Page 52 of Sister of the Bride

“Bah, Idoenjoy baking.” She waves us off like bad vibes and goes back to her pasta.

“You vetoed the flowery fruit cake, right?” Evie asks. “Because I’m not saying I won’t come if the cake is bad, but if the cake is bad I’m going to have to hunt for a date to distract me.”

“You’re not bringing a date?”

“I’m thinking about flying solo and picking someone up there,” Evie says. “All those businessbots on Mackenzie’s side? Surely there’ll be someone rich and hot who I’ll want to go home with. As long as the cake is good.”

“Never fear,” I assure her. “It’ll be layers of vanilla and devil’s food with a luxe version of rainbow chip frosting.”

“Thank god. A bad wedding cake has got to be bad juju for the marriage.”

“That’s true,” Nonna says.

“There will be no bad juju for the weddingorthe marriage,” I say, and then reach into the salt cellar for a pinch to throw over my left shoulder for good measure.

The door to the alley clangs open, and a rumpled beanpole clad in light blue scrubs stumbles in.

“Carbs. Lots of carbs as soon as possible, or I’ll fall asleep and won’t be able to make it all the way home,” Toby says. He collapses in a heap on a stool across from me. He doesn’t even bother to take his backpack off, just lays his shaggy head on the table.

“Toby, you live two blocks away,” I say, never breaking my stride with the garlic.

“I worked all night. And all morning,” he mumbles into the cool steel of the table. “And all afternoon. Peds ER rotation. So much crying. So tired.”

My face contorts into the expression I get whenever someone tells me my dinner will include beets. “Residency seems like hazing.” I decide not to ask if the crying was him or his patients.

“I’m too tired to formulate a rebuttal at the moment.”

Fernando drops a plate of orecchiette Bolognese and a fork on the table in front of Toby. He moans like he’s just been rescued from the island Tom Hanks was marooned on. After only three bites, he begins to perk up, though he still looks like hell. There are prominent dark circles underneath his eyes and a shadow of stubble across his jaw, and his curls, usually more jaunty, hang limply around his face.

“You’re my hero,” Toby says between bites, then turns back towards the front of the kitchen, saluting Fernando with his fork. “Thank you.”

“De nada, mi amigo. Just promise me that if I ever show up at the ER, you’ll point me toward the most well-rested doctor?” Fernando says with a wink.

“You got it,” Toby replies with a thumbs-up.

“So how’s your checklist going?” Evie asks.

I drop my chef’s knife and reach into my back pocket for my phone to open the I-To-Do app. When it fills the screen, I can’t help but smile at the row of check marks. Unfortunately, when I scroll down, there are stillsomany more. Including one highlighted in yellow, indicating an upcoming appointment.

“Oh shit, I totally forgot that I’m supposed to go try on my maid of honor dress today,” I say, glancing at the mountain of garlic that still needs chopping. “They have to start the alterations if they’re going to be done in time for the wedding, otherwise they’re going to slap me with another rush charge on top of the original rush charge.”

“You go. I can take care of the garlic,” Mom says. She pours the simmering gelato base from the pot into an enormous bowl and covers the whole thing with plastic wrap. It’ll sit in the walk-in for a few hours until it’s perfectly cooled and ready to be loaded into our ice cream maker.

“I’ll go with you,” Toby says. He’s scraping his fork along the empty plate, trying to get the very essence of the sauce off the porcelain. Knowing my best friend as I do, I’m sure that if he were alone right now, he’d absolutely be licking that plate.

“Toby, you’re barely conscious right now,” I say.

“That’s not true. The carbs did their job. I’m practically bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” He tries to illustrate by wiggling on his stool, but he only succeeds in knocking his fork onto the floor with a clatter.

“You gonna get that?” I ask, because he’s staring down at the fork like it’s fallen into a Mt. Everest crevasse.

“I would, but I think there’s still barf in my socks,” he says.

“Toby, you’re a health department violation waiting to happen. Get out of my kitchen,” Mom says, waving her spatula at him.

“I scrubbed!” he swears. “C’mon, Pip, let me come. I feel bad. I told you I’d help you with wedding stuff, and I’ve barely done anything.”

“And how is coming to the bridal salon to watch me try on a dress helping?”

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