Page 2 of What's in a Kiss?

We head for the whitewashed tackle shack at the edge of the dock, where a couple of bored teenagers pass out paperwork and boat keys. While Masha slathers on sunscreen and checks out the boats, I slip two of the finest credit cards from my collection to the kid at the counter and suggest splitting the rental fee down the middle. I call this going Schizophrenic Dutch.

The kid sizes me up: cutoffs and flip-flops, no makeup, hoodie with a hole in one sleeve, long dark hair tossed into a messy bun. I’ve always looked young for my age, which my mom swears will someday be a blessing. But for now, at twenty-eight, it means that absolutely no one—not even this pimply stoner—takes me seriously.

He looks down at Gram Parsons in my arms. “There’s a fifty-dollar pet fee.”

“This isn’t a pet,” I say.

“What is it, then?”

“Haven’t you readThe Call of the Wild?” I say. “This dog is my equal. This dog is—”

“You didn’t reserve a crew,” the kid says. “Just the boat.”

I look over his shoulder at our rig for the day. It’s a modified forty-two-foot sportfisher, circa 1965. In tall black letters someone has hand-painted her name on the hull:Tongva. My kind of boat.

“We’re the crew,” I say, enjoying his incredulity. My dad taught me to helm a 120-footer when this punk was in utero, but I don’t waste my breath bragging.

“The security deposit kicks in if you—”

“We’ll be fine,” I assure him, taking the boat keys.

“Where are you going to fish?” he asks, following me down the gangway to the boat.

“I was thinking we’d try the water,” I say with a wink as I climb aboard. “Come on, Mash.”

By eleven fifteen, I’m steering us out of the marina, standing at the wheel with the sun on my shoulders and a smile on my face. Gram Parsons pants in the captain’s chair behind me, and Masha’s got her feet dangling over the edge, wake kicking up and tickling her toes. Her floral sundress hugs her curves as she lays back and closes her eyes.

This peace is what I wanted for her today. Ever since she got engaged, it’s been a struggle for Masha to stick to her vision of her dream wedding: tiny and personal. Both Eli’s and her family have been pressing them to expand the guest list, to include cousins, colleagues, cat-sitters.

Masha’s big and opinionated Ukrainian family knows only one way to host a wedding, with factory settings for the DJ, catering, and decor. I’ve attended three such parties for Masha’s relatives in the past six months alone—and honestly, they’refun. But they’re also the very last kind of celebration Mash would ever want for herself.

When she put her foot down at her bridal shower brunch—capping the reception at eighteen guests and trimming the rehearsal dinner to only the actual wedding party—Masha’s family was horrified. Babushka stormed out of the Ivy so fast the restaurant rattled. Ever since then, quietly and on the cheap, Mash, Eli, and I have been planning a much smaller version of a wedding that’s truer to their style.

I’m proud of the way my favorite introvert has held her boundary. Tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner and Saturday’s celebration are going to be precisely as the bride and groom want them, if I have anything to say about it. And, though Masha’s still not convinced, my money’s on her family showing up to the reception, taking one look at the happy couple, and putting all this pettiness aside.

I snap a picture of Masha in her sun hat, coastline receding behind her, her adult life zooming into view before her. I flip the camera to selfie mode and take a picture of my smiling self. Even though my own adult life may still be a little out of focus, it cannot blur how thrilled I am for Masha.

When you’ve been friends as long as we have, it’s impossible not to see yourself—every aspect of your identity—in relation to each other. Drop us into any situation and it’s a safe bet Masha’s instinct will be the opposite of mine. While she’s compassionate, contemplative, conscientious, and femininely curved, I’m impulsive and outspoken in my baggy boyfriend jeans. While she’s known Eli was The One since high school, Iremain open to all the infinite possibilities future romances shall bring. Masha is the Sophie to my Frances Ha, the Lenù to my Lila, the Constance Wu to my Awkwafina. We couldn’t be more different, and there’s no logical reason we should get along so well, but we do. Chalk it up to two decades of history, plus our enduring love of baseball and Korean BBQ, and of course, each other.

When Masha went to Pomona to get her art history degree, and I got my teaching credential at Cal State, we wrote snail mail letters to each other twice a week, even though we were only an hour’s drive apart. When she landed the assistant docent job at the Getty Villa the week I started teaching drama at the local middle school, we surprised each other with congratulatory tickets to the same Dodgers game.

Three months ago, when I got furloughed from my teaching job, Masha actually cried. I held out the tissues, preferring the wineglass-half-full approach: if the school district hadn’t gutted its arts program, I wouldn’t be free on this fine Thursday morning to host her bachelorette.

I do miss my students. I miss that moment when I’d see it click in a kid’s eyes that they could channel their own emotions into a character completely unlike themselves and bring a role to life. I’m bummed those awkward eighth graders only got through half ofThe Glass Menageriebefore the school ran out of funding, but I’m also trying not to let the layoff get me down. Because what good would that do? I’ll find another drama teaching job. If there’s one thing this town is full of, it’s parents who dream they’re raising Hollywood’s next big star.

I steer the boat toward theStar of Scotland, the sunken wreck of an illegal gambling boat that sank off the coast of Santa Monica eighty years ago. Now it’s a diving and fishing paradise, a double down on a good time. By the time we’ve made it through TLC’s first album, I’m dropping anchor and reaching for our poles.

“I haven’t done this since your eighteenth birthday,” Masha says. “Remember you caught that big blue fin? Then your dad dropped it back in...” Her smile fades as she locks eyes with me.

“The classic ‘one that got away,’ ” I say, making sure my tone stays bright. It’s not that my father’s death is still raw—it’s been ten years since his heart attack, and I’ve done my due diligence in therapy and broken dreams. The fact that losing my dad upended my one-time college and career plans isn’t even something I think about anymore.

Most of the time.

I’m the kind of person who likes to believe things have a way of working out for the best. And the proof is in this moment, right now, sharing a brilliant boat-ride bachelorette with my oldest and best friend.

“I hope you’re hungry for somegalbi.” I go low on the penultimate syllable to sound like Oprah. Mash loves Oprah.

I kept the ribs warm using the partition in Werner’s luxury cooler, but I dressed the presentation down by tossing two of my mom’s old heating pads on top.

---