Forget Me Not by Julie Soto
2
Ama
MARCH
Deciding what to wear to meet someone who has their own makeup line, three upcoming projects listed on IMDb, and their face in Times Square on the reg is a nightmare.
I was in high school when Hazel Renee booked her first Marie Claire cover. We’re roughly the same age, so she’s had my friends and me whipped for a long time. I’ve been following her Instagram for ten years at this point, so I know exactly what to expect when she walks into the coffee shop in an hour.
Usually in a first interview with the couple, I dress for the client. Through some light social media stalking, I’m able to determine whether my Stella McCartney skirt suit or my bohemian witch vibe is more likely to do the trick. Hazel and Jacqueline are young and trendy. They don’t need Stella. I toss a fitted black shirt and a black blazer over jeans and slide my feet into black heels. I spend an extra-long time on my makeup, because it’s Hazel Renee, and it’s her makeup line I use. It was Hazel who taught me how to contour in her YouTube videos when I was a teenager, and I still do it her way, because with my round face, I get mistaken for a kid all the time.
With a spritz of perfume and a hiss from my cat, I set out into the warm March morning.
I bought a two-bedroom house a few years ago in the sweet part of the City of Trees. What I mean is, I moved into a two-bedroom house. I will officially buy it in approximately eighty-four years. In a place like Sacramento, it’s hard not to get caught up in the roommate thing in the middle of Midtown. There’s a five-block radius that feels a little like New York City—a bar below your apartment, a mini-mart on the corner, and no need for a car. It’s addictive. Mar is still in Midtown, but she comes to me fifteen blocks east when she needs “a vacation.” I decided to break from the millennial stereotype when I stopped renting. Don’t worry—I still spend $6,000 a year on avocado toast. They let me keep my membership card.
And actually, if there’s anything I spend six grand on every year, it’s donuts.
I push open the door to J Street Donuts, and Mr. Kwon waves to me over the head of the woman he’s helping. When I get to the counter, he’s already loading up my half dozen.
“Let me guess,” he says. “New clients.”
“How’d you know?”
“You are dressed to impress.” He seals the top of the box and takes my ten-dollar bill. “The peanut butter one is on the left, wrapped in paper.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kwon.” I waltz out before the woman ahead of me has even pulled out her card at the register.
Mr. Kwon knows to keep the change, just like he knows that although his Peanut Butter Dream donut is his best seller, I’m allergic. He used to give me a few for clients in a separate box, but I finally convinced him after a few years that just separating them is fine.
Donuts are my love language. I bring a box to every potluck, party, cocktail hour—you name it. There is nothing in the world that cannot be solved by the first bite of a perfect donut. I am, of course, excluding serious world problems—but even then, I think that if we could all just sit down and have a donut, things might get better.
Donuts are also a tactic for me to get to know the clients. I can figure out which brides have started dieting for their wedding dresses, which grooms prefer their fiancées don’t eat sweets, and which couples are already stress eating. And while I get to know the clients, I get to have a donut. Or six, if they are, in fact, dieting. My mom went on crazy intense diets for about a third of her weddings, and that told me a lot about where she was emotionally with that person, with his friends, with that point in her life, etc.
I park outside of Weatherstone, a trendy café in a brick building that used to be a horse barn back in the day. I don’t know what day that was, but it was back. The baristas here know me too because I peddle their coffee for receptions. I even did a thirty-guest wedding in the coffeehouse two years ago—which is why the barista with the goatee doesn’t say anything about the donuts I bring in.
I grab the open corner of the rustic dining table smack in the middle of the café and set up facing the door. I order just a drip coffee—they bring it to you in a little personal carafe, so you can feel extra bougie—instead of my usual: espresso shot with a cold brew chaser. My legs are bouncing enough as it is.
I’ve never been this nervous for the initial meet. Except maybe my first. That was over three years ago now. Whitney had sent them my way when they balked at her prices, and while it sounds like a pity fuck, it was at the time in my career when I needed as many pity fucks as I could get. Deciding to leave Whitney Harrison Weddings could have been the most colossal mistake of my life, but thankfully I had Whitney in my corner.
At two minutes past nine, the door swings open, and it takes me a second to truly trust that I’m seeing the person who used to live solely in my phone. I was expecting runway, but I got girl-next-door. Hazel is in jeans and a cardigan, with her dark blond hair tossed up; the only thing making her stand out as a celebrity is the aviators that she keeps on even as she walks indoors. Her fingers are laced with an Asian girl’s who has round cheeks and bright brown eyes—Jacqueline. She catches sight of me waving first and points.
“Hi, Ama?” Jacqueline drops her bag on the table next to me and offers me a handshake.
“You must be Jacqueline.”
“Jackie is fine,” she says. “This is Hazel.”
I shake Hazel’s hand. “Good to meet you.” She’s got a strong grip and a beautiful face, and the whole thing is making me a bit dizzy.
“Jesus, your skin is perfect,” she says, and then I’m practically laid out.
My fingertips reach for my cheeks and I say, “Oh, thank you. It’s actually your line.”
“Amazing! I love that for us.” She flashes me a brilliant smile and turns to Jackie. “Hazelnut latte?”
Jackie nods and takes the seat across from me as Hazel moves to the register. Jackie’s about to say something when her eyes catch on the pink box between us. “If those are donuts, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
I grin at her and open the box. She squeals like I’m the one who dropped to one knee with a diamond, and searches the half dozen for her favorite.
“If peanut butter is your thing, that’s their specialty. It’s this one.” I point to the one wrapped in wax paper.
She doesn’t hesitate to stuff it into her mouth, and I think I’m obsessed with her already.
“Ohmygod,” she mumbles around the pastry.
Hazel arrives back at the table just in time to get the donut shoved toward her face with a “Babeyougottatrythis.”
“Mm!” Her eyes pop wide. “I love that.”
Good. Good, I can officially like them.
I always like to keep the conversation from jumping straight to business. I think it helps ease everyone into talking about this horribly awkward thing—a wedding. Whitney disagreed. She liked to get the ball rolling. But when you’re Whitney Harrison, people stop talking when you start.
“So, Jackie, you grew up here in Sac?”
Jackie nods as she sips her latte, her lips smacking with pleasure. “I went to Rio Americano. Class of ’15.”
“Oh, same year as me!”
“Really? Where’d you go?”
“St. Joseph’s,” I say, a little sheepish.
Some kind of lightbulb switches behind Jackie’s eyes as she says, “Oh. Yeah.”
My mother grew up with a lot of money. She spent that money on two things: my private schooling and her weddings. When I tell people I went to St. Joseph’s, one of the four private Catholic schools in Sacramento, they look at me with new eyes. I hate it. I personally have none of my mother’s money, because she’s still spending it on yearly table arrangements and string quartets, but also because I don’t want to ask for it if I don’t need it. Since working with Whitney practically out of high school, I haven’t needed it. And the fact that I didn’t go to college is actually a blight on St. Joseph’s otherwise untarnished reputation. One of the only good things about coming out of that school was that my friends and acquaintances are all getting married. Some of them can afford to go to Whitney, but a lot of them have used me in the past three years.
“And what do you do?” I ask Jackie.
“I’m a legislative director down at the capitol.”
“Cool! I mean, it sounds cool. I have no idea what it means.” Jackie laughs. I flash her a smile and turn to Hazel. “And I obviously know what you do. But what’s drawing you to Sacramento?”
“Jackie,” she says simply. The two of them glance at each other, color popping on their cheekbones. “She’s always wanted to get married here.”
“It’s a great city,” I agree. “And there are some insane venues here too.” Bringing it back around …
“We actually know the venue.” Jackie beams, turning her body toward me.
“Excellent! Did you lock in a date yet?”
“Not yet,” Hazel says. “Jackie wanted to make sure it cleared your calendar.”
My fingers freeze inside my tote bag as I reach for my catalog binder. “Oh, that’s …” I slip the binder onto the table. “You know, I’m really, really flattered that you wanted to meet with me. Flattered is not the right word, but super excited. Makes my day for sure.” I look between their expectant faces. “I just want to make sure you’re doing the best thing for your wedding. I don’t know any of your details yet—how big, how luxe—but there are a lot of companies that have expertise in planning weddings of all sizes. Whitney Harrison Weddings is an amazing company, and I used to work there myself—”
“I’ve heard some not-so-good things about Whitney Harrison, actually,” Jackie says, wincing.
“Oh, okay.” I try for a warm smile, but I’m racking my brain to think of who could have reviewed Whitney poorly and lived to tell the tale.
“And on the flip side,” Hazel jumps in, “you come highly recommended.”
My mouth opens to accept the compliment, but I’ve never been good at that, so it just comes out as “Yeah, great!” I clear my throat. “Let’s absolutely talk through what I can offer, and we’ll make sure it’s exactly what you need for your day.”
They both nod, like little bobbleheads. I flip my binder around to face them and open to the first page. My hands are shaking a little. I had only a smidgen of hope that this was going to work out. I didn’t even know if I could pull this off if they did like me, but I knew I wanted to try. This binder is essentially my pitch for myself, so I dive in.
“In this highly competitive wedding area, what I specialize in is you. Your vision. Your wedding. My company offers six levels of packages to fit your budget”—I almost make a quip about how money probably isn’t an object, but I walk myself back from that stupid idea—“and your style.” I turn the page to my pièce de résistance, my lookbook—ten back-to-back pages of the weddings I’m most proud of. “What I offer that other smaller agencies cannot is experienced design, suited to your exact personality and dreams. Other boutique agencies hire a designer at an additional fee, or charge more for design. I don’t. I’m an all-in-one.”
“You should, though. Charge more.”
My lips are parted, ready to talk about rates, but Hazel’s murmur stops me. She looks up from my design pages.
“Sorry for interrupting. I just … You should consider charging for it. This is …” She points at my favorite wedding I’ve ever done, the Willow Ballroom, an explosion of spring inside a repurposed warehouse. “This is outstanding. Better than my entire Pinterest board combined. You clearly have the talent to charge.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I stammer a thanks. “You’re right. I could add a fee. But it’s something that I love to do. And it sets me apart from the competitors.”
Hazels hums. She sips her flat white. “I used to do my own makeup for print ads. My YouTube channel back then was just makeup tutorials, so I’d come to set with my makeup done, and the photographer would just allow it. It didn’t occur to me until later that the makeup artist they hired was still getting paid. And in certain circumstances, still getting credited.” She scratches a spot behind her ear. “Obviously you know what you’re doing. I’m not trying to tell you how to run your business. But as one person who makes a living in the visual world to another? Beauty always has a price tag. You can ask for what you’re worth.”
My chest constricts, and my skin buzzes. I’m almost embarrassed, but also preening from the compliment.
“Sorry.” Hazel laughs. “It means I care, I promise.”
“She does this,” Jackie says, rolling her eyes playfully. “She gets all entrepreneurial on you.”
“No, I love it,” I say. “I’m just stunned, that’s all. It’s something worth thinking about.” I try to find my footing in my pitch—which just went sideways when Hazel Renee told me I was worth more than I ask for.
She seems to see me flounder for a moment and says, “Tell us about your packages?”
“Sure!” I flip the page. “I don’t think in number of guests. Yes, that comes into play down the line for a bunch of different price tags, but when I talk about services, I’m thinking of what you need from me. What kind of commitment you are looking for.”
“Full,” Jackie interrupts. “Skip the baby steps. I want design, I want vendor selection, I want you walking me down the aisle.”
I snort.
Hazel says, “I’m going to be pretty busy this year. It hasn’t been announced yet, but I’ve been cast in the next Greta Gerwig project. It films next month.”
My eyes go wide. “Amazing! She’s from here, you know.”
Jackie nods. “I’m really happy for Hay”—she squeezes Hazel’s arm—“but I know that means I’m going to be doing a lot of this alone—”
“Not alone,” Hazel argues, and I love the concern that creases her brow. “You know I’m available for this.”
“No, I know. But we both decided we didn’t want to push it a year. And that means I need to take point on the early decisions.” Jackie addresses me, “Which is why I need you. Do you offer twenty-four-hour anxiety texting?”
She jokes. And I laugh. But it’s something I used to offer. And it’s a habit that needed to be broken.
It occurs to me as we all sip our coffees that this is going to be hard. I like them. A lot. My heart is fluttering like we’re on an excellent first date, and I can see how this will all play out so clearly in my mind.
“I think we can work with that,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me what details are settled, where your priorities are.” I slip my iPad out of my bag and tap open my notes. I scribble Hazel & Jackie and it appears typed in the center of the screen.
“The McKinley Park Rose Garden. It’s been my dream since I was little.” Jackie blushes, and Hazel wraps her arm around her waist.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, writing it down and attaching the words to Hazel & Jackie with a little bubble. “I’ve done several weddings there, so I know the location well. I actually live walking distance. They do fill up, though.”
“Right,” Hazel says, “I’ve called already, and they’re holding a couple of dates for us. We were going to wait to hear your schedule.”
I blink at her. It sounds like I’m a top priority for them, which boggles my mind. My cheeks are warm when I open my calendar app and ask, “What are the options?”
“October seventh is our first choice, but we also have April sixth.”
“October of this year?” I squawk, my eyes bugging at my calendar.
That’s seven months away. April of next year is clearly the better date. But before I can convince them of that, Hazel leans her elbows on the table with a dreamy smile and says, “I’ve always wanted a fall wedding.”
And maybe it’s because she’s Hazel Renee, or because I’m already visualizing the feature article, or because Jackie gets as excited about donuts as I do (which is all I really need to know about a person), but I don’t immediately tell them it won’t work.
I can do a wedding in seven months. I’ve done plenty of weddings in less than a year and still made them incredible. And October 7 is open on my calendar.
I’ve been quiet for too long, staring down at my planner and flipping through the big weddings I already have on the books for this year. Aside from two weddings in September, they would have my full, undivided attention after my hectic wedding season.
Looking up at them, I find Jackie chewing on her lip and Hazel trying to read my calendar upside down with a tense expression.
“So … I can do it, but it would be very tight.”
Jackie squeals, and Hazel kisses her.
“We like it tight!” Jackie gasps. “And that’s not a sex thing! That’s just something that came out of my mouth!”
Hazel bursts out laughing, and Jackie tries to apologize while catching her breath.
I’m laughing with them, watching Jackie flush scarlet and Hazel giggle into Jackie’s shoulder. They’re infectious. Seductive. I can see these next seven months. I can see the wedding. I see myself tagged in every photo. I see Hazel’s wedding covered in People. Maybe Entertainment Weekly. I see reporters calling to highlight me. I see The Sacramento Bee running coverage in the wedding section. And just before their laughter subsides and their attention flickers back to me, I see Whitney calling to congratulate me. It feels like I’ve been swept up in a current, a wave rising higher and higher.
“I’ll write you in on October seventh,” I say. “I can call the Rose Garden today and secure everything. There are a few things to know about the Rose Garden. They don’t have a reception area that I would recommend. Do you know what you want for the reception?”
“Not yet,” they both say at the same time.
“We’ll cross that bridge later, then, but I don’t see this reception in the park.” My language has shifted. I’m taking charge of this wedding, talking fast and letting adrenaline guide me. “If you like the general vibe of this Willow Ballroom wedding,” I say, pointing to the page still open in my lookbook, “then I’ll start brainstorming in that direction.”
They nod in unison.
“Second, since it’s a historic rose garden, there are only a handful of florists they allow to work in the garden.”
“Yeah! Ours is covered. He works there all the time,” Jackie says.
My next words catch in my throat, and all language leaves me for a moment. The current I was riding only seconds ago breaks. A wave drags me under.
Out of the five florists in Sacramento cleared by the Rose Garden, only one shop is run by a man.
My chest contracts, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I force a smile and say, “You already have your florist?”
“Yes! Sorry. Florist and venue are the only things that are really important to—”
“Have you signed anything, or can we shop around a bit?” My words are sharp and pitched high.
Jackie blinks. Hazel’s coffee pauses on the way to her lips.
I recover. “To find the best, I mean.”
“I think we already have the best.” Jackie laughs. “It’s Blooming. Elliot—”
“Wonderful!” I smile so wide I feel my teeth will fall out of my mouth. “And he’s locked in? You’ve discussed the October date with him?” Immediately, my pulse skyrockets. They can’t have met with him yet. And if they did, he should have steered them to a different wedding planner or declined—just like I’ve been doing for two years.
“No, not yet. But he’s a family friend,” Jackie says. “I work with his mother at the capitol.”
The literal sensation of a bubble bursting slams into my brain.
“Oh, lovely.” And before Jackie says it I already know—
“Laura is why you come so highly recommended. You did her second marriage two years ago.”
Champagne bubbles float through my mind. A slow dance and a warm hand on my lower back. And as quickly as it comes, it’s gone. And the inside of my chest is cold and damp again.
“Of course.” It feels rougher than my normal voice. “Senator Gilbert is a wonderful woman. And was a model client, if I may say.” My skin is tight on my bones as fear swells. “You were at the senator’s wedding?” My fingers clutch the coffee cup.
“I couldn’t make it,” Jackie says. “I was actually out of town in Chicago—where I met Hazel for the first time!”
“Oh my god, yes. Please tell me everything about you two,” I say, happy to know she wasn’t there and thankful beyond words for a change in subject. “We’ll talk vendors later.”
My ears are ringing, and I’ve lost feeling in my feet. I close my iPad and try to listen. Hazel and Jackie talk over each other, laughing about which of them had feelings first, and I should be taking notes. I should be holding every scrap of their personalities in my mind like marbles in a bag. I should be writing October 7, 2023 on my iPad and attaching it to the bubble of their names.
But instead I listen like an old acquaintance, letting images of rustic barns and ivory tablecloths trickle out of my head like sand through a sieve. Entertainment Weekly and People flutter away on the wind.
Because I’m not doing this wedding.