“He’s pissed you chose Oliver over him.”
I scoff, “I did not choose Oliver over him. Lars and I are friends. Oliver and I are…” Anna turns my chair around.
“Ol and you are? What?” Her green eyes bore into mine, the same way her brother’s do. I blush under her scrutiny.
“Oh my. I never thought I would see the day you’d become speechless for a guy, and I never thought that guy would be my brother.”
“It’s not about your brother… It’s complicated,” I say, avoiding her eyes.
She pushes away the permit requests I have to send out to the city and sits on the desk.
“Try me, Naomi. I’m bilingual in Oliver, and I believe I speak yours truly fluently now too. You know Lars expected to go with you to the wedding, and you decided to go with my brother, who your guy loathes, even if he tries to hide it. So, please enlighten me.”
“Lars isn’t my guy.” I pick at my nails.
“But Oliver is?”
I shake my head.
Of course, he isn’t.
Oliver and I are years of booty calls, but we’ll never be more than what we already are for each other. I need him to stand next to me during the wedding and appear on his arm in the pictures the photographers are going to sell.
“Can we get back to work? My boss is a real bitch when I don’t do things on time.”
“Yeah, you can finish working while your bitch-boss lady is going to take care of the hairy situation she’s in after not seeing her rock star for so long. It’s a yeti pussy down there.” She gets up and straightens her skirt.
“TMI, Boss. I don’t need to know your pilosity status. I’m not that kind of assistant.”
“But you’re that kind of friend; you know, the one who could be a maid of honor?”
She smiles, happiness written all over her face.
“Of course. Thanks for asking,” I almost cry.
“Thanks for being the best friend/assistant ever,” she almost cries as well. “I’m out of here. If anybody asks for the boss, tell them I’m in a meeting.” She blows the red bangs out of her eyes.
“I will. Say hi to Dan for me once he lands.”
“Why don’t you come with me to pick them up, you know Lars would be happy to see you, right?”
I doubt it.
I know him enough to discern that Oliver is a sore subject.
He never says anything, but you can always tell by the way his caramel eyes darken, and his angel face falls.
It’s funny how he can be one of the most handsome men inside and outside but also the ugliest because of jealousy.
Not that I can blame him, Oliver is charming, broken, perfect, and I do have something for straightforward guys with no drama.
Lars can be difficult.
I guess it comes with the territory of being a rock star. You believe everybody is at your beck and call, and you can act up because you’re jealous if a friend spends time with another guy. Well, not on my watch.
“Oh shit! I know that look, Lars is in trouble.” Anna laughs when she walks past my desk on her way to the elevator. “Don’t forget he might be tired, and from what I’ve heard he didn’t bed any girls on tour. He kept Dan company most evenings. Don’t rip off his head when his balls are so full. He might lose balance. Sayonara.” She throws a hand in the air and butchers the only word of Japanese she knows.
By the time I get home, I have Pinterest invitations waiting for me from Debbie who created boards for Anna’s wedding. I feel bad for her. She was undoubtedly hoping to be more included than she would be. But she’s married with kids and volunteers a lot.
She’s the soccer mom, the ballet mom, the PTA mom, and Anna and I aren’t moms, probably never will be. I screenshot one of the boards titled “Perfect Rock Star Wedding” and send it to Lars. No answer. I continue scrolling the crazy ideas Debbie has pinned and take a second screenshot but this time for the combined bachelor and bachelorette party from hell. Debbie has no clue what it entails to date a rock star, and her ideas are merely insane.
We won’t make cupcakes and pin the boring donkey or play board games.
When Anna said low-key, she meant for her husband-to-be not to buy a freaking Casino like he bought a village in Spain. Reel it in, for the Darlings, still means a hell of a lot more than what we—ordinary people—know.
I check my phone again, but there is still no news from Lars.
I try not to be bothered by him ignoring me and be reasonable about it.
It’s possible he didn’t see his phone, even though when we’re together he seems to always hear it and answer every freaking text he receives.
He could be sleeping, even if I know he hates sleeping on planes, it’s a long flight.
He could be busy with a stewardess, but I’m pretty sure Art would have beaten him to it, and since the Julie-gate they try hard not to fuck the same girls.
I drag my feet to the fridge and look at its disparate contents.
I was so busy filling up his fridge that I didn’t buy any groceries for me.
Why would I?
He’s the one who cooks when he’s around.
I only eat; I don’t cook. Something my father has reproached me for enough times.
How could he marry me to a good man if I couldn’t even cook rice?
My answer was to teach his prospect to cook, but I knew better than to voice my opinion.
My father is not a man who understands jokes or sarcasm.
He’s more into respect and obedience.
I was raised under self-discipline and hard work, expected to persist toward the one and only goal: marry the man my father would choose to take over his multibillion-dollar firm.
I was sent to the best schools to have the best education, the best etiquette, the best everything.
My father hired the top educators in each field to be sure I answered his simple rules: diligence, endurance, ability to decide and to do the hard things, and wholehearted dedication.
Unfortunately, I was the poster child of Japanese failure.
Teachers, nannies, tutors, and others could repeat yareba dekiru—you can do it if you try hard—over and over, it felt like I was never trying hard enough.
My father was never pleased.
I was never what he needed me to be.
When I failed hard to please him, I was shipped to Canada to study English literature and make myself scarce, until he decided otherwise.
Turned out, my mother—whose name was never pronounced in the household since she died when I was four—was Canadian, and I had citizenship. So, I could easily study there and stay once I had my diploma.
Ashamed of me and my failures, my father let me stay, not giving me too many thoughts until eighteen months ago when he started to speak about retiring.
Since then my life has been a little more complex, dodging his assistant’s monthly calls, numerous plane tickets and attorney contacts he has been sending my way.
I knew why he wanted me in Japan, and I wasn’t going to marry any of the men he had chosen to succeed him.
My growling stomach reminds me of the task at hand, and of my anger towards Lars, who’s a humongous asshole for letting me starve.
Grabbing the Chardonnay, I drink directly from the bottle, grab the old piece of abandoned cheddar and a few crackers to calm my hunger, and return to my sofa to start the episodes of the show I was supposed to watch with my best friend once he returned.