“Peak Season down the Shore,” I said. “That’s what’s keeping me from planning a wedding.”
“Because…”
“Because I hate it.”
Spike put down his glass of iced tea.
“Hatemight be a strong word,” I said. “But it’s a different place during the summer.”
He nodded. “Go on,” he said. Like a psychiatrist.
“I mean, there are so many people,” I said. “It’s noisy. You can’t get a dinner reservation…”
“To be fair, you could say the same things about Boston all year round.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t stink of coconut oil.”
Spike nodded again. “Good point.”
“Thank you.”
“On the other hand—”
“Always with the other hand.”
“You aren’t marrying the Jersey Shore. You’re marrying Richie.”
I looked at Spike. He was right. I could imagine my therapist, Susan Silverman, using his exact words, if I’d ever been able to broach the topic during one of our sessions. But the thing was, it wasn’t just my own aversion to the Jersey Shore during Peak Season that was making me leery of taking the proverbial Next Big Step. It was that Richie loved the Jersey Shore during Peak Season. He adored the bustle of the restaurant/bar he managed, Candy’s Room. He didn’t mind waiting in line for movies or coffee, because it meant business was booming—not just at The Room, as the locals called it, but everywhere. He stopped and tipped even the least talented buskers on the boardwalk and he was unbothered by the beach traffic, and even though I hadn’t asked him about it, he probably loved the smell of coconut oil, too. And while all of that combined wasn’t even close to a red flag, it did give me pause. Maybe Richie and I were more fundamentally unalike than I’d thought. Or maybe we were just at different places in our lives.
“I just want to make sure that this time around, it sticks,” I said.
“Is Richie coming to Boston anytime soon?”
“I asked him to come tonight,” I said.
“That’s soon.”
“Yeah, well. My parents invited us to dinner,” I said. “He has to make sure he’s got coverage at The Room, because they’ve got a band playing, and it’s going to be busy, busy, busy.” I sighed. “As per fucking usual.”
“Wait. Parents? In the plural?”
“Yep. Elizabeth is coming, too.”
“Hmm.”
“I hope he can make it,” I said. “I don’t want to deal with my mother and sister alone.”
Spike took another bite of his pasta. “Sauce needs more basil. Gotta talk to Jorgen.”
“Spike?” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Does Flynn like anything that you find…ah…hard to take?”
He shrugged. “Well, yeah,” Spike said. “He’s British.”
“But you’re still with him.”