretend like it never happened. And that’s what I got. If I don’t start putting one foot in front of the other, I’m going to undo all that good hard work I just did.

Still, as I situation myself in the subway car, my forgotten coffee, now more water than ice, sweating in my hand, I can’t help continuing to focus a little too much on the incredible kisser part.

I sit down on the empty bench next to Toby. “Hey, so now that that’s out of the way, do you want to help me figure out what I should do with the rest of my life?”

He laughs. “Do you want to be a doctor?”

“Fuck no,” I reply.

He shrugs. “Then I’m out of ideas.”

Well, shit. I guess we can’t solve all my problems in one day.

Chapter21

Toby

I’m about to make a joke about cake. You butter believe it.

Pippin

Stop texting me, this baker looks like she could Sweeney Todd us easy.

First Birgit at Vow’d, and now this? I thought people in the wedding industry were supposed to be founts of joy, the kind who cry at Hallmark commercials and whose priority is to “make your day oh so special.” Where is Polly finding all these dour purveyors of wedding foofaraw?

Merilee McDonald is anything but merry. She seems to approach cake decorating with the kind of intensity usually reserved for MMA fighters and corporate litigators. We’ve been in her bakery for fifteen minutes, and she has not smiled once.

But looking around the shop, at the displays in various cases and the framed photos on the wall, I can tell why people look past Merilee’s bitter facade. Because her cakes are truly works of art. I’m especially impressed by one that appears to be covered in charcoal-colored linen with delicate white dahlias cascading down one side, all of it edible. I just hope they taste as good as they look, because thanks to my nerves over talking with Toby, I skipped lunch, and now I’m starving.

Mackenzie and Polly were waiting for us when we arrived, and Polly immediately took control of the appointment. It was clear that Mackenzie had ceded all decision-making authority about cakes to her betrothed.

We sit at a round café table while Polly rattles off her ideas, Merilee nodding and her assistant furiously typing on an iPad.

“No fondant,” Polly says.

“Of course, we want people to eat this,” Merilee says curtly.

“I want fresh flowers,” Polly says. “And I don’t want any colored frosting. I don’t want to see purple tongues and teeth in photos.”

“Has she been like this about all the plans?” Toby whispers in my ear, earning a sharp look from Merilee.

“This and the dress are literally the only things she cares about,” I reply, my voice as low as I can make it without being silent. Still, Merilee shoots me a look like she wants to send me to detention.

It’s true—Polly has been, for the most part, the opposite of a bridezilla. She has really let me run with my ideas. In just a few weeks, I’ve confirmed a caterer who is going to serve a Haitian Creole/Mexican fusion menu that I honestly cannot wait to eat. After reading a few horror stories of DIY DJs in a Reddit thread, I convinced Frantz to acquiesce to a DJ, promising he could provide an extensive track list of requests. I’ve finalized the tent rental in case of bad weather, along with tables, chairs, linens, and patio heaters. The photographer is booked, thanks to one of Evie’s art school friends. The flowers are so close to being finalized that I can taste it, and then it’ll all just be small details until the actual wedding day. I even ordered my dress from Birgit at Vow’d. Polly let me have free rein so long as I stayed in the “color palate.”

I’m sort of owning this whole wedding planning thing, honestly, and the cake tasting feels like my reward. Well, that and the actual wedding, but I think I might be looking forward to the cake tasting more.

After taking more design marching orders from Polly, Merilee disappears to retrieve the samples for tasting, her assistant hot on her heels. This is why we’re all really here, as is evidenced by the loud gurgling coming from my stomach.

Merilee returns, and her assistant sets a silver tray on the table. In front of us are a half dozen small cakes about the size of large cupcakes.

“I made the two flavors you requested on our phone call last week,” Merilee says, gesturing to two cakes on the left side of the tray, “and the other four are flavors I think you might also enjoy based on the sense I got of your palate.”

I don’t know why “the sense I got of your palate” sounds like an insult, but it really, really does.

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