My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

by Wendy Wax

I slump against the wall, no longer able to hold back the tidal wave of truth that washes over me. I have accepted the love Clay feels for me as if it were some great gift, because when your parents don’t love you, you know deep down it can only be because you’re unlovable.

  My breathing is harsh and labored. My heart constricts in shame. I’ve settled because I assumed I had to. I have expected far too little and accepted even less. Worst of all, I’ve become pathetic in my children’s eyes. I’ve let fear and insecurity rule my life. Allowed them to color every decision. Made me think and act small. And I am tired to death of it.

  Slowly, I straighten. My mind begins to clear. A window that I nailed shut springs open. Light streams in.

  I am not a poor, unloved girl anymore. And I don’t have to be an unappreciated and disrespected wife; that’s not the way to be a good mother. And no way to teach my children about love and relationships. Nor do I need to wait for Lauren to repair our friendship. Or be afraid to enter the publishing arena I ceded to her just because she got there first.

  My breathing becomes more even, the thud of my heart softens, its beating slows.

  The time has come to live up to who I am and not down to who I was. I have friends. A business. Children who love me. A manuscript I’ve poured my heart into. What happens next is up to me.

  Turning, I stride to the stairs, sprint up to my office, and sit down at my computer, where the cover letters to all five agents wait in draft mode. I double-check that each is addressed to the correct person at the correct e-mail address and that the synopsis and chapters are attached. Then with a resolve that shocks and thrills me I hit send on each e-mail. There is no turning back. That thrills me, too.

  When the fear of rejection begins to bubble up I quash it. If these five agents don’t want me, I’ll try five more, then five more after that. And if Heart of Gold doesn’t sell, I’ll write something that will. Then I register for a fiction writing conference in New York I’ve dreamed of going to even though I have to pay a late-registration fee.

  I leave my office with a new clarity of purpose. A certainty that is greater than I’ve ever known. I deserve whatever success and happiness I can find or create.

  I’m downstairs in a heartbeat. I pour myself a glass of wine and get my thoughts in order. Aha moment, my foot. It’s time for a come-to-Jesus meeting.

  I carry my glass into the living room and settle on the couch to wait for my husband to come home.

  * * *

  Lauren

  New York City

  Any suspicion I had that Spencer’s suggestion that we plan a New York wedding was only a ploy to get me to make up with my mother has been laid to rest. Because despite the ploy’s failure, the wedding planning continues.

  The notes he first showed me over Thai takeout are now neatly assembled in a shared computer file filled with vendor links. There are electronic folders filled with notes, the beginnings of a guest list he, his mother, and I are supposed to be putting together. Because how can you know what size venue, how much food, even how many flower arrangements if you don’t have a sense of how many guests you might be expecting or what size the wedding party might be?

  If we have our wedding here, it will be a large, elegant, formal affair—the antitheses of the small, intimate, beach wedding I always imagined. The Harrisons’ guest list will overflow with family, longtime friends, and business associates. Mine will be embarrassingly small. And might not even include my mother.

  Today we visited four venues, three caterers, and two florists and I have the aching feet and throbbing head to prove it.

  The ride back to the Upper West Side in afternoon traffic is long and slow. I’m only dimly aware of arriving at Celeste, which is one of our favorite Upper West Side restaurants, and barely taste the spaghetti with clams that Spencer orders for me.

  Back at my building I stifle a yawn as Tom the doorman greets us. Today would have been exhausting even if I were sleeping well at night, which I’m not. I feel as if I’m slogging through molasses.

  “You were pretty quiet at dinner,” Spencer says as we ride up in the elevator.

  “Was I?” I try, but fail, to hold back another yawn.

  In my apartment I drop my purse on the foyer table, toe off my shoes, and head for the living room. “Would you like a drink?”

  “You sit. I’ll pour.” He moves to the drinks cart and I change course for the couch.

  “I’m worried about you,” he says as he sets our drinks on the coffee table, right next to Bree’s manuscript, which I pass countless times each day and which I try not to notice.

  “In what way?” Another yawn. I eye the drink but can’t decide whether I want it. I do not look at the manuscript.

  “Seriously?” He sits down beside me and slides his arm around my shoulders. I lean my head against his reassuring warmth. “It’s been over two weeks since we got back and I can see that you’re still upset. I wish you’d let me help.”

  “It’s not a question of helping,” I say on another yawn. “Your existence helps. I just need to get through this. In my own way.”

  He sips his drink and I don’t have to see his face to know that he’s not really buying this.

  “I did invite my . . . Jake . . . to visit.”

  “That’s great.” He takes a long sip of his drink. “But what about your mother?”

  I reach for my drink even though I don’t really want it. I don’t want to have this conversation, either. But I can tell by the set of the shoulder I’m leaning on that he’s not going to let this go. “What about her?”

  “She’s begged for your forgiveness. She’s left a million messages. She’s done everything but show up on your doorstep. You love each other.” He pauses while I toss down half the drink. “Don’t love and forgiveness go hand in hand?”

  I continue to drink as if this cocktail glass or the whiskey in it could prevent me from understanding where this conversation is going.

  “I mean, we’re getting married. One or both of us are bound to make mistakes along the way.”

  I close my eyes. I’m too tired for this. “Not telling me about my father was not a ‘mistake.’ It was a choice. A lie.”

  “My point is that I don’t believe forgiveness is determined by the size of the offense, but by your commitment to and love for the other person. I hate to think that if I upset or disappoint you you’ll jettison me from your life without even talking it through and trying to understand.”

  “That’s not fair.” I sit up, forgoing the comfort of his shoulder. But I don’t have the strength to argue or defend my position. If, in fact, I have one.

  “No.” His voice goes quiet. “It isn’t.” He finishes his drink and sets down the glass. “I can see how tired you are, so I think I’ll go back to my place tonight. Try to get some rest.”

  The door closes behind him and I stare at it and wonder, what if Spencer were the one who lied? Would I give him the benefit of the doubt? Could I find a way to forgive him?

  I lock the door and turn out the lights. As I wash up and change into my pajamas I think about the years lost with my father. About the grandparents I never knew. Am I actually planning to cut my mother out of my life forever?

  The bedroom curtain flutters in the breeze and I move to the window and press my forehead against the double pane of glass. Traffic still moves along Central Park West. People stroll down 74th. They aren’t kidding when they say this is the city that never sleeps.

  I walk to the bed and slip between the sheets then stare up into the shadowed ceiling.

  What if my mother gives up before I’m ready to forgive her? What if she decides not to keep trying to salvage our relationship?

  Could I really live my life without my mother in it? And what kind of life would that be?

  Thirty

  Bree

  I wake to the crunch of
tires and Clay’s truck pulling into the drive. I recognize this sound even in my sleep. I raise my head and my chin comes off my chest. I struggle up out of the sofa cushions, my eyes blinking open. I glance at the clock in an attempt to get my bearings. 1:35 A.M.

  He moves with confidence—apparently assuming I’m asleep and feeling no need to tiptoe or make a stealthy entrance. I stand and step forward and watch him stumble slightly in surprise. After a brief flash of concern, he goes on the offense. Always his best defense. “What are you doing up?”

  “Waiting.”

  He cocks his head. Blue eyes narrow in suspicion. “For what?”

  “For you.” My mouth is dry from sleep and nerves. “Where have you been?” comes out in a croak. Now that the time has come I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing or the right thing in the wrong way. I give him a stern look even as I reach deep inside for Whitney. Not the character I first created but the one who turned into a woman I admire. The one who kept growing even when I didn’t. The one who would never have put up with the things I have.

  “You know that’s . . .

  “I hope you’re not planning to say none of my business,” Whitney and I respond.

  His head snaps up. He isn’t used to me questioning him.

  “Look, Bree. There’s no way I’m going to let you turn me into some henpecked-wuss-of-a-husband who never . . .”

  “Good God. Is that the best you can do?” I give him a second or two to understand that tonight is not going to be business as usual.

  “We’ve been married for twenty years and you still act like you’re single. You are the opposite of henpecked. You’ve had things your way from the beginning. And I haven’t seen you act too much like a husband. In fact, I’m not sure you’ve really tried. Last time I looked, monogamy was not an optional clause in the marriage contract.”

  He sputters in indignation. “We are not having this conversation. Not now when you’re all worked up and unreasonable.”

  I cringe when I remember the number of times I’ve let him shut me down this way. As if being hurt or emotional somehow negates the truth or makes his behavior my fault.

  I’ve always backed down. Because of Rafe and Lily. Because I’d sworn I would never shatter my children’s security the way my parents shattered mine. But it takes two committed people who love each other to make a marriage, not one who’s doing the other a favor by staying, as long as she’s willing to look the other way now and then.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Clay.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “Pretend. That you love me when I’m not sure you do. I’m not even sure whether I love you anymore.”

  My eyes are pinned to his face. I wait though I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. Is there a marriage cavalry poised to ride in and save our union? If he fell down on his knees and promised to never even look at another woman—which he is showing no signs of doing—is there any way that I could possibly believe him? Trust him? “This is it. The line in the sand. The final warning. You either get it together and honor your marriage vows or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll file for divorce.”

  This is the first time I’ve ever even mentioned the D-word—one of the few times I’ve let myself actually think it—and his shock is pronounced. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  He looks at me and I want to believe he’s finally seeing me as more than the girl he deigned to marry. He says only, “But the kids would be devastated.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” I look him right in the eye. “They know, Clay. Everybody knows. Lily told me just how pathetic she thinks it is that I ‘let’ you be with other women.”

  “But I . . .” I watch the realization set in. He has convinced himself that what he’s been doing is no big deal. That everybody does it. That I’d be the only casualty. That the children would never know.

  I see him trying to regroup, to once again gain the upper hand that he’s so used to having. It has never occurred to him that the children would ever think ill of him or that I would ever give up.

  I could use a little Rocky music right now. Some boxing gloves. A sweatsuit. Because although I finally managed to say what I’ve known I needed to for too long now, I don’t feel particularly victorious. Just horribly sad. And so very tired.

  But I am also determined. “You must have realized that what you’ve been doing is . . . wrong. That it hurts me. That it hurts all of us.”

  I think back to the times I was forced to know. The pitying glances. The triumphant ones. I shudder to think that Rafe and Lily have had to deal with all that, too.

  “I’m attending a fiction conference in New York next week. I fly up on Tuesday and get back the following Sunday. You’ll need to be here with Lily. You can use that time for some one-on-one. To try to reassure her that it’s us you love and care about. If you can’t commit to being faithful and putting your family first then as far as I’m concerned you can also use that time to find somewhere else to live. I’m sure you could use one of the rental properties. Or maybe one of your girlfriends would like to have you.”

  “Move out?” I almost wish I had a camera to take a picture of his face.

  “Well, of course. If we were getting a divorce we wouldn’t live together. This is my house. My grandmother left it to me long before we got married.”

  “But . . . you’d be all alone.” My greatest fear has been his ace in the hole. He looks at me expectantly. Waiting for me to crumble. Or cry. Or apologize.

  I do none of those things.

  “That’s true.” For the first time I’m not frightened by the prospect.

  Lauren and Kendra are struggling with their estrangement. Neither of them seems able to take that first step. I know how hard it can be to come to terms with a reality that’s not what you thought it was or ever wanted it to be. But I am not a child. I’ve finally finished my manuscript. I’ve proven I’m so much stronger than I ever believed. I don’t need a man, especially not this man, to complete me. “I’m pretty sure I’ll get over it.”

  * * *

  Kendra

  The Sandcastle

  It takes me over an hour to decide what to wear for my third not-really-a-date with Jake. I work through the possibilities in front of the bedroom mirror. THE DRESS hangs on the armoire behind me, a constant reminder of the daughter I’ve lost.

  When I finally settle on a brand-new sleeveless turquoise drop-waist sundress with a scoop neck that ties at the shoulders, a mountain of rejected clothing covers the bed. It turns out finding a look that says “I didn’t try too hard because I don’t want it to look like I dressed for a date” is harder than it should be. So is washing and blow-drying your hair, shaving your legs, and applying makeup. Looking effortlessly attractive requires way too much effort. If my bed weren’t so overrun at the moment I’d be tempted to nap in it.

  Tonight instead of going out, Jake is coming over for dinner. It’s going to be a simple meal. Just steaks on the grill, a spinach salad, and a freshly baked apple pie that I’ve cut a piece out of so that I can pretend I didn’t intentionally bake it for him. I’ve got a bottle of prosecco chilling in the refrigerator. I’m setting out a bottle of red table wine that says “I tried but not too hard” when a knock sounds on the kitchen door. Before I can open it, Bree walks in.

  “I finally did it,” she says not at all joyously. There is no exclamation point attached.

  “Did what?” There’s something in her eyes that I don’t recognize. Something brave and awful at the same time.

  “I told Clay that if he doesn’t get his act together I’m going to file for divorce.”

  “Oh.” I’ve wanted to give Clay a few swift kicks on occasion myself, but they’ve been married for close to twenty years and I know how much family means to Bree.

  I�
�m not sure whether to applaud or commiserate. “Oh, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

  She nods but her face contradicts her. Tears squeeze from the corners of her eyes. I hold out my arms and she walks into them. “I told him this morning when he came home in the middle of the night. Again.” She sniffles. “I just can’t take it anymore.”

  “I know,” I murmur and stroke her hair as the tears continue to fall. “It’s okay. Everything will be all right.”

  I hold her until the tears slow. When they finally stop, I release her from the hug and lead her to the kitchen table. “Coffee, tea, or prosecco?”

  “Prosecco.” She looks up at me. “Definitely prosecco.”

  “Sit down and tell me about it.”

  The details come out quickly as I open the bottle of sparkling wine and pour us each a generous glass. Her words slow only toward the end. “I had to give him one final warning.” She scrubs at her eyes. “I should have done it a long time ago. I know it’s the right thing. I had to draw the line. But now if he . . .” New tears squeeze from her eyes. “I’ll have to follow through.”

  “I know. It’s a big step.” I put the wineglass in her hands.

  She stares down into the sparkling wine then back up at me.

  “Clay is going to be with Lily while I’m in New York.”

  “New York?” Even saying the name of the city Lauren ran back to is difficult.

  “Yes. I’m going to a fiction writers’ conference. I have a chance to meet with agents and editors there. And, well, I figured it’s time to start educating myself about publishing. You know, from an author’s perspective instead of a bookseller’s.” She takes a sip of prosecco.

  I reach down and squeeze Bree’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry about where things stand with you and Clay, but I’m very glad to see you taking control of your life and pursuing your dreams.”

  She takes another sip and manages a nod and a half smile. “I’m hoping to see Lauren while I’m there. If she’s available.”