I've anticipated questions, so let me do my best to answer them.
First and foremost: How did you, Rachel Donatello, remember so much?
Good question. A combination of many things: a really good memory for the things most important to me, which is why I am so good with TV; the purchase of a Lisa Frank diary from when I was, like, in fourth grade and had not found good enough use for until I met Irby; and a sprinkling, I'm sure, of embellishment. Though let's be honest: in a story that involves me puking so many times, how much could I have possibly made up?
Second question: did Irby and I have sex?
I'd like to answer that question with another question: how dare you, you pervert? Followed by this simple answer: depends on who's asking. Given the circumstances, I think I'm safest if I stick to absolutely not, including and especially not on the night of my sister's wedding. Wink.
Question three: Did Irby ever, finally, call you his girlfriend?
Answer: Well, sometimes, but not really. He sometimes—I think to make fun of how seriously I'd taken it in the past—liked to introduce me as "the girl he fell in love with," which I thought rolled off the tongue beautifully. But most times he just called me Rachel, and the way he said it spoke more about our relationship than any title ever would. I know—weirdly progressive.
And fourth and final: what happened after that?
Well, a lot. Beginning with what happened three weeks after Caitlin and Carl's wedding.
It hadn't been that long since Caitlin and Carl had come home from their honeymoon to Maui, and Caitlin had been spiraling into a post-vacation depression. Often when we'd go into work together she'd try to put on "Mele Kalikimaka," only for me to slap her hand as it stretched to the radio controls. "Don't make today a Hawaii day," I'd say. "Make it a Taylor Swift day."
"But every day's a Taylor Swift day," she would whine.
"I know," I'd say, smiling. And ten seconds into the song she'd be happy again.
One Tuesday, I invited Caitlin to my house to watch season premieres with me. I even bought the alcohol, because I had been feeling benevolent.
"You have no food in your house," Caitlin said, opening the cabinets and finding only coconut extract and an unopened bag of quinoa. "You should have come to my house. We have stir fry."
Then someone knocked on the door. "There's too much sodium," I chided her as I walked over. "You have to watch out now. Husbands are the ones that get high blood pressure." I looked back at her. "Stress, you know?"
"Oh, shut up," she said. I opened the door to a pizza man. "Wait—did you order pizza? You know how much sodium is in that?"
"Hello," I greeted. "I didn't order pizza, but wow, excellent service. I was just thinking about a slice."
"Someone came in and paid in advance," the pizza boy recited, bored. "This is for you."
"Man, Irby's good," Caitlin muttered.
"He told me that I could make a pass at you if I wanted," he said. He gave me a once-over and then shrugged. "I mean, I would."
"Oh, gross," Caitlin and I said together. I grabbed the pizza from the pizza boy's arms. "And, um, stay in school."
"I'm 26 years old," he said, and began to insist at Caitlin and my disgust, but I slammed the door before he could.
"He got us a pizza?" Caitlin asked. "Oh, that is so sweet, Rachel."
"Um, I don't know what you're talking about with us," I said. "This is one serving." I opened the box.
Inside was an extra-large pizza, with pepperoni slices that spelled out the words 'MERRY ME.'
"What?!" Caitlin screamed, as my eyebrows shot up.
I put the pizza down and quickly pulled out my phone, only to see that he was already calling me. "Did the pizza come yet?"
"No, no, no, no, no," I scolded. "I am not being proposed to with a pizza. This is the rest of my life we're talking about here, not the junior prom."
"Propose?" he asked, confused.
"Yes, propose," I said. "You are such a spaz."
"Rachel—babe—"
"Oh, for God's sake," I said, putting my palm on my face—
"If you wanted me to propose to you, all you had to do was ask. I just sent over a pizza because I'm gonna be working out of town this weekend and wanted you to know what type of mood I was in, in case I didn't see you."
I blinked. I looked back at the pizza. 'MERRY ME.'
"Are you out of your mind?!" I asked. "Also, you are a professional comedian. What work could you possibly be doing?"
"I'll tell you," he said, "but you have to admit that 'Merry Me' is pretty funny."
"I thought they just spelled it wrong at the pizza place," I justified. "The kid that came to the door—"
"Did he make a pass at you?" Irby asked conversationally.
"Not really, no."
"Damn it," he said. "So the joke didn't land."
I looked over at Caitlin, who, still floored by the apparent proposal, was fixing herself a generous drink. "Depends on who you're asking," I replied. "Man, I'm actually kind of disappointed. You better get moving, dude. I want to hit the 75th wedding anniversary with you."
"We've talked about this," he said. "It's impossible. I'm 26 years old. No way I'm going to hit 101—"
"Because it's not in a ginger's blood," I said, nodding.
"Wait, that's not what I was going to—"
"So what are you up to?" I interrupted.
He cleared his throat. "I have an interview, actually. In Baltimore."
"Did your mom get you that one?" I asked sarcastically. He didn't say anything in reply. "Oh my God, you mama's boy."
"And I have some gigs there, too. I do, actually, have to work."
"I read your index cards for work last weekend," I said, my voice flat, "and one of them just says 'gas station butts.'"
He snickered. "Man, I wish I remembered what joke that was. Doesn't it sound hilarious?"
"Uhh, sure," I said. "So an interview, huh? With who?"
"Whom. And you'll see," he said. "Or I'll fail and you will not ever hear about it."
"Cool," I said. "Send lots of emojis. Love you."
"Idiot," he said, and we both hung up.
"So?" Caitlin said. Now she had her hands on her hips while her gin and tonic nearly overflowed next to her. "Are you getting married?"
"Oh, no," I said, and took a slice out of the box. "He was just being funny."
She groaned. "God," she said, "you guys are so weird."
Which leads to what happened three weeks after that.
Irby and I went out to a gas station one night for a date. Don't ask. It was research.
"So I actually have to tell you something," he said, drumming his fingers against the wheel. "And I don't think that you're going to like it, so I got you this…"
In the backseat of his car he dug around, through all the McDonald's bags, until he pulled out a cookie cake with the words 'MERRY ME' on it. "I thought that if you didn't know how to respond, this phrase could be a possible reaction," he justified. "And, you know, we haven't been dating for that long, but because things are going so well, I thought—"
"Hey, babe?" I said. "The longer we stay in the parking lot of this gas station, the more those cops over there—" I pointed at the two cop cars not that far away—"are going to think we're getting high." I met his eyes. "Just tell me, okay?"
"Remember when I went for that interview in Baltimore?"
I started shaking my head. "Actually, if you're telling me we're moving to Baltimore, then we're going to have to break up—"
"Oh, God, no," he said. "Rachel, I'm a Steelers fan. How dare you suggest—" He cut himself off. "No. No, no, never, no. Um…" He rubbed his neck. "But remember when I said that if I got the job, you would know?"
"Yes?"
"So I got it," he said, sheepish. I squealed, and I almost knocked the cookie cake onto the car floor as I moved to give him a hug, but he put his hands up. "Wait, because you're not going to like it."
I sat back, expectant. "It's a six-month thing," he said, "and I leave in December."
"You're leaving?" I asked, confused.
"Yeah, it's—it's on a cruise ship," he said. "For the comedy stuff and the music stuff."
I started laughing. "Are you going into shock or something?" he asked, wary, as he watched me giggle with concern. "Should I get, like, a Gatorade—"
"That is really funny," I said, my laughter drifting off. "I mean, you on a cruise ship? I can just imagine you hanging out with all those sixty-pluses. You're going to get so many old ladies trying to set you up with their daughters."
"Rachel," he said, as if I did not speak English, "are you okay? You're being weirdly calm about this."
I put a hand on his chest. "Irby," I said, "I'm in this for the long haul. Are you in this for the long haul?"
"Of course," he said.
"So six months isn't really a big part of the long haul," I said. "And I'd be an idiot if I didn't see how big of a deal this was for you." I smiled at him, because he still looked confused. "So you're going to do it, and you're going to FaceTime me every day and send me pictures and use up all of your minutes, and then you're going to come back here, where you belong. Is that cool?"
"Are you really sure about this?" he asked.
"Are you deaf? Yes, I am sure," I said. "Anyway, this doesn't count as six months without you. I already did that. This is going to be easy."
He shook his head, still shocked. "I really love you," he said.
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "You too. Now get me some Doritos, you bitch."
He left in December.
We talked as many days as we possibly could. He told me stories about all the weird people he met. "A lot of really, really drunk people hit on me," he said. "Especially when I'm the lounge, playing guitar."
"I want you to hook up with all of them," I urged. "Especially if they're retirees."
"What ends up happening," he said, "is that I tell these women that I have this girl at home whose favorite song I have to play."
"What is my favorite song?"
"Oh, it changes every week," he replied. "I like to think of which song you hate the most and give it my all. This week it was Jason Mraz."
"God," I said. "Is it too late to get divorced?"
"It's actually too early," he said. "Weirdly enough, they end up hitting on me more. And of course I hook up with all of them. Being with you has actually been too expensive? I think with all these calls I'm breaking even."
"Oh, shut up," I said. "At least tell me you're avoiding CMU students."
In turn, I would tell him all about what was happening at home. Like how, in January, my apartment's lease was set to expire. "Just move your stuff to my house," he said. "Obviously." And so I did.
Or how in March, Caitlin and Carl decided to move to Philadelphia and betray everything they had ever been taught. Fascinated by how coolly I was handling Irby's absence, I think Caitlin made the announcement to try and call my bluff. But I held firm, and after seriously considering it with Carl they decided it was the best place to raise a family. (As if.) I told them that I would never, ever visit.
At one point in my life, this would have been devastating—to be without Irby and to be without Caitlin (and, okay—to be without Carl). But now, when all was said and done, I had been clued to the big secret: a huge difference existed between someone leaving and someone being gone. When they left, I knew that we could love from afar, until the day I saw them again. The latter did not have that luxury.
Without Caitlin at Alexander and Clements, I quit soon after. I mean, who else was I going to fax? That place sucked, and Amy was glad to see me go. After that, I lived a life of unemployment—for only three days, having quit with not one but two jobs set in stone for me. (When had I become so old that I was willing to juggle three jobs at a time?!)
I'm still employed at both, and it's exhausting, but I love it and so does my mom. The first is bartending; unsurprisingly, given my breadth of experience in the field, I am awesome at it. The second is a secretarial job at a middle school, where I found a friend in an English teacher named Sheila, who is a badass. Now she's trying to get me to go back to school and follow her on the teaching track. I've thought about it; she does get to yell at people a lot, which falls within my skill set.
But we'll see. Life is long.
On Irby's final week as a cruise ship performer, I flew out to Paris, France to board one of his cruises. When I first saw him waiting for me at the airport, holding up a sign that said "Rachell?," I sprinted so fast I almost knocked over a French businessman. "Merci beaucoup!" he cursed. It was hilarious, and reminded me of a fond memory I held of the last time I had to sprint that fast.
"You are so speedy," he said, as I jumped, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. He teetered backward from the momentum. "God, I missed you."
"I missed you too," I said, burying my face into his neck. I inched closer to his ear and whispered, "Now, I don't mean to sound crass—"
"But we haven't had sex in six months," he said.
"Yes," I said. "We can talk later."
"God, you are the best," he said. "Let me show you the boat."
Which sounds like innuendo. Eh, I guess it kind of was.
So for the whole first day we hung out in his room, watching TV—or, at least, leaving it on—until the sun set.
"So how many times have you been to Paris?" I asked him, curious. "One billion times?"
"It feels like it," he admitted. "It's okay, I guess."
"No Pittsburgh."
"No, not at all," he answered. "But I've found little places that I like. Liiiike…they have really good pizza in Paris."
I pinched him on the arm. He smiled down at me. "Bullshit," I said. "Parisians weigh as much as one medium pizza. You're thinking of the wrong country."
He held up his hands in defense. "I'm the Paris expert," he defended. "Not you."
"You're just taking advantage of my stupidity," I said.
"No I am not!" he said. "Look—this boat disembarks at 11. It is 9. I refuse to leave this city until you believe me."
"Ugh," I said. "I don't want to leave this bed just to look at stupid Paris."
"Too bad," he said.
"Don't you have to be on the boat, like, an hour before it disembarks?" I asked. "It would be a total waste of time."
"Yeah," he said, already up with his shirt over his head, "but the crew really likes me, so it doesn't really matter."
Because of course they did.
It was unusually chilly in Paris, but mostly because I had opted to wear my PJs out on the city streets.
He wrapped his arm around me. "So you must know where everything is," I guessed.
"Only pizza places," he said. "I mapped out a tour for us to go on."
"You could sell that as an excursion," I commented. As I said so, I felt a drop of water hit me. "Oh, God, are you kidding me? It's raining?"
"That is so funny," he said. "Good timing."
I grumbled as it continued to rain harder. "If you don't take my jacket, I'm going to kill you," he said, and—because the six months had made me soft—I obliged his request. It smelled just like him. "So…does this look familiar to you at all?"
"Well, no," I said. "I'm not the Paris expert, remember?"
He shrugged. "True," he said. "But you are the Owen Wilson expert. Isn't Midnight in Paris your favorite movie?"
"Eh," I said. "I'm really more a fan of Zoolander—"
"You've gotta work with me here, Rachel," he said, rubbing his eyes. I smiled at him.
We stepped onto a bridge. "Yup. This looks like a European Pittsburgh," I said. "Except without the history of steel. Or the distinction of having the most bridges in the world, or the three rivers. Or the Heinz Ketchup. Or the chipped ham. Don't you think it's crazy that people don't know what chipped ham is in this world? Like, there are entire continents where maybe a handful of people know what chipped ham is. Not to mention the people who know what chipped ham is and decide to go to Whole Foods to get their unprocessed—why are we not walking anymore?" I asked. I rubbed my arms with my hands. "It's raining and I'm cold and this is a bridge. I don't see any pizza anywhere."
"Be patient," he said. "Look around."
And so I spun, looking at it all—the Eiffel Tower, and all the other cool places with less memorable names. Being Paris, it was indescribably gorgeous.
Then I looked at Irby, and saw that as I had been staring at the city, his eyes had been on me. "Do you know where we are?" he asked.
"Paris."
"You're such a smartass," he said. "This is your favorite bridge." He gestured all around it.
"Uh," I said, "my favorite bridge is the Hot Metal Bridge, because it has a hilarious name. I have never even been on this bridge in my life."
"Uh huh," he said. "Well, this is the bridge from the end of Midnight in Paris. It's called the Pont Alexandre III, and it is your favorite."
"We get it," I said. "You took French for half a year in middle school."
He smiled at that, as I looked up at the rainclouds. "Hey, Rachel," he said.
As he said it a raindrop hit me square on the nose. "What?" I asked. "Ugh, this rain—" and I looked back down at him.
While I had been busy looking up, he had bent down on one knee, holding the ring out.
My hands immediately flew to my mouth. "Rachel, I love you," he said. "More than anything else."
I didn't say anything.
"Marry me." He grinned, ecstatic. "Not 'merry me.' Spend the rest of your life with me." He took a breath, and his lips upturned again as he took in my shock, in my wide and bright eyes. "M," he spelled, "A, R—"
I cut him off with my lips. "Yes." He put the ring on my finger, and it was so beautiful, and he was so beautiful—shining in the light from my most favorite bridge.
And it all made me very, very, very, very, very happy.
So I think that's pretty much it, right? That's every detail. That is how I got here.
Oh. You're wondering what any of this has to do with how my sister got me to stop watching TV.
When I told Caitlin—and she reacted, or, I should say, overreacted—she became cheeky. "You know," she said, "if he hadn't played at my wedding, none of this would have happened."
"We probably wouldn't have broken up if not for you, though," I countered.
"But," she said, "you wouldn't have even met if not for me."
I stopped short at that. "Yes, that's right!" she said. "Carl, tell me I'm right."
I heard his voice from over the phone. "You're right," he said. "What for this time?"
"If I hadn't asked you to go to Whole Foods," and her tone became sing-song, "you two would not have met. So you're welcome."
Which I thought would be the end of it, considering, you know, that she lived in Philadelphia.
But I swear, it was every freaking time I called her, especially when I started delving into her old binders. "By the way," she said, "you better remember to thank me."
"Thank you?" I said, incredulous. "Here, sure—thank you for giving me 20 orange flower arrangements. It will save Irby and me some money."
"I don't think you're being fair," she insisted. "You know, I could get you in contact with someone who could make a banner?—"
"No, no, no," I said. "You're not involved."
"Funny, though," she said breezily. "I ended up being kiiiind of important.
"This is my love story, honey. You already had yours. With a Yankee fan."
"I don't know, Rachel. Just don't forget about the people that got you there, that's all I'm trying to say."
"I was so mistaken," I muttered. "I once thought you were insufferable because you were in a relationship with Carl. I didn't expect for you to be worse whenever I got hitched."
"Just a little thank you," she said. "Like, maybe you could make your vows about sisterly love? It could fit into the theme of the ceremony—"
And I hung up.
So, here I am, admitting my mistake.
I had always thought that my love story began with Carl and ended—or, I guess, continued, all the way to year 75—with Irby.
But silly, silly Rachel.
Because this story, as I said, is not a love story. It is something much, much, much greater than that.
I know that you all came here today to celebrate the joyous union of Irby and I. But can we please give Caitlin a hand?!
This was the first draft of my wedding vows. It took me every free hour I had.
So, yeah, I didn't watch TV. Can you blame me? I had a point to prove. And meanwhile, frenching Caitlin was watching The Bachelorette without me, and would call me and say things like, "You were so much more fun when you weren't planning a wedding. Oh, and did you remember to thank me?"
So hi, Caitlin. I think this could use some of your brilliant editing expertise, but I think I really dug into the heart and soul of the whole occasion, right?
THE END
FINISHED FRIDAY, AUGUST 22 AT 12:34 A.M.