My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

by Wendy Wax

  I flinch. I keep thinking about flying to New York and just showing up and ringing my daughter’s doorbell. Only, while Bree has just proven how brave she is, I don’t have that same courage. Because of what I keep picturing when I get there: Me on the sidewalk because Lauren’s left orders not to allow me in the building. Or sneaking in somehow only to sit helplessly outside the apartment door she refuses to open.

  “You are going to find a way to talk to Lauren, aren’t you?” Bree asks, her eyes on my face. I’m touched that in the middle of her own crisis she’s thinking about me and mine.

  “Yes. Of course.” I wish I were anywhere near as certain as I sound; that I had the nerve to do it today. This minute. “I just don’t think she’s ready to hear what I have to say yet.”

  “I really don’t think it’s about timing, Kendra. I waited way too long and I still took Clay by surprise.” Bree’s smile is sad. “He didn’t think I’d ever speak up. I hate that I’ve let him treat me and our marriage the way he has. I told myself I was protecting the kids, but they already knew.”

  She swipes away the last of her tears and takes a deep breath. This is followed by a first real look around the kitchen and at me. “Oh my gosh. I came at a bad time and didn’t even ask if I could come in. You’re going out on a date, aren’t you?” She focuses on the bodice of my dress. “And I’ve cried all over your beautiful new sundress.”

  “Oh, this old thing?” I say. I’m ready to lay it on thick about how this is just something I pulled on and that I’m not dressed for a date at all, when she reaches over and lifts the price tag that’s apparently dangling from the back of the bodice.

  My cheeks heat. I try to cover by retrieving the scissors I keep in the knife drawer. I hand them to her and turn so she can cut off the tag.

  “So where are you wearing this old ‘rag’ tonight?” She dangles the tag between her fingers.

  “Nowhere. I’m not even going out. Jake’s just coming over to cook out. It’s completely casual.”

  “Whatever you say.” She smiles and deposits the tag in the garbage can. “But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go out with each other on a date, is there?”

  “No. But we’re not. Going out, I mean. We’re just grilling some food and catching up. And talking about how to handle things with Lauren.”

  “While not dating.”

  “Exactly.” I say this with every ounce of certainty I can manage. But I can tell from the way Brianna is smiling and so eager now to get out of the way that she’s not convinced.

  And neither, it turns out much later that night, am I.

  Thirty-one

  Kendra

  Jake arrives with a bottle of wine in one hand and a bouquet of sunflowers in the other. When he places a friendly kiss on my cheek then follows me into the kitchen, my past and present collide in ways I’m not at all prepared for.

  He was my first kiss, my first date, the first person who made love to me, the man I should have married. He’s not the first man I’ve invited for dinner, but he’s the first one who feels as if he belongs here.

  While I pour glasses of prosecco and arrange the sunflowers in a vase, he tells me about the loss of a manager at one of their properties in Virginia and a difference of opinion with one of his partners over whether to purchase a family camp near Saratoga. Even when describing difficulties, it’s clear that he loves what he does.

  “How did you end up in the hospitality field?” I ask as we shed our shoes and take the crossover to the beach. “Did you start with B and Bs?”

  I listen as he explains his progression from financing boutique properties to being forced to repossess one when the owner couldn’t continue to make payments.

  “When I went in to try to figure out whether the business could be salvaged, I discovered the property was making money— lots of it—only the owner was too hands-off. His manager was doctoring the books and stealing him blind.”

  Our feet sink into the wet sand. Our bodies brush occasionally. Mine prickles with awareness each time this happens. I remind myself that this is not a date and there’s no reason to be nervous. Yet I can’t quite banish the excitement that simmers just beneath my skin.

  By the time we get back to the house my hair’s tangled, and I can feel the salt spray drying on my skin, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I pour the last of the prosecco and we clink our glasses in toast. Without asking he opens the bottle of red wine he brought and leaves it to breathe.

  “Shall I go ahead and fire up the grill?”

  “That would be great.” An undoubtedly loopy smile fixes itself on my face. When it refuses to go away, I turn and open the refrigerator in an attempt to hide it. The smile proves stubborn and so I lean into the refrigerator as if that might cool it off my skin. An idea so ridiculous it makes me laugh.

  I don’t hear Jake come back inside (no doubt due to having my head stuck in a refrigerator) but I feel him step up behind me. His body brackets mine. His breath is warm against my chilled ear as he whispers, “I feel the need to point out that you’re laughing into a refrigerator. Is there something in there I need to know about?”

  I laugh even harder as he turns me around and gently pulls me out of the cold. Then he kisses me. I can’t remember ever laughing and kissing at the same time before, but it’s heavenly. I highly recommend it.

  When the kiss ends his hands remain on my waist. His smile looks every bit as loopy as mine feels; as if it’s been transferred from my lips to his.

  “I guess I should check the fire.”

  “Oh. Right.” I attempt to gather my wits but my brain is busy reliving the kiss. Imagining another. “Yes. Let’s. Um. You do that.” I clear my throat. “And I’ll . . .” I can’t seem to remember what else needs to be done. Or why. I tear my eyes away from his. There’s a large, empty bowl on the counter. “And I’ll . . . I’ll start the salad.”

  The first glass of wine is consumed. A second follows.

  Meal preparation passes in a genial haze. I’m vaguely aware of throwing a cloth over the table on the back deck, of placing the vase of sunflowers in its center, of carrying steaks and a basket of veggies out to the grill. But mostly I’m aware of Jake.

  His voice is deep and fluid, a masculine melody that rises and falls over the lazy swish of the ocean. The breeze stirs the sea oats on the surrounding dunes, tickles nearby palms, and skims across my bare arms and cheeks. The salty scent of the sea teases my nostrils.

  I ask about his sons. About his parents’ house in Richmond that he tells me was left to him and that his younger son and his new wife might move into. He asks about Aunt Velda. About my baking. About how I ended up here. What made me stay.

  We do not bring up my tattered relationship with Lauren or what can or should be done about it. I realize that it’s not just our child that binds us together but the very real pull of attraction.

  It could be the wine or the way the last vestiges of the day disappear in a shimmer of pink and gold that makes the evening so comfortable yet so intimate. I don’t know why I feel the way I do and in truth I don’t care. I just want to enjoy every second of this moment, this meal, this evening.

  And so the steak is more tender than any I’ve ever tasted, the vegetables fresher, the salad crisper. It may be the best meal I’ve ever had. The best evening.

  We open a second bottle of red and stare up at the stars that blanket the night sky.

  If this were actually a date it would be the best one I’ve ever been on.

  * * *

  Lauren

  New York City

  I’m sitting at my desk staring at the blinking cursor. Its thumbs are in its ears and it’s waggling its fingers at me jeering, “Nah nah nah nah nah.” Because I’ve been sitting here a very long time and have nothing to show for it but a blank screen.

  I love being a writer and am beyond grateful to get
to create characters and tell stories for a living, but I have some experience with procrastination. All authors do. Some of us expend a lot of energy attempting to stamp out even the tiniest ember of it. Others fan its flames.

  When the going gets tough—which often happens when attempting to create relatable characters within a believable universe which must be sustained for one hundred thousand–plus words, even the toughest among us escape to things that are more attractive than writing. Things like doing laundry. Scrubbing toilets. Plucking eyebrows. Having oral surgery.

  Normally, I manage to resist the urge to procrastinate. I’ve written through fear, poverty, blizzards, power outages, and breakups. I have always understood that the most valuable thing I can do is write more pages, add another novel to my body of work.

  In a desperate attempt to “see a winning outcome” I close my eyes and try to visualize anything and everything that might help; my fingers skipping across the keyboard; that magical moment when the story comes together; the completed book on bookstore shelves. Nothing works. I’m blocked in a way I have never allowed and refused to acknowledge. I, who have laughed at the very idea of writer’s block, cannot force myself to put a single word on this screen.

  Like a sailboat lacking wind my brain is becalmed. I am wallowing in a trough of unproductivity. I cannot finish the novel I have to deliver.

  If there were a Procrastination Olympics—and it occurs to me that perhaps this is the perfect time to stop what I’m not doing to plan one—I’d be the gold medalist in every event.

  When my cell phone rings, I glance down with gratitude for the distraction. I flinch at the Outer Banks area code until I confirm the number is not my mother’s. “Hello?”

  “Hi.” It’s Bree on the other end. “Is that you, Lauren? I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”

  “It’s me.” For a second I worry that she’s calling to ask if I’ve read her manuscript. Then I remember she doesn’t know I have it. “How are you?”

  Her sigh is long. “I’ve been better. You?”

  “Ditto.”

  There’s a silence as we both register that we’ve told the other the truth.

  “I’ve given Clay an ultimatum. If he cheats again I file for divorce.” Bree’s words come out in a rush.

  “Oh.” I try to switch gears and gather my thoughts. I think about the bitchy blonde. Clay’s infidelity. But I also remember how he placed Brianna’s manuscript in Spencer’s hands. The manuscript I have been unable to even look at let alone read. When you’re dead in the water, the last thing you want to see is evidence that someone else has managed to catch even a puff of wind.

  “What happened?”

  “I finally came to my senses.” She falls silent and I try to think what should happen next.

  “Is there something I can do?”

  “I’m coming to New York next Tuesday. For a writers’ conference.”

  “Oh.” To my knowledge Bree has never been in New York. Not even for BookExpo or other bookseller-related events. I think of the fences we’d started mending before my mother’s bombshell. The comfort of being with the one person I used to be able to say anything to. The not-so-nice way we ended. For all I know she’s coming up to plead my mother’s case. This doesn’t horrify me as much as it should. “Do you need a place to stay?”

  “No. I’m saying at the conference hotel. I don’t want to intrude on your writing time or anything. But I’d like to see you. If you have the time.”

  Her voice breaks and I hear the tears in her voice. Bree’s put herself on the line, risked being rejected. She needs me.

  “Of course. Once you see your schedule let me know when you’re free.” I’m careful not to mention that I don’t really need much warning. When you’re not really working or living your life the one thing you have plenty of is time.

  * * *

  Kendra

  The Sandcastle

  The smell of frying bacon hangs in the air. I imagine I hear its sizzle.

  Groggy, I assume I’m dreaming until I hear what sounds like the clatter of pots and pans coming from the kitchen. The refrigerator door opens and closes. Which makes no more sense than the smell of coffee that accompanies it.

  Assuring myself there is not a serial killer in my kitchen who’s decided to make me breakfast before dispatching me, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand. I go into my closet to pull on shorts and a T-shirt then hurriedly brush my teeth. Just in case I’m wrong about the serial killer/cook, I pick up a piece of driftwood that doubles as a walking stick that I keep near the door and move quietly toward the kitchen.

  Where I find Jake whistling and cooking.

  “Good morning.”

  “Morning. The door was unlocked so I let myself in.” He smiles. “I’m kind of hoping you’re not planning to call the police to report an entering and cooking.” He motions me to sit at my own kitchen table then pours me a cup of coffee and sets it in front of me.

  “I guess that depends on how good the breakfast is.”

  “Ah, no pressure there.” His smile is wide and warm and makes me remember the way his lips felt on mine. Not that I need reminding. “Fortunately for both of us, this is my best meal.”

  “That is fortunate.” I haven’t heard from him since our cookout three nights ago. The cookout filled with kisses that left me wanting more. I am ridiculously glad to see him.

  “I got called out of town unexpectedly. Just got back last night.”

  Relieved by the answer to my unasked question, I sip my coffee and watch him stir the eggs. His biceps strain against the short sleeves of his T-shirt.

  “I don’t cook anything fancy,” he continues. “I’m more of an assembler than a true cook, but I have a repertoire of never-fails. It’s a good thing the boys weren’t picky eaters.”

  I’m thinking about all the reasons he became the cook in his family as he fills two plates with scrambled cheese eggs, bacon, sliced tomatoes, and fresh croissants. A bowl of cut fruit lands next to the sunflowers. Which I think may have perked up at his arrival. Almost as much as I have.

  He sits across from me and we begin to eat. Breakfast tastes even better than it smells. The eggs are soft and fluffy and I savor the Havarti, cheddar, and Muenster melted and folded inside them. The bacon is just the way I like it—crispy but not burnt. “Wow. This is good.”

  The smile spreads across his face. “Glad to hear it. The day’s way too beautiful to spend it alone.” He’s looking at me as he says this, and I feel a shiver of excitement. We eat in silence for a time. Whenever I glance up his eyes are on my face.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About this not-really-dating thing we’re doing.”

  I almost choke on the piece of croissant I just put in my mouth and have to take a sip of coffee to make sure it goes down.

  “How do you feel about it?”

  I force myself to continue to meet his gaze. His gives away nothing. He could be asking for more. Or he could be looking for a way to tell me we’re wasting our time. It’s possible that all he really wants is what he came here for in the first place—access to Lauren and all the blanks of our story filled in.

  It’s not as if Jake and I need to share parenting. It’s not even clear whether my relationship with Lauren is going to be anything close to what it once was. It might not survive at all if I wait much longer to act.

  The safest thing would be to back off now. To say that I hope we’ll always be friends. That sharing a few kisses doesn’t make a relationship. That being attracted to each other doesn’t mean we’re meant to be together.

  I’ve lived without this man for the last forty years. I can live without him for the next forty.

  My heart squeezes at the thought. A very real tug of desire follows. Of course, I can live without him. I can even live without ever kiss
ing him again. Only now I’ll know exactly what I’m missing.

  I drop my eyes. Am I going to play it safe like I’ve been doing all these years? Or am I going to admit what I really want? Which at this particular moment is to take his hand and lead him to my bedroom so that I can have my way with him.

  The very idea makes me smile.

  He puts down his fork and sits back in his chair, apparently willing to wait for my answer.

  Am I going to pretend I don’t want this man because I might have misunderstood his question? Or because I might get hurt or be turned down? Have I really become someone who can’t admit what she wants? Or go after it?

  I look up and meet his eyes again. “I don’t think it’s working.”

  “No?” He cocks his head. “Why not?”

  “Well.” I stand and square my shoulders. “People who aren’t really dating generally don’t sleep together.”

  He’s watching me intently.

  “As in, they don’t have sex.”

  A muscle ticks in his cheek. His brown eyes go a shade darker.

  “From what I’ve heard, when a man makes breakfast for a woman it’s usually because they’ve spent the night together. I think you’ve got things backward.”

  “Is that right?” The question is whisper soft.

  “Um-hmm.”

  “I hope you’re going to straighten me out.” This comes out in a husky growl that makes my entire body tingle with awareness.

  “Oh, I am.” So bold I barely recognize myself, I straddle his legs, sitting in his lap so that my chest rubs against his.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that.” His hands slip under my T-shirt. We both groan as they cup my breasts.

  Within seconds my shirt is on the floor. His head drops. His tongue circles my nipples.

  My head falls back as his hands slide under me. Trembling, I lock my legs around his waist and thread my arms around his neck as he stands. My only clear thought as he carries me to my bedroom is how long I’ve waited for this and how very much I want him.