My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

by Wendy Wax

  “I’m going to head out, too.” Clay doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “Are you all right with, um, celebrating later?”

  “Sure. No problem.” I smile and try to mean it then watch him turn and leave.

  I eye the cupcake but can’t quite bring myself to eat it. In the first few years we were married, birthday cake was a prelude to spending the morning in bed. And even then I would sometimes wonder if he wished I were Lauren. Because they’d gone steady for so long. It was only after I stayed home instead of going to New York with her that our friendship turned into something more. By the time we got married I’d convinced myself that we were better suited than he and Lauren ever would have been; that we wanted the same things. In my experience you can talk yourself into almost anything, and even believe it for a time.

  Now we rarely do anything in bed together but sleep. When we do I worry that he wishes I were someone else. While I wish he were more like Heath, the hero in my novel. Loving and physically affectionate. And completely faithful.

  Still, he’s given me Rafe and Lily, my two greatest accomplishments. Both of us love them more than anything. But it’s gotten harder for me to pretend Clay doesn’t have “fidelity issues.” Manteo is way too small for secrets.

  The phone rings and I know it will be Kendra calling to wish me a happy birthday. Just like I know she’ll serve all of my favorite foods for dinner tonight and that she’ll lead the singing when she brings out the cake she will have baked from scratch. Even though it will have only one name on it.

  Kendra Jameson is the mother we all wish for, but rarely get. Some people are born that way. Others are born to hunt for fossils and dig up civilizations. I would never have known how to be a mother if I hadn’t learned by watching my grandmother and Kendra, who never let her widowhood or lack of family stop her from always putting her daughter first.

  I love Rafe and Lily. It’s been a joy and a privilege to be their mother. It’s the one thing I’ve excelled at. I would slit my wrists before I let them down. Or disrupted our family. Or took their father away from them.

  Three

  Lauren

  D-day

  New York City

  Being forty sucks even more than I thought it would. And it turns out I am just the woman to embrace its suckiness. I drank too much at The Plaza then passed out fully clothed on my bed only to wake at two A.M. and every hour after that, my sense of apocalyptic dread growing with each bathroom run.

  As I lie in bed hungover, my makeup caked all over my face, my bedding a testament to the tossing and turning I’ve done, it occurs to me that the dip in my career increased the suckiness of today’s milestone. (Yes, suckiness is a word, a noun in fact, and is defined in multiple dictionaries as “the state or condition of being sucky.” Feel free to use it in your next Scrabble game or Words with Friends.)

  The phone rings and I pick it up reluctantly. My mother’s cheerful voice on the other end hurts almost as much as the sunshine slanting through the blinds. “Happy birthday!” she says with what I know is a huge smile. “I feel like it was only yesterday that I held you in my arms for the first time. Just wanted to wish you a great day and tell you how much I love you and how proud of you I am.”

  “Thanks.” Her words don’t exactly make me glad to be forty, but my mother’s love and praise have always helped slay the dragons of doubt and insecurity. When I was little I used to beg for details of the day I was born and of my father who died while she was pregnant with me, and about how she left her aunt Velda’s, who was her only living relative, and brought me to the Outer Banks when I wasn’t even a week old. All she ever really told me was what a wonderful man my father was, how much he would have loved me. Then she’d sniff back tears and get this funny look on her face and I would know that the topic was painful and that I needed to drop it. The picture of her in THE DRESS standing next to him in church on their wedding day is still my most prized possession. Along with the photos of the grandparents I never met. My mother’s cheerful perseverance in the face of adversity was my greatest inspiration. At least after I began to get over the fact that I seemed to be the only child I knew who had only one parent. It wasn’t until I became best friends with Bree that I understood that having one mother who loved you more than anything in the world was better than having two parents who did not.

  “So what are you doing tonight to celebrate?” my mother asks.

  “Spencer’s taking me out to dinner. He refuses to tell me where we’re going, but I have my suspicions.”

  “That’s so sweet,” she says, and I hear a slight tremor in her voice. My mother has dated some over the years, but nothing that ever really lasted. “You have to give a man points for understanding the importance of a dramatic gesture.”

  “Mom, he is in the theater. Dramatic gestures are part of his DNA.” But I smile when I say it. My first of the day.

  “Point taken. But even if he comes by it naturally you still need to enjoy and appreciate it.” There’s a beat of silence as if she’s considering her next words, but she says only, “Bring him down here soon. I’d like to meet him.”

  I try to envision Spencer in a place where the sidewalks roll up at nine or don’t even exist at all. Where you can’t get food delivered at any hour of the day or night. Can’t wander into an all-night deli or restaurant. Can’t get a good bagel. A place where the only live theater is the longest running The Lost Colony on Roanoke Island and there are only two movie theaters within the hundred-plus-mile stretch of barrier islands.

  “You could come up here to meet him, you know. We could see some shows, do a little shopping. I have tons of frequent-flier miles you can use.” I don’t add that I won’t have to see Bree that way. And I definitely don’t ask what Mom’s doing tonight, because I know she’s already cooking for what used to be our joint birthday dinner like she does every year. As if Bree were actually her daughter. And Bree’s children her grandchildren.

  “We’ll see,” my mother hedges. “But it’s been way too long since you’ve been down. I don’t want you to forget your roots. Or shake off all that sand in your shoes.”

  I don’t say no but I don’t say yes, either. This is not the day to argue.

  “Well, enjoy the day and your birthday dinner, sweetheart. We’ll be thinking of you and sending love.” My mother makes the exaggerated kissing sound that ends all of our phone calls. “And when you blow out your candles don’t forget to make a wish.”

  * * *

  Later that day, way before there are candles, I wish I hadn’t wasted so much of my birthday nursing a hangover and trying not to worry about my career. It took a lot of the fun out of the bouquet of flowers and balloons Spencer sent, and made me eat more of the tower of chocolates that came with them than I meant to. I heard from a few friends and saw the thousands of happy birthdays posted by readers on my author Facebook page. Presumably from those who haven’t yet disappeared or defected.

  Despite the beautiful March day going on outside my window I don’t leave the apartment. In fact, I barely leave my bed until it’s time to shower. The makeup artist I use for special appearances and occasions arrives at seven—now that I’m forty I’m going to need a lot more help not looking it. Barry, my longtime hairdresser/stylist/friend arrives at eight to fuss and cluck over me.

  He twists my shoulder-length hair into a messy knot at the base of my neck and pulls out tendrils to arrange around my face, giving me a casual-yet-elegant look that I have never achieved on my own. Then he helps me into a very simple black sheath that turns my lanky body into something far more feminine. Diamond studs, Christian Louboutin heels, and an evening clutch are my only accessories. It’s Barry who taught me that less is more, that designer fashions are designed for bodies like mine, and who finally convinced me that being tall is an advantage not a liability.

  “Not bad,” he says as he brushes a small piece of lint from the three-
quarter sleeve and straightens the dress’s boat neck slightly. From him this is high praise.

  “Turn.” He motions with one finger and rewards me with an approving smile. “You are now fit to be seen and photographed.”

  I face myself in the mirror and am relieved to see he’s right. Like most authors I’m an introvert at heart. I spend long periods of time alone in front of a computer, but I’ve learned how to handle myself in public, speak to book clubs, give keynotes, get interviewed, deliver sound bites. I can switch into bestselling-author mode when I need to but being on isn’t my default setting. I have no desire to be the center of attention.

  Barry escorts me downstairs and leads me to the black car Spencer has sent. “Nice touch. A modern version of the fairy-tale coach. Let’s hope it doesn’t turn into a pumpkin pulled by field mice at midnight,” Barry teases as a liveried driver opens the passenger door.

  “I guess this will just have to do.” I sigh theatrically as Barry wraps me in a hug then watches the driver help me into the backseat. Barry leans in before the door closes and whispers, “I expect to hear details. Not from the bedroom necessarily. Though some of us do like to live vicariously. That man of yours is quite hot.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him you said so,” I tease back. Then I draw the spring evening into my lungs and remind myself how fortunate I am. An entire day of wallowing is more than enough.

  It turns out the ride is a brief one straight through Central Park. It ends less than fifteen minutes later in front of The Surrey hotel, where Spencer is waiting to help me out of the car and sweep me into his arms. “Happy birthday!” He looks delighted to see me and his voice is almost a purr when he presses a kiss to my neck and adds, “Ummm, you smell and look divine.”

  So does he, of course. He’s even taller than I am, with a lean runner’s body, dark hair, and features that are somewhat ordinary on their own but somehow manage to pull together into something quite arresting. I couldn’t tell you exactly what he’s wearing. I only know it’s disconcerting to date someone whose style actually is effortless when you require professionals. But then Spencer grew up here on the Upper East Side while I grew up in a place where the wind off the Atlantic wreaks havoc with hair, shoes are often optional, and evening wear is likely to be a sweatshirt over your bathing suit.

  “I know it’s kind of cheesy, but I thought we’d come back and relive our first date at Café Boulud,” he says as he walks me to the restaurant entrance.

  “It’s perfect,” I say, meaning it. A nice, quiet dinner suits me just fine. Who needs fanfare at forty?

  Spencer’s latest Broadway musical, The Music in Me, has been running for two years now and he and Daniel Boulud are friends, so we’re shown to a discreet yet prime table that we’ve come to think of as “ours.”

  Champagne arrives the moment we’re seated and we raise our glasses and stare into each other’s eyes. His are a beautiful green and are framed by long dark lashes. They’re filled with intelligence that’s almost always accompanied by a glint of humor. His mouth is wide and mobile, his hands long and beautiful. Whenever I look at them I think he should have been a concert pianist or sculptor. Or maybe even a surgeon.

  “Happy birthday.” He smiles over his champagne flute, flashing the dimple that creases one cheek. “May we always have such happy occasions to toast together.”

  I smile my thanks and clink my glass to his. The champagne is light and bubbly on my tongue, and I remind myself to enjoy the evening and not dwell on the reason for it. I’m hardly the first woman to turn forty and I won’t be the last. As they say, one must consider the alternative.

  Moments later warm bread arrives. Menus don’t.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and ordered the same meal we had the first time we came here.”

  “How lovely,” I say, but I can’t help wondering how he could possibly remember what we ate a year ago. We’ve consumed countless meals together since then, many of them memorable. Meals are to Spencer what game plays are to sports fanatics, but still. One meal a year ago?

  “I see the doubt,” he says easily. “But I’ve never forgotten that evening. I knew then just how remarkable you are. Even if we’d never seen each other again I would have remembered every bite and every detail of your face.”

  I’m afraid he’s going to tell me what I wore that night and in fact he does. Which speaks to Barry’s styling abilities. I would go everywhere in stretch pants or sweats, which is what I work in, if I could get away with it. And frankly I don’t pay that much attention to food. Most of the time I couldn’t tell you what I ate on any given day or what color sweatpants I was wearing when I ate it.

  Our appetizers of Escargot en Vol-au-Vent and a Chestnut Veloute arrive and are happily consumed. They are followed in perfectly timed succession by an endive salad and entrées of Striped Bass “en Prupetti” and Duck Breast in Magnolia Leaf, which don’t look remotely familiar. They’re paired with what I’m sure are the perfect wines.

  “Wow. Did we really eat this much on our first date?” I feel a rosy glow from the alcohol and the spectacular food and the way Spencer is looking at me.

  “Well, I think we may have drunk more than we ate that first time. But I was so entranced with you that the meal is indelibly stamped in my brain.”

  It’s beautifully said but I catch myself wondering if he keeps some kind of food diary like some men keep a little black book. Or maybe he simply knows that I’m never going to call him on his food recall. Ever. I can recite a bad review back to you word for word years after it’s been written, but a meal? It’s never going to happen.

  “I remember the meal because I shared it with you,” he says softly, staring into my eyes. And I catch myself thinking how much Bree would appreciate this scene. I mean, I would never write a line of dialogue like that. She was always the one wanting to turn everyone into a hero—on the page and in real life. She inhaled romance novels like an alcoholic consumes booze and insisted on believing in happily ever afters.

  “You are a flatterer, sir,” I reply, as if I’m a heroine in a historical romance.

  “No. I’m a man in love.” His wink takes some of the schmaltz out of our exchange. He leans across the table to kiss me.

  Before I can wonder at this display of affection in such a public place our dessert arrives, a Molten Chocolate Cake with vanilla ice cream and a single candle on top. Forty candles would turn it and our table into flambé.

  “Happy birthday, darling.” He takes both of my hands in his. His smile grows larger and his eyes gleam with what I recognize as anticipation. Out of the corner of one eye I sense movement. A small group of people materialize beside the table. Before I can turn, the group begins to sing “Happy Birthday.” These are not a ragtag group of friends belting out the song. These are professionals. As I turn I see part of the cast from The Music in Me. They’re wearing their costumes and beaming at me.

  The rest of the room falls silent. Just as the song ends the cast members step back, lock arms around one another’s backs, and begin to sway and do some kind of doo-wop background thing. Still holding on to one of my hands, Spencer stands and moves around the table, where he drops to one knee. At first I think something’s happened to him. That one of his legs has given out. But then Merry, Kai, Jen, and Robert break into these big grins. Their doo-wop volume gets softer.

  Spencer looks up at me expectantly. Suddenly there’s a velvet ring box in his hand.

  I’m having a hard time taking it all in. My first thought is This is so sudden, but it isn’t exactly. He told me he loved me a month to the day after our first meal here. A month after that I said the same. But saying you love someone doesn’t mean you intend to marry them, does it?

  As Spencer tells me all the reasons he loves me my heart is pounding so hard that I can hardly hear or think. My life flashes before my eyes like they say it does when you’re abo
ut to die, which seems like a bad sign.

  Then he flips open the box and the diamond sparkles in the light. It’s huge and pear shaped with baguettes of diamonds on either side. Without meaning to I compare it to the ring Clay gave Bree, which might have come out of a Cracker Jack box. This pretty much screams Tiffany.

  “I love you,” Spencer concludes emphatically. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  I swallow as I try to corral my random thoughts. I love him. But everyone’s staring. I feel a flash of anger that he’s done this so publicly and without warning. I’m happy with things the way they are. I thought we both were. But how can I say no in front of all these people? And if I do what are the chances we’re going to simply go back to how things were? No. He’ll be humiliated and I’ll never see him again. I’ll be forty and alone with a declining career and . . . No, those are not the reasons to get married. I shove them out of my head and try to think logically. But I can’t seem to think at all.

  I want to shout at the cast to stop singing. To go away and leave us alone. I wish I could turn back time to just before dessert arrived. That I’d had some warning this was coming.

  I see a shadow of worry steal into his eyes, turning them a mossy, less brilliant green. It has obviously not occurred to him until now that I might say no.

  “Lauren?” He swallows and I see just how vulnerable he feels. “Will you marry me?”

  And then I’m smiling and crying, though not necessarily for the reasons I should be.

  “Of course I will. How can I possibly say no to all this?” These are the truest words I can come up with.

  The cast swings into a well-rehearsed version of “Chapel of Love.”

  Those close enough to have heard my answer stand up and applaud. It’s the cast that takes the bows.

  Four

  Kendra