Almost Us

There are exactly thirty-seven things on my to-do list for the week, and seventeen of them involve balloons. Latex, foil, pastel, polka-dotted, confetti-filled—you name it, my sister wants it. Apparently, no baby shower is complete without a balloon arch that requires a YouTube tutorial and an inhaler.

“Lilah, can you make sure the stroller-shaped cake doesn’t have blue frosting?” my sister Ellie calls from the other room. “I’m not trying to stain everyone’s mouths like they drank toilet cleaner.”

“Noted,” I shout back, pencil in hand. I underline NO BLUE on the notepad, then draw a skull next to it for good measure.

I’m twenty-eight years old. I have a career I worked my ass off for, a fiancé who doesn’t leave hair in the sink, and a color-coded planner that could run the Pentagon. And yet here I am, standing in my childhood kitchen with my feet sticking to the floor because my cousins five-year-old thought maple syrup was a suitable hand moisturizer.

It’s the first morning of my two-month stay back in Cypress Hill—a town where the biggest drama last year was someone stealing the Jesus statue from the church nativity scene and leaving a zucchini in its place. I haven’t been home in almost a year, but the moment I walked through the door yesterday, the house wrapped around me like an overenthusiastic hug. A little too warm, a little too loud, and smelling faintly of cinnamon and stress.

Ellie waddles into the kitchen now, eight months pregnant and already bossier than a cruise ship director. Her blonde hair is in a messy bun, and her sweatshirt says Eating for Two, Arguing for Three.

“I swear, if Mom adds any more baby animal decorations, it’s going to look like a zoo in there.”

“Some people like pandas and elephants, El.”

“Not stuffed pandas holding rattles. It’s a baby shower, not a Build-A-Bear rave.”

I smirk and pour us both lemonade, passing hers across the counter. “You know you’re nesting, right? This is classic pre-baby mania.”

“You’re projecting,” she says without hesitation. “You’re the one organizing wedding stuff like it’s a military operation.”

“Someone has to,” I mutter, opening my planner and flipping to the ‘Wedding’ tab, which has three sub-tabs labeled VENUE, VOWS, and MISC NIGHTMARES. “Miles wants to outsource everything to his assistant.”

Ellie snorts. “What, like his assistant’s going to pick out your flowers?”

“She tried.” I point to the text I received yesterday from Amanda the Assistant: Roses are classic and low maintenance! Want me to get quotes? 💐 I nearly threw my phone into a pothole.

Ellie leans back in her chair and props her feet on the stool next to her. “Do you actually want roses?”

“I don’t even know anymore. I just want this wedding to be… right.” I hear the hesitation in my voice. Ellie hears it too, but she lets it go. She’s good like that.

For now.

After breakfast, I make the rounds—checking my emails, confirming the cake order, texting Miles a photo of my smiling parents like proof that yes, I’m surviving my return to the land of casseroles and unsolicited advice.

He replies with a thumbs up and a picture of his suit laid out for tailoring.

No miss you. No how’s it going?

Just… efficient.

Efficient is the word I’ve always used for our relationship. It sounds nicer than predictable.

Mom appears an hour later, arms full of decorative pillows that I’m 93% sure have no purpose. “Lilah, honey, which of these screams ‘sophisticated baby jungle’ to you?”

“I… honestly don’t think that’s a scream we want to hear.”

“Ha!” she beams, holding up a zebra print and a beige one with tiny palm trees. “I love having you home. You’re the only one who gets my humor.”

“Because it’s genetically forced upon me,” I mutter, but I smile. Mom is a tornado in yoga pants and lipstick that changes shade depending on her mood. Today it’s a coral-pink that means enthusiastic but dangerous.

Dad’s in the backyard assembling a foldable tent for the shower with my brother-in-law, Dave, who keeps pausing to Google how to not accidentally decapitate yourself with the poles. They’re both wearing matching “Grill Dad” aprons and drinking root beer out of beer mugs, because “presentation matters.”

This house is chaos. Cozy, nostalgic and cinnamon-scented chaos.

I escape upstairs to my old bedroom to take a breath, where everything is still vaguely lavender and lined with book spines. My childhood trophies—spelling bees, writing contests, one gloriously awkward tap dance medal—are all still displayed like my younger self was trying to earn a trophy for being the Most Obvious Overachiever.

I flop on the bed, phone buzzing beside me.

It’s a message from Lena, one of my oldest friends.

Lena: “Are you really in town?? 👀 Jay said he saw your car!”

Me: “Guilty. Helping Ellie not go into early labor over party napkins.”

Lena: “We’re having a backyard thing tonight. Come. Theo might be there.”

I stare at the message for a beat too long.

Theo. The Theo.

The name I’ve heard about for years but have somehow, through divine comedy or pure bad luck, never actually met. Our friends have tried to set us up four times. Once I got the flu. Another time, he was out of town. Then I left a dinner party five minutes before he showed up. And last year, we were both at Lena’s wedding—but on opposite ends of the ballroom.

He’s seven years older. Mysterious. According to Jay, he “doesn’t do chaos.” Which, of course, means I’m his worst nightmare.

I chew my lip.

Do I want to go? See what the fuss is about? Just for curiosity?

Or… is it something else?

I start typing back when Ellie waddles in again, holding a box of paper lanterns.

“You thinking about going to Lena’s?”

“I—maybe.”

“Good. You need to get out of the house and flirt with someone who isn’t your fiancé.”

I gape. “Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean,” she says. “You haven’t had that spark in your eyes in months. Miles is… fine. But fine is not the goal.”

“Fine is stable. Stable is good.”

Ellie sits on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Stable is fine for a bank account. Not your heart.”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond. Just tosses a pink lantern into my lap and says, “Pick a dress that doesn’t scream ‘I’m pre-engaged to a spreadsheet.’”

I lie back on the bed, lantern in hand, and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, a bird chirps like it’s auditioning for a Disney reboot. My planner lies open on the desk beside me, filled with tasks and timelines and deadlines.

And for the first time in a long while… I wonder if I’ve been checking all the right boxes—

Or just the easy ones.