Chapter 1

The wedding was in a large hotel in Midtown East, on a cool afternoon in June that felt more like March. Birds trilled throughout the ceremony as though they’d been hired. Wedges of light fell into the hall at dramatic, elegant angles. The officiant—Jordan’s colleague, Noguchi—didn’t bring up the fact that Rosie and Jordan had met on Instagram, or that Rosie had been slightly drunk when she had first messaged Jordan, or that they had been together only nine months before getting engaged.

Rosie had envisioned a small wedding, outside, a mountain or lake in the backdrop. For the reception, she’d pictured a repurposed barn with live-edge tables, burlap runners, string lights, chalkboard menus, and mason jars. Maybe a jazz trio. But Jordan’s parents were paying, and his mother was not interested in burlap, reclaimed wood, or jazz.

She wore a dress she’d seen advertised on Instagram. The ad hadn’t been for the wedding dress—it had been for invisible braces—but the invisible braces company’s chatbot had given Rosie an answer when she’d asked: the dress was available from a budget bridal start-up. It turned out to be so cheap that she doubted whether she actually wanted it.

Jordan wore a gray suit that matched his eyes. When it came time to read their vows, he pulled a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. Sweat sparkled along his hairline, and his voice shook as he read. He did not make fun of Rosie for her habits, like her tendency to waver for a long time before making a decision, only to abruptly change her mind at the last minute. Instead, he described how, when they first started dating, Rosie would stand on his feet while he waited for an Uber back to his apartment, because she didn’t want him to leave. “I promise not to go anywhere,” he said. “You will never have to step on my feet again.” The audience laughed at this, but Rosie knew he was being sincere. “You are the bravest person I know,” he continued. “You asked me to teach you how to drive, and one week later, you were in the front seat of my Tesla, merging onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified, but I was—and am—in awe of your determination.” Rosie smiled sheepishly at the audience, which mostly comprised Jordan’s family and colleagues. “I can’t believe I get to wake up every day next to my best friend,” he said. A tear ran quickly down his cheek, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “It is impossible to know how to end these vows, and so I vow not to.”

Rosie was relieved to see her mother seated off to the side, empty seats surrounding her, her misery contained. She was surprised her mother had shown up at all. Her mother claimed that social events gave her headaches. She had met Jordan only once, for brunch, a few weeks before the wedding, despite living in the same city. Rosie had spent hours picking the restaurant, changing the reservation several times, trying to imagine her mother at each one. Her mother did not like to eat at restaurants and had something against brunch. When they sat down, she said the sun was in her eyes, and when they moved inside, she huddled under a sweater. While Jordan made small talk with her about his seasonal allergies, her plate of eggs sat untouched. Rosie could not focus on anything except her mother’s predetermined displeasure and was so relieved when it was over that she took a two-hour coma-like nap afterward. Rosie’s father had left Rosie’s mother soon after Rosie was born, and her mother had entertained a series of short-lived relationships with men who had no desire to approximate a father for Rosie.

“Jordan,” she said, turning to face him. She looked at the notecard in her hands. Her scalp was hot under the lights. “You didn’t get mad at me when I blew a stop sign the first time I drove your car. You happily let me get you addicted to my favorite reality TV show, which will go unnamed. Once, when my sandals gave me blisters, you offered me your socks and sneakers to wear, even though that meant you were briefly barefoot in Times Square, a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy. I’m sorry, and thank you. I love you so much.”

The fish wasn’t dry, the endive salad wasn’t bitter, and the DJ didn’t play any songs that required choreographed group dancing. Along with the cake, there were platters of Oreos—Jordan and Rosie’s favorite—which were custom-engraved with their names.

Rosie found herself gripping her glass tightly as Jordan’s mother navigated to the microphone, ushered by enthusiastic applause, a champagne flute in one hand. She wore a tailored lavender pantsuit. Jordan, along with his father, his two half brothers, and his half brothers’ wives, all called Jordan’s mother “Bridey.” Rosie was expected to do the same. According to Jordan, his father had first referred to her as Bridey around the time of their own wedding, and the nickname stuck. Rosie doubted it would ever feel normal to call Jordan’s mother Bridey, but she would continue to try. Every family had weird habits. Jordan probably thought it was weird that Rosie hardly ever spoke to her own mother.

His mother paused at the microphone and gazed at the audience. “Please set down your forks,” she said finally, and Rosie watched as her mother rolled her eyes, picked up her fork, and stabbed her salad.

“My baby,” Jordan’s mother said. She looked at Jordan and smiled. She began clapping lightly near her own ear, indicating that everyone should join in. Rosie clapped uncertainly. Jordan’s cheeks reddened. The applause settled.

“For those of you who don’t know me—I can’t imagine there are many of you—I’m Bridey Prawn.” Her voice had the beginnings of an accent that suggested she was English even though she was not. “Thirty-four years ago, my husband, Cliff, and I welcomed our son, Jordan Carlisle Prawn, into our family.”

Rosie glanced at her mother, who looked like she was watching salt get poured on a slug. Across the room, Jordan’s father wore a double-breasted suit. This was the first time she had seen him in anything besides expensive outerwear. He spent his time taking long, guided excursions around the world with a small group of wealthy men, including Jordan’s half brothers. They partook in niche sports that all seemed to involve having their feet off the ground. He had recently invited Jordan on a hang gliding excursion in Vietnam, which Jordan politely declined, saying that he couldn’t take off three weeks from work. “My personal nightmare,” he’d later confessed to Rosie. Unlike his father and half brothers, Jordan enjoyed indoor exercise. His office in their shared apartment housed his dumbbells, weight bench, and rowing machine.

“Now,” Bridey continued, “this year, Forbes named me number one in their 50 Over 50 list. And when that happened, Cliff turned to me and said, ‘Bridey, could you possibly accomplish any more?’ And I thought to myself, I have so much already. I have two thriving, healthy stepsons; I have my own perfect son; I have a daughter-in-law on the way; I have a hugely successful business; what more could I ask for?” She paused. “And then I thought: Wellllllllll... Jordan could move back home, preferably next door, and start working for my company.” This elicited a wave of laughter. Jordan smiled and cleared his throat into his closed fist as the collective attention turned to him.

Bridey beamed. “But then Cliff said, ‘But, Bridey, he’s happy where he is.’?” She repeated this last sentence slowly for dramatic effect, as though Jordan’s happiness were a factor she had never before considered. “He’s happy where he is.”

Jordan was adamant about a mother-son dance, and Rosie watched as he led his mother smoothly around the mahogany dance floor. At the end of the dance, their attempt to kiss each other on the cheek ended in a devastating, accidental kiss on the lips, much to the glee of Jordan’s half brothers.

As the dance floor got rowdier, Rosie made her way to the bar, where she found her co-worker Alice and Alice’s boyfriend, Damien. “Am I allowed to go home yet?” she said to them.

“Your vows made us cry,” Alice said. “I’m sorry I ever said it was a red flag that Jordan drives a Tesla.” Alice was three years younger than Rosie. They worked as canvassers for a progressive organization called Rainbow Futures, which required them to stand hawklike at the corners of Union Square, preying on defenseless commuters, tourists, and farmers market shoppers, dispensing alarming factoids about the shrinking rights of LGBTQ people nationwide. They had the same position, but Alice worked part-time, fitting her Rainbow Futures hours first around a fine arts MFA program, then around her residency at a ceramics studio.

Jordan joined them by the bar, his cheeks red from exertion on the dance floor. In-laws and other relatives lined up to offer their suggestions that Rosie and Jordan would make beautiful children. Rosie could tell that Jordan privately enjoyed this genre of compliment. He’d always known he wanted to have kids. She had vaguely assumed she’d have kids someday, but “someday” was the operative word. In her early twenties, upon returning home to her small apartment after a long day canvassing, when she felt most acutely anxious about her future, Rosie would remind herself that she didn’t need to think about kids until her late twenties, at which point she’d have a partner and a home. Now she was thirty and standing beside her thirty-four-year-old husband on their wedding day. But she still wasn’t sure, even as the details of her future were being clarified by everyone around her.

In the Uber home, she rested her head against Jordan’s shoulder. The car smelled like artificial fruit and cigarettes. She was relieved the wedding was over, because the preparation had been exhausting; in some ways, it had been more exhausting than her job, which required her to stand for hours wearing a vest and holding a clipboard, her message competing against car horns, rain, and men demanding to know if she was a lesbian. Her eyelids were heavy, and she closed them, craving sleep.

Back at their apartment, Jordan loosened his tie in front of the entryway mirror. Rosie slid off her flats and shook out her hair with her fingers. Jordan filled a tall glass at the kitchen sink and handed it to her. Her feet were sore, and the cool tiles felt good against her heels. Her wedding band was pleasantly heavy and clinked against the glass.

Jordan looked at her for a moment—long enough that Rosie thought he had something difficult he needed to say. She imagined him saying that it had been a mistake and that he was leaving her. But instead he kissed her, holding the back of her head in his hand. It felt like the real threshold into marriage, more authentic than the kiss they’d had at the altar. “I’m glad it’s just us,” he said.

“Me too.”

“I thought Noguchi did a great job officiating. I really felt like he understood us as a couple. Didn’t you?”

Everyone at Jordan’s company went by their last names, as though they were on a soccer team. Rosie hadn’t taken Jordan’s last name for feminist reasons, but she was also glad for the excuse. She felt lightly humiliated anytime Jordan had to tell someone his last name. Inevitably the person would hear “Braun,” prompting a correction. “Prawn, like the shrimp,” Jordan would say, apparently unbothered by the association. He was an attorney for a successful start-up called Family Friend, which made a conversational voice assistant. He worked on Family Friend’s Trust and Safety team, which made sure the company wasn’t doing anything illegal with their customers’ user data. The devices could learn and mimic household banter, answer questions, and order necessities. Rosie and Jordan had come to rely on their own family friend, using it to play music, read the headlines, report the weather, and order toilet paper.

She set her glass on the counter and turned to face him, clasping her hands behind his neck. “Everything was perfect. And you were so handsome.” She cupped his jaw and rubbed his stubble with her thumb. Early on, Jordan had visited Rosie at Union Square, where she was working a shift with Alice. After meeting him, Alice said Jordan looked like “a hot puppy.” Rosie had giddily demanded Alice elaborate. “I can’t explain it,” she said. “He just has a naturally sad, cute face. I just want to feed him meatballs.” Rosie knew what Alice meant. Aside from his long eyelashes, his best feature was his hair, which was luscious and dark and looked good with any haircut. He had the broad, muscular appeal of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, even though he didn’t. He’d once been approached by a Manhattan-based company that sold camping gear, hunting knives, and felling axes, which was how Rosie had first encountered him: in an Instagram ad. In each photo, he held the company’s signature ax, called The Hugh. The stylist had dressed him in waxed canvas pants and a thick white T-shirt smudged with dirt and positioned him next to a tidy heap of wood. Even though the photos were staged, Rosie found them deeply erotic. Alice had helped her track down Jordan’s personal account on Instagram. Rosie drafted and edited a message to him, having never done anything like that before, then let the message sit in her Notes app until one night, after work, at a bar with Alice, she finished a second glass of wine.

I have never sent a message like this before and I hope you don’t find this completely weird, she wrote, but I saw you in an ad and think you are very handsome. Let me know if you ever would want to get together. She held one hand over her eyes and made Alice hit Send.

Jordan pulled her close now. “You think I’m handsome?” he said.

“Yes.” Rosie tugged on his loosened tie and kissed him. “You’re perfect. I wish I could shrink you and carry you around in my pocket.”

“I would be so happy to live inside your pocket. I’d build myself a little fort in there.”

“You wouldn’t be lonely?”

“No, I’d have you. I’d climb up onto your shoulder and whisper things in your ear.”

Rosie laughed. “What kind of things?”

“Extremely romantic things, obviously,” Jordan said. He lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He set her on the edge of the bed.

“What is it?” she said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was just thinking, I’d like to shrink some stuff from the outside world to bring in, like tiny snacks or a miniature guitar.”

“But you don’t play the guitar.”

“I’ve always wanted to learn. And I’d probably have a lot of time on my hands living inside your pocket. Which I would totally do, if it meant I could be with you forever. I love you so much.”

“I love you,” Rosie said. She kissed him and was relieved when he didn’t escalate the kiss.

“I’m so tired,” he said. “Is that OK? How would you feel if we just went to bed?”

“Thank god.” Rosie rested her face against his chest. “You read my mind.”

“That’s because I’m your husband.” He wrapped his arms around her. “But tomorrow morning...”

The familiar chime of the family friend cut him off. Hey, fam, it said, couldn’t help but overhear. Do you need me to pick up aBaby Toy Guitar Beginner Musical Instrument Easy to Grip 17 Inches with Adjustable Strings Mini Guitar Quick Tune for Skill Improving Early-Education Preschool Children Toddler?

“Absolutely,” Jordan said, turning off the light. “That is exactly what we need.”

“The smallest one possible,” Rosie added.

You got it, said the family friend.