Parking lot’s full when we arrive at the restaurant and mom’s freaking out.

Three weeks to secure a reservation and we’re gonna lose it in the next ten minutes if we don’t check in.

“There’s a valet,” mom says after we’ve circled the block for the umpteenth time. She points to an A-frame sign on the sidewalk that I swear wasn’t there five minutes ago.

As we near it, Rick lets off the gas. “Twelve dollars?” he says. “Fuck that shit.”

“Fak dat sheet,” my sister Kelsey chirps from her car seat.

Mom whips her head back at us, then shoots Rick a see-what-you-started glare, to which he replies, “What?”

I don’t know what mom sees in him. Sure, his place is big enough that I get my own room, and his lawn isn’t gifted with like a hundred-million dog turds. But he always acts like he’s hot shit just cos he owns a used auto lot (pre-loved vehicle dealership, he calls it), which is really a bunch of beat-up Oldsmobiles and Saturns for people with Bad credit? No credit? No problem!

There’s a line of traffic when we come around to the restaurant again. My brother Eddie gophers his head out the window and tells us that some guy’s trying to parallel park.

“Jesus Christ,” Rick moans, and lays on the horn as I melt into the vinyl.

Had he not dropped mom’s kintsugi bowl last month, we’d probably be ordering a double-double right now from In-N-Out like we do every Saturday.

Rick doesn’t normally get guilt-tripped after breaking stuff. But the kintsugi bowl was special. It helped mom through her divorce, though I never understood her obsession with it. Why spend all that time fixing something when you can buy a new one? She tried to explain it to me once. Something about wabi-sabi. But then she started crying and I couldn’t take it cos it reminded me of how much she cried after dad left and we had to live in a motel for a little bit and eat dry cereal for dinner so I told her to please stop crying cos then I’ll start crying too and that I totally got it even though I didn’t get it and then she stopped crying and I never asked her about it again.

It’s three minutes before our reservation and mom’s sniffling like she’s about to cry so I give Eddie the do-something look cos he’s the one with a driver’s license and he flips up his palms like what-do-you-want-me-to-do and I shrug my shoulders like I-dunno-think-of-something then all of a sudden he goes, “I know a place to park.”

“And you’re only telling me this now?” Rick says in his douchebag voice while Eddie blurts, “Go check in I’ll meet you guys inside order something for me I don’t care waters just fine thanks.”

Before Rick can respond, mom hops out of the car and huffs a loud, “Let’s go”.

So with the engine still running, Rick hustles to the sidewalk while I grab Kelsey as Eddie jumps into the driver’s seat and performs the world’s fastest eighteen-point turn before speeding off.

 

Salmon is the restaurant’s iconic dish, so Rick orders it for all of us—cos ‘he knows what’s best’—except for Kelsey, since he refuses to pay twenty-five bucks for someone who’ll eat dried glue if given the chance.

The fish arrives with limp parsley and a slop of lumpy mashed potatoes that reminds me of the sandcastles Eddie and I used to build when mom took us to the beach, back before she met Rick, who convinced her that sand was full of microbes and bacteria and other stuff with really pretentious names.

Rick scoops salmon from mom’s plate then makes annoying fluttering noises as he maneuvers his spoon in figure eights towards Kelsey.

I dig in cos I’m starving. After a few bites though, bits of fish begin sticking to my cheeks. I’ve never had salmon before, but I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to taste like damp cotton balls. So when Rick looks away to talk with mom, I begin air-planing salmon toward Kelsey’s mouth, but as I near, she grabs the spoon and, in my attempt to snatch it back, light pink flakes go flying onto Rick’s sleeve. He turns around and gives me a look that could shrivel potato eyes, which makes me want to dump root beer on his face.

A few minutes go by when our waiter checks in.

Rick moves his tongue slowly over his teeth—paying no mind to the poor guy, who’s patiently waiting even though there’s like a billion other tables—then digs his pinky nail in between his incisors to work loose a sprig of parsley before smearing it onto a napkin and examining it as if it were a dead bug.

“Salmon’s crap,” he finally says, pushing away his half-eaten plate. “Can’t eat it.”

On the one hand, I’m relieved, since there’s no way Rick will make me finish my meal now, not without looking like a total hypocrite. On the other hand, I feel for the poor waiter—a string bean of a dude—who’s fidgeting with his apron and muttering something about the cooks.

After he leaves, I envision the scene in the kitchen. “Someone complained about the salmon,” the waiter says to the chef. “Called it crap.” The chef goes postal. Snags a humongous butcher knife then stalks into the dining room and gets up in Rick’s face, knife tip pressed to nose. “You think the salmon’s crap?” he says, and the entire restaurant goes quiet as a wet spot forms on Rick’s pants.

A buzz-cut man in a blue suit approaches our table, apologizes for the salmon, offers a thirty percent discount for our meal tonight, thanks us for our patronage, then swiftly excuses himself, leaving Rick with his mouth hung open.

Ha.

From my wallet, I remove seven dollar bills and slip them under my plate after everyone leaves. If Rick got fussy over the valet, there’s little chance he’ll leave much tip, if any.

Outside, Eddie tells us to wait while he retrieves the car.

Rick wants to go with him. I can see it in his eyes, his need for control. As if Eddie is a little kid that needs to be controlled. As if he—we—haven’t grown up perfectly fine without him. But then mom heads back into the restaurant because she forgot her sweater and Kelsey gets all dramatic, flailing her arms and crying like the world’s gonna end.

Eddie uses the distraction to leave, and I hurry off with him.

Ten minutes later, we arrive at a hotel. “What are we doing here?” I ask.

“There’s usually weddings on the weekends,” Eddie says.

He used to low-key DJ here during his senior year of high school, back when flossing was more than a hygiene routine, so I believe him, though I’m still not sure what’s going on.

“Are we crashing a wedding?”

He marches through the hotel’s lobby, past the front desk, then down the hall, not pausing to admire the cool turquoise and magenta stars plastered onto the checkered black interior.

“We’re going to the bar,” he says when we arrive at the elevators.

“But I’m not old enough to drink.”

“We’re not gonna drink, weirdo.”

After we enter the elevator, he presses for the ballroom. “We’re just getting a parking validation.”

Oh. Right.

“Best-case scenario,” Eddie says as the elevator doors close, “everyone’s sitting down to eat. Then we can sneak to the bartender, get the parking sticker, and sneak out. Bada-bing, Bada-boom.”

“And worst-case scenario?”

“Cocktail hour.”

 

It’s cocktail hour when we arrive at the ballroom. Swarms of suits and brightly colored gowns crowd the bar. Hands move about wildly as heads roll back in fits of laughter over the hum of piano music.

“Remember,” Eddie says in his best Rick voice, puffing out his chest, “confidence builds character. Blah-blah-blah-blah. Blah-blah-blah-blah.”

I know he’s trying to lighten the mood, but it’s hard to feel confident when we’re dressed in ratty button-down shirts and faded jeans. We look like pity invites, the third cousins half removed with bad acne.

As we get in line at the bar, Eddie’s phone rings full blast: BI-DO-BI-DO, BI-DO-BI-DO, BANANA PHONE, BANANA PHONE.

He quickly lowers the volume, then scans the room as I try to teleport myself outside.

“It’s mom,” he says.

“Don’t answer it.”

“I know.”

“Rick’s probably pissed.”

“I know. We should hurry.”

“Duh.” I motion to the line while mentally willing the bartender to move faster. “Isn’t there anywhere else—”

“How do you know the groom?” asks a voice from behind.

We turn to face a black vest. I have to tilt my head back to meet the man’s eyes. They’re deep set and brown and he smells like Rick on his dates with mom, a mixture of leather and mint.

Without thinking, I say, “Actually, we’re friends with the bride.”

Eddie pinches my arm.

“Ow.” I slap his stomach with the back of my hand.

The man gives us a once over, then cocks his head. “You,” he says, “know the bride?”

Nervous energy creeps through my neck. That wasn’t what I’d planned to say. Not that I’d planned to say anything at all. But once the words left my mouth, I embraced it tighter than a leech on skin.

Straightening up, I hum out a confident “mm-hmm,” hoping he’s not a stickler for details.

Eddie pinches me again, this time harder.

“Quit it,” I whisper through clenched teeth, then slap him again.

“Let’s go,” he whispers back.

“You’re the one who—”

“I know, but—”

“Shh.”

I study the man’s sleek silver tux and curly black hair that’s combed over loosely, as if blown by a strong breeze.

After what seems like forever, the man smiles. “Honey boy,” he says, wagging a finger, “you’re at the wrong party.”

It isn’t until another tall man, also in a silver tux, arrives with a wine glass and wraps an arm around his waist that I grasp the situation.

“It was his idea to come here,” I hear myself say, pointing at Eddie, who reigns his chin to his chest.

Then we’re five again:

“What?”

“Tell him.”

“No.”

“Tell him.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

Next thing I know, Tall Man number one starts laughing. Then Tall Man number two joins in.

I stare at my Reeboks, feeling my face get hot. Before I know it I’m spilling out everything: Rick, the parking, the salmon, the manager, and mom’s kintsugi bowl, at which point they stop me.

“We love kintsugi,” they say.

“For real?” I say.

“For real,” they say.

“Kintsugi is about embracing imperfection,” Tall Man number one says. “About giving things a second life.” He goes on to describe his upbringing, his first marriage, his divorce, then his relationship with Tall Man number two. It’s like one of those lifetime movies mom and Rick watch after they put Kelsey down for a nap and when they think I’m doing my homework.

They stop talking when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

I let it go for a bit until Tall Man number two clears his throat loudly. “Your butt is vibrating,” he says, then brings his drink to his mouth.

Eddie laughs.

“We should probably go,” I say, even though I don’t want to leave.

The beat of the Macarena is coming to life, and I want to join in. Maybe form a conga line. Have a beer. Whatever they do at weddings. Anything but sit in the car and listen to Rick go off on some tangent about radio commercials. But mom’s probably freaking out.

My phone stops buzzing. After a few seconds, it starts again.

Tall Man number one grabs the glass from his partner. “Before you leave.” He takes a sip. “Why don’t you make a plate? There’s salmon.”

I think about our meal from earlier and my cheeks reflexively suck inward. “Oh, I dunno.”

“Give it another shot,” he says. “Might not be as bad as you think.”