Page 84 of Summer with My Sexy Ex
“She said you’d know how to put the favors in the bags. Because all women know how to put the favors in the bags, but she didn’t say what goes in which bags. Or else I missed it somewhere in that fucking manifesto from hell she calls instructions. There are three boxes of bags over there.” He points to the corner furthest from him.
Wyatt snickers. “Manifesto.”
I open the boxes. One has a few hundred paper bags with little plastic windows pre-printed with the phrase, “Here are s’more goodies to sweeten your day.”
Another has a few hundred tulle drawstring pouches. The third has about fifty fabric bags that read, “Thank you for participating in our special day.”
“Okay, if I had to guess, this one”—I point to the fabric bags—“is for the wedding party.”
“We no longer have a wedding party since they’ve all been exposed to chicken pox,” Blake says.
“Right,” I say. “And this one”—I point to the tulle bags—“is probably for smaller favors. And then, are you having s’mores by chance?”
“I think there was something about s’mores mentioned in the wedding manifesto.” Blake gestures to a binder on the table.
“I swear,” Blake adds. “Vegas elopement like what you guys did is the only way to do this. Weddings suck.”
“We’re not married,” Wyatt and I both say.
“You know what I mean,” Blake says, dismissing our comments.
I grab the binder; the contents are tabulated and color-coded according to the event: rehearsal, ceremony, reception; the role: bride, groom, wedding party, guest, vendor. The location: beach, venue, restaurant, rooms. And in order of importance.
I find the favors section(s) under the reception tab and see that another box should contain candles to go with the matchboxes in the tulle bags with a small card insert that reads, ‘The Perfect Match.’
I suggest we tackle Taylor’s list one item at a time, beginning with this one. It doesn’t take long to realize neither Wyatt nor Blake can quickly tie a bow around the tulle and each of us doing an entire bag ourselves will take days. We set up an assembly line with Blake opening bags and putting in the candle. Wyatt follows with the matchbox and card insert, then I close the bags with the bow.
It’s going well, and we have nearly half of the two hundred and fifty bags assembled when Wyatt says, “Hey, how do you spell Taylor’s name?”
We all stop.
“What do you mean?” Blake asks.
“Just what I said. Is it with a ‘y’ or an ‘i’?”
“T a y l o r,” Blake says.
“I think there’s a typo on the matchbox.” Wyatt hands us each one. The cursive script on the front reads, T a i l o r.
“Motherfucker.” Blake throws a tulle and candle tin bundle in the air; it lands with a thud behind him on the carpeted floor. And he thuds his forehead on the table.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Don’t panic. And Blake, stop hurting yourself.” I grab another matchbox to see if it’s the same. And follow that up with ten more randomly chosen boxes before I’m convinced the typo is on every single box.
“Maybe Taylor won’t notice,” Wyatt says.
“Have you met Taylor?” Blake says sourly.
“It’s fine,” I say.
Both men look at me in disbelief.
“We’ll just turn each ‘i’ into a ‘y’, and no one will know the difference.”
“How?” Blake asks.
“With a pen,” I say, like it’s obvious even though I haven’t yet figured out where to find a teal pen that can write on a glossy matchbox cover.
“Okay.” Blake sighs. “Get a pen.”
