My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

by Wendy Wax

  The need to share and celebrate this moment pushes me down the hallway past the Jack and Jill bathroom and Rafe’s empty bedroom. More than anyone else, Clay knows how long and how hard I’ve worked on this book. He knows how much it means to me. And why.

  Whatever we’ve been through, whatever vows he’s stretched or broken, he’s still my husband. On our wedding day we promised to love and honor each other. To be there for each other in sickness and in health. We’ve made it through his infidelities, which I’ve tried to file away out of sight under the label BAD TIMES. But that vow included the good times, too. And for me this moment is as good as it gets.

  When I reach the master suite I tiptoe directly to the bathroom, where I wash my face and brush my teeth. The whole time all I can think is how glad I am that I continued writing. That I persevered long after any sane person would have given up. It’s over. I’ve done it. I throw the ragged pajamas and robe I’ve been living in into the hamper and pull on a fresh nightgown. I spritz on the perfume Clay bought me for my birthday and imagine him rousing and pulling me into bed beside him. I’m beyond grateful that I have him to celebrate this momentous occasion with.

  The bedroom is dark and the blinds have been drawn. I don’t want to turn on a light so I feel my way to my side of the bed and slip under the covers. I’m so eager to reach him that I barely breathe as I slide gently across the mattress.

  I’m already imagining how I’ll break the news when I realize that the mound I saw outlined in the dark is just the crumpled sheets and covers of an unmade bed. Clay’s pillow is cold. His side of the bed is empty and clearly un–slept in.

  With the angry, pain-filled yelp of a dog that’s been unexpectedly kicked by its master, I throw off the covers. My feet hit the floor. I get out of bed and stalk to the window, telling myself that he could just be downstairs asleep on the couch in the TV room. Or in the kitchen getting a late-night snack. But my stomach is already queasy with knowledge as I open the blinds and look down onto the driveway.

  If I were that dog I’d be howling. My Jeep Cherokee sits alone in the darkness. Clay’s truck isn’t here. If my husband is in bed right now, that bed belongs to someone else.

  Twelve

  Bree

  If finishing my manuscript last night was the crest of a wave, this morning is the trough. With all the adrenaline rushing through me and lying in wait for Clay with accusations flitting through my head, I barely slept. Or so I think until I wake up to the sound of clanging pots and pans in the kitchen. I yank on my robe and go downstairs to find him making breakfast, which is something he’s only ever done as an unspoken act of atonement. Lily sits at the kitchen table, clutching a mug of cream that includes a dash of coffee. She’s still glassy eyed with sleep, and I’m glad I didn’t wake her last night.

  “Good morning.” My husband says this as if it’s just any other day, and I realize that maybe to him it is. With the number of all-nighters I’ve been pulling, not to mention the nights I simply fell asleep at my desk, it’s very possible that last night was not the first time he stayed out so late but only the first night I noticed. (Not that you have to stay out past midnight to do things you shouldn’t.)

  “How’s the book coming?” he asks more to make conversation than because he thinks I’m ever actually going to finish.

  “It’s done.” I look him right in the eye. “I typed The End last night.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. I finished right around one.” I watch his face and for a long moment I let him see the hurt and anger in mine. I want him to know that he’s sucked far too much of the pleasure out of finishing, even if I don’t want to have that conversation in front of Lily. I’d give a lot not to have to have that conversation at all.

  “That’s so cool, Mom!” Lily’s genuine enthusiasm flows over me. “You should have woken me up to tell me.”

  “I considered it. But it was the middle of the night and I knew you had a math test this morning.”

  Clay’s eyes widen, and I know he’s trying to decide whether to continue pretending he wasn’t out much past one or make up something that will justify why he was. But even if he claims he was just out drinking with friends will that be better than what I suspect he was doing?

  He dishes up plates for Lily and me. All the things I want to say but won’t are stuck in my throat, so there’s no way I’m eating. Even if I could eat, I wouldn’t. But as furious as I am and as much as I’d like to see him squirm, I know that I’m not going to throw his behavior in his face like I’d like to and not just because Lily’s here. But because I don’t know what it would accomplish. Or even if it would make me feel better.

  I look down at the eggs and back up at him, so tired of this dance we do. We’ve been at this a long time and I know his tactics. He’ll either pick a fight—because the best defense is a strong offense—or he’ll come up with a conversational diversion that will give him more time to put an alibi together.

  “It’s so fabulous that you finished the book,” he says. “I knew you could do it. We’ll have to go out tonight and celebrate. I bet Lauren will be shocked.”

  Bingo.

  He smiles at me then adds, “It’ll be interesting to meet Lauren’s fiancé, don’t you think?

  Well, there you go.

  “I mean, this is the first guy she’s brought home.” He doesn’t sound particularly concerned. While Lauren and I have had issues since she left for New York and I didn’t, Clay didn’t wait all that long after they broke up before he started dating again. When she’s here he treats her like everyone else he’s known since childhood. I’m the one who can never forget that he was the person she gave her virginity to or how when she came home and told me all about it I caught myself wishing it had been me in the backseat of the Mustang he’s kept all these years.

  “When are we going to see them?” Lily asks. She has no interest in her parents’ lives before she existed and is only vaguely aware that Lauren and I aren’t as close as we used to be. She does, however, know that Lauren is a pretty big deal in the book world and is not averse to using the connection to impress others.

  “We’re invited to Kendra’s for brunch tomorrow at eleven.” I’m actually relieved that we’re not joining them for dinner tonight. I think Kendra’s right to keep the evening for just the three of them. Plus, I’m in no hurry to do that thing Lauren and I do for her mother’s sake—where we smile and attempt to talk politely without really saying anything.

  Saying nothing isn’t as easy as it should be. There are times I wish we could just shriek it out, maybe even throw a few punches, and finally get everything out in the open so that we’d at least have a chance at getting whatever this impasse is over with somehow.

  Every once in a while I let myself wonder what her grievances actually are. I mean, I’m not the one who stole a manuscript and used it to build a career and I don’t see why she’d still be angry that I didn’t go to New York with her when she clearly succeeded in every possible way without me. And it’s not like she could be jealous of me and Clay when they’d already broken up before he asked me out. Unless it’s pure selfishness—not wanting me to have something even though she didn’t want it herself.

  I close my eyes and wish I could eject all the old arguments and justifications circling in my head. When we see each other tomorrow we’ll be bringing all the old baggage with us.

  Even having finished Heart of Gold, I wish I didn’t have to see her. That I didn’t have to make polite conversation with the person I used to share my deepest secrets and aspirations with. Back then it was as if something hadn’t taken place until we’d had a chance to tell the other about it.

  I look up and realize that Lily’s saying good-bye and that she and Clay are leaving.

  “You decide where you’d like to go for dinner tonight,” he says as I notice the dirty pans and dishes he’s left
piled in the sink. After the kitchen door closes behind my husband, I try to imagine wanting to go anywhere with him let alone to celebrate such an important milestone, but my imagination isn’t up to the job. It is, however, up to picturing all kinds of nasty fates for him. Including him being so tired from his nocturnal activities that right after he’s left Lily off at school, he falls asleep at the wheel and has some sort of horrible and possibly disfiguring though not fatal accident.

  I’m still standing at the kitchen door staring out through the screen long after they leave. Of course, the sun would finally come out today. Of course, the weather’s perfect. No doubt because Lauren’s gracing us with her presence and not because I managed to finally type THE END!

  * * *

  Lauren

  En route to LaGuardia Airport

  Just as he predicted, it took Spencer all of fifteen minutes to pack this morning, which is beyond annoying. He whistled while he was doing it then ran out to our favorite bodega for egg, cheese, and bacon sandwiches. Normally this would have made me happy, but I don’t eat before I fly. Ever. At least nothing that might come up when the plane goes into its final death spiral.

  He wolfed his down while I was doing deep-breathing exercises and trying to visualize an outcome that didn’t include falling out of the sky. Then he ate mine so it wouldn’t go to waste.

  We take a black car to the airport and shortly after we pull out into traffic he puts his arm around my shoulders. “You okay?”

  I nod mutely. I’m not, but I’ve learned that admitting my fear out loud somehow makes it worse. But while I don’t want to talk about my fear, I do appreciate his concern. He’s driven and highly competitive, but everything is not all about him. He never forgets about the people around him. It’s one of his best qualities.

  I stare out the window as the city whizzes by, each building filled with countless stories and personal dramas that I normally like to imagine but am too nervous to contemplate. At the airport we wait in Delta’s Sky Club, where Spencer happily drinks coffee and reads the papers while sending and receiving texts. I continue to breathe deeply and try not to think about dying.

  I linger in the restroom on my final bathroom run. I’d still rather spend the rest of the day here in this stall than get on a plane. Fortunately the Xanax has done its job by the time we need to leave for our gate and I’m numb enough not to barricade myself inside.

  Spencer flies only first class so we board quickly. I sink into my window seat, a necessity because I feel slightly less claustrophobic when I can see out, even if it’s dark and even though I’m still trapped with no control over what’s about to happen. I’m careful not to meet the eye of anyone who has to walk by us to get to coach. It feels inherently wrong to make those passengers witness others being treated better than they are. But not wrong enough to refuse the preflight drink I’m offered.

  “You okay?” Spencer whispers in my ear and because we’re still on the ground and I’ve got a nice little buzz going I’m able to smile. “Yes, thanks.”

  “Good.” He drops a kiss on the top of my head then checks messages and sends a few more texts while I continue to try not to think about dying. Which of course makes me imagine it in gory detail. What can I say? My imagination didn’t come with an on/off switch.

  The flight attendant makes an announcement urging everyone to get seated, so that we can leave on time. I’m in no hurry to take off. Sometimes I even pray for delays. But today everything moves like clockwork. When the pilot instructs the flight attendants to take their seats, I breathe more deeply. It’s all I can do not to whimper as I stare out the window and watch the terminal recede.

  As we taxi Spencer’s hand finds mine. Our fingers interlace. I try not to hold on too tightly as we thunder down the runway then rocket into the air. I swallow back the panic and stare unflinching out the window as the city falls away. Beneath us the buildings blur together, the East River grows smaller and less distinct like a blue vein beneath the skin of a hand. The boats are tiny flecks of white.

  I’m still squeezing Spencer’s hand when the engines cut back and we begin to level out. He squeezes back, and I dip my head briefly onto his shoulder in what I hope he knows is gratitude. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to relax completely or lower my vigilance. There’s still a small part of me that believes that keeping up my guard somehow keeps the plane in the air. I turn down a second drink and am probably the only person in first class who’s glad they don’t serve meals on flights this short because lowering the tray table makes me feel even more trapped, and I know from experience that setting food and drink on it causes turbulence.

  I do accept a bottled water so that I won’t die of thirst should I manage to survive a crash, but mostly I just hold on to Spencer’s hand and stare out the window, fiercely glad that I’m flying with a man who understands me well enough not to tell me it’s silly to be afraid, or that flying is a thousand times safer than driving, or yammers on thinking that this will somehow distract me and make me feel better.

  I steal a glance at my watch. Then I breathe deeply and fix my gaze on the blue sky and the carpet of clouds below us. I wish we were already back on the ground. I wish instantaneous teleporting from one spot to another didn’t exist only in science fiction novels. I wish that this fear would go away and never come back.

  Then Spencer gently squeezes my hand again and I know that even though none of these wishes are going to be granted, there’s a hell of a lot to be said for facing down your demons with someone who knows how and when to hold your hand.

  Thirteen

  Lauren

  I’m still slightly numb from the Xanax when we arrive at the car rental counter at the Norfolk Airport, aka ORF, but I’ll be driving to the Outer Banks for one simple reason. As a lifelong resident of Manhattan, Spencer has never felt the need to get a driver’s license.

  I haven’t driven since the last time I came home, so I take my time adjusting my seat and all the mirrors in the “medium”-size car that I’m pretty sure was a compact last year, before backing carefully out of the parking space and following the signs that lead out of the airport to the highway.

  “Do you need me to navigate?” Spencer asks.

  “You can pull the address up on my phone, but we’re just going to take 64 to 168 to 158. It’s pretty straightforward.”

  You don’t really notice how compressed a big city is until you’re no longer in it. It’s especially true of Manhattan, which feels immense until you see one of those aerial establishing shots in a movie or TV show that reveals just how much stuff is crammed onto that tiny island surrounded by water.

  As we drive, the distance between buildings increases. Residence Inns and chain hotels give way to industrial parks that ultimately give way to farmland. There’s space, room to breathe. Here, trees and bushes aren’t confined to parks or rooftops. They’re not lone survivors jutting out of a sidewalk. As we leave town they grow with abandon, their leafy limbs climbing up into a vast blue sky that is not pierced by skyscrapers. The greener it gets the more deeply and easily I breathe.

  We drive through Chesapeake then over the Intracoastal Waterway. The first sight of water does what no amount of Xanax can. There are still things to worry about, but they’ve dipped below the surface.

  We watch the scenery in silence for a while. Passing into North Carolina we wind our way through Moyock, Harbinger, and Grandy. A succession of isolated farmhouses, mobile homes, and old wooden homesteads with family graveyards flash by, broken up by stands of trees and patches of green. Miles of railroad track curve in and out of sight. I point out a few longtime barbecue joints, farmer’s markets that have been there as long as I can remember. Near Powells Point I breathe in the dark earthy scent of the marsh. Then we hit Point Harbor and before I think to introduce it we’re on the Wright Memorial Bridge crossing over Currituck Sound.

  The afternoon sun shines brig
ht over the brownish water of the sound. The seabirds soaring through the cloudless sky caw what sounds like a welcome. My heart kicks up a notch. Home.

  “I’ve never seen that peaceful look on your face before.”

  I turn to meet his assessing gaze for a moment before turning my attention to the bridge.

  “Yet you don’t come back very often.”

  “I would have come back for the holidays if we hadn’t gone to Bermuda with your family. But, as much as I love this place and my mom, coming home can be kind of . . . complicated.”

  “By?”

  The time has come to share my backstory, the past without which no character, or human being, is complete. “Well, you’re going to meet my former best friend, Brianna. She’ll be at my mom’s with her husband, Clay, who I dated through high school and most of college. I’m pretty sure their daughter, Lily, will be with them.”

  “So your ex-best friend married your ex-boyfriend? We’re talking soap opera material.”

  “Theoretically, yes. But Clay is really not the issue.”

  His look is skeptical.

  “No, really. I mean, it’s a little weird but he and I were already finished. Bree and I had a pretty significant falling-out. We had always planned to go to New York together after college. We’d been saving money for the bus tickets practically our whole lives. We were both going to become successful novelists.”

  “Which you accomplished.”

  “Two days before we were supposed to leave she told me she wasn’t coming with me. Ultimately she married Clay and bought the bookstore she’d worked at all through school.”

  “Ahh, right. The place where you’re supposed to take those publicity photos.”