Page 88 - In Five Years

still work to be done.
They’re singing along to Lionel Richie. “Endless Love.”
And I, I want to share all my love, with you. No one else will do.
“This reminds me,” I yell forward. “We need a list of do-not-plays for the

wedding.”
Morgan turns the music down. “How is planning going?”

David shrugs. “Cautiously optimistic.”
“He’s lying,” I say. “We’re totally behind.”
“How did you guys do it?” David asks.
Morgan and Ariel were married three years ago in an epic weekend in the

Catskills. They rented out this themed inn called The Roxbury, and the whole
wedding took place in various structures on a neighboring farm. They brought in

everything: tables, chairs, chandeliers. They arranged artful bales of hay to
separate the lounge area from the dance floor. There was a cheese-and-whisky
bar, and every table had the most gorgeous arrangement of wildflowers you’d

ever seen. Photos from their wedding were on The Cut and Vogue online.
“It was easy,” Morgan says.
“We’re not on their level, babe,” I say. “Our entire apartment is white.”

Morgan laughs. “Please. You know it’s what I love to do. We had fun with it.”
She fiddles with the dial on the radio. “So Greg is coming?”
“I think so. Is he?”

David looks back at me.
“Yep.”
“He seems great, right?” Morgan asks.

“Really nice,” David says. “We’ve only met him, what? Once? It’s been a
crazy summer. I can’t believe it’s over.” He glances at me in the rearview.
“Almost over,” Morgan says.

I make a noncommittal noise in the backseat.
“He seems stable though, like he has a real job and isn’t constantly trying to
get her to leave the country on her parents’ credit card,” David continues.

“Not like us zany freeloader artists,” Morgan teases.
“Hey,” David says. “You’re more successful than any of us.”
It’s true. Morgan sells out every show she puts on. Her photos go for fifty

thousand dollars. She gets more for a twenty-four-hour editorial job than I make