Lovesick Read Free

Scottish Breakfast, or Irish Breakfast?” she ticks off mechanically.
    Sid’s completely stumped.
    “We also have a variety of green teas and some herbal blends. Or maybe you’d like Darjeeling?”
    “No, darling, just tea,” Sid says. “You have that, right?”
    Sid is regretting our decision to come here.
    “He’ll have English Breakfast,” I tell her, pushing Sid toward a table.
    We sit and quietly enjoy our beverages. The age difference has never bothered me before, but sitting here, silently, with more than fifty years between us, I do feel a bit like a volunteer in an elderly assistance program. I shouldn’t say “elderly.” The elderly hate the term
elderly
almost as much as they hate
geriatric. Senior citizen
is no longer politically correct, either.
Retiree
is about as polite as it gets.
    “Were you able to locate that old vacuum cleaner so we can proceed with Operation Jet Stream?” I ask him.
    “Uh-huh. It works like a charm. But I know you didn’t drag me to this frou-frou place to talk windshield wipers. What’s with all the drama?”
    I give him a long, affectionate stare. Sid is a good friend. He’s smart; he’s helpful; he has a lifetime of experiences and all the time in the world to share them. I trust him. Sid was the one who convinced me not to move in with Paige. (As if that would have even been an option with Gregory.) “Living together is a cop-out,” he’s prone to telling me. “When you live together, you’re committed to working things out
until
they get tough. When you’re married, you’re committed to working things out
when
they get tough.”
    “I’m getting hitched,” I say, trying to downplay the news.
    “Congrats! Who’s the lucky girl?”
    He knows exactly who she is. Sid couldn’t be any more immersed in our lives. He watched Paige and me fall in love. Gregory is his best friend; he is mine. Sid and Cookie are Paige’s god parents. “Brewster men make boys,” Sid is always saying. Paige is the closest thing Sidney and Cookie Brewster have ever had to a daughter, and they spoil her rotten.
    “I’m thinking I’ll pop the question in the next couple of weeks. I’ll need your help with the final arrangements,” I tell him.
    Sid’s eyebrows poke out over his massive sunglasses. Only now does he realize that I’m serious.
    “Final arrangements? This ain’t a funeral, kid. It’s great news, but what’s the rush? It’s only been a few months. You sure you’re ready for marriage?”
    Sid has asked me this question before, and this is the first time that I’ve had a suitable enough explanation.
    “Because I’ve got proof,” I say, slapping my pie chart on the table.
    Sid’s expression swiftly goes from playful to disturbed. Sid lifts his shades and holds the chart up to his nose to get a better look.
    “This is horseshit!” he says, laughing and tossing the chart on the table.
    “Hold your horseshit,” I tell him. “I made this chart for
you.
Right about now I bet you’re wondering why I didn’t just do a simple list of pros and cons like a normal person—”
    “There’s nothing normal about this, Andy.”
    “Indulge me for a moment.”
    “I don’t like the looks of this chart. I don’t even understand it.”
    “Each slice signifies a different factor influencing my decision to propose, by percentage. Take this slice labeled ‘Timing.’ It occupies about 10 percent because it’s more important to the engagement formula than, say, ‘Necessity’ which occupies 5 per cent of the pie,” I explain.
    “Do you have any idea what it costs to throw a wedding?” Sid asks.
    “I thought the father-in-law pays.”
    Sid flashes me a disapproving look.
    “Kidding.
Geez, where’s your sense of humor?”
    “Be funny. Then I’ll laugh.”
    “Look, I’ve been saving. We’ll be fine. Unless you think we should elope.”
    Sid reacts to the word
elope
like he’s just heard nails across a chalkboard.
    “Don’t you still have student loans