My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

by Wendy Wax

  Next I scroll through e-mails looking, yet again, for responses from the agents I queried. When I accidentally end up in my spam folder I find e-mails from three out of the original five. They’ve been sitting there since Thursday.

  My hands shake with excitement as I open them; an excitement that evaporates when I read one rejection after another, each following an identical format with my name and the name of my book plugged into the same spots.

  The breath I’ve been holding escapes in a loud rush as the Uber pulls up in front of a large limestone building that takes up an entire block of Central Park West. I see it through a blur of tears and a gut wrench of disappointment.

  This may be my first trip to New York and to the Upper West Side, but even I know that any building this close to Central Park has to be outrageously expensive. It is a tangible testament to Lauren’s success that I’d give anything not to have to see right now.

  So is the man in livery who tips his cap, greets me in an accent I have trouble deciphering, then ushers me into a marble-floored lobby decorated with gilt, gilt, and more gilt.

  Another liveried man stands beside an inlaid wooden desk. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Lauren Jameson.”

  His eyes narrow slightly. “Is Ms. Jameson expecting you?”

  “She should be.” I lift the suitcase I’m holding as if it’s proof that I’m not dangerous and have a legitimate reason to be here even though I wish I were somewhere else.

  “Your name?”

  “Brianna. Brianna Williams.” I arrange what I hope is a trustworthy smile on my face. And I think how different this building is from the dangerous places Lauren was forced to live in when she first arrived.

  “I don’t see your name on the list,” the man says, and I wonder if this is an intentional snub or just an oversight.

  He picks up a gilded phone and presses several buttons. “Yes, ma’am. A Ms. Williams is here to see you.” He listens then nods. “Yes, of course.

  “Right this way.” When the elevator arrives he ushers me inside then pushes the number eight with a gloved finger. “It’s the third door to your left when you exit the elevator.” He doesn’t exactly salute but he does stand at attention until the elevator doors close. I am duly impressed.

  On the way up, I stare at myself in the gleaming wood and brass of the elevator. “Oh no you don’t,” I say, spotting the droop of my shoulders and feeling my chin pressing into my chest. “You are not walking in there like some pathetic loser.”

  Though all I want to do is curl up in a ball, I straighten. In the richly carpeted hallway I raise my chin and throw back my shoulders.

  Given the formality I’ve just come through I brace for Lauren’s public author persona, but when the door opens she gives me a hug and a smile. “Come on in.”

  Compared to the elegance of the building the apartment is warm and welcoming with a small, square foyer and a dark wood floor that contrasts nicely with the white walls and trim. It opens into a contemporary white kitchen. A Plexiglas stair floats up the opposite wall.

  “The bedrooms are upstairs. We can carry your suitcase up later.” She takes my bag and stashes it beside the first step then leads me toward a marble island with red leather barstools. “Would you like something cold to drink?”

  “A glass of water would be great.” I slide onto a barstool and glance nervously to my right, where the space opens into a double-width living room with brilliantly colored area rugs, marble-fronted fireplace, and two full walls of windows. The first lets in sunlight and impressive views of the park. The wall that abuts it frames part of a tree-lined street filled with brownstones.

  She sets two glasses of water on the counter then slides onto a stool beside me.

  “Your place is beautiful,” I say, pushing the words past a lump of envy.

  “Thanks. My original apartment was a lot smaller and it didn’t have a park view. I lucked into this corner unit when the original owner died.”

  We consider each other. Wednesday evening was fueled by alcohol and my excitement. Lauren’s presence opened doors I would have never walked through on my own. It was thrilling to be a part of the publishing world even briefly. But now it’s just the two of us, and I’d give anything not to have stumbled on those rejections before I had to face her. Once she would have been the person I’d run to with any disappointment. Now I keep my chin up and my shoulders back and pray she can’t see the L for loser I feel forming on my forehead.

  “How’d the rest of the conference go?”

  “Great,” I say truthfully. “It was . . . Just being around other writers was inspiring. I haven’t really experienced anything like that since we . . . you . . .” I stop stuttering long enough to look up and catch her expression. Has she taken that as a jab? Was it? “I’m not sure if I thanked you for the introductions.”

  “The ones you kept insisting I not make?”

  “Yeah, those.” I blush at the memory of my reluctance, the timidity that made me want to run and hide. “Your editor asked someone else from Trove to meet with me. I gave her the pitch you helped me come up with and she asked to see the full manuscript.” I remember the initial thrill, but I now have proof that this is not going to be a slam dunk. Or maybe any kind of dunk at all. “I . . . Maybe you shouldn’t be recommending me and Heart of Gold when you haven’t read it.”

  Another uncomfortable look flashes across her face and I realize what I’ve just said. “I didn’t mean that I expect you to read it or anything. But . . .”

  Lauren gets up abruptly to refill our glasses, and I can tell I shouldn’t have brought up the idea of her reading my book. I know she’s got her own deadlines. And I’m still not at all sure I even want to hear her true opinion. I mean, what if she reads it and hates it? Worse, what if she reads it and hates it and tells me? “Will it hurt your reputation if someone reads my work because you asked them to and they don’t like it?”

  “No, not really. Editors and agents are like readers. They like what they like.” She places the waters on the island. “I have the connections to get people to read something, but no one buys a novel just to please someone else.”

  “So a whole lot of people could read Heart of Gold and not want it.”

  “It’s possible.” She says this matter-of-factly, but she doesn’t quite meet my eyes and I wonder if she’s already heard something through her editor. “Anything’s possible.

  “But it only takes one yes to render the nos meaningless.” She hesitates and I catch that odd look again. In the same way that I sensed that Lily recognized something new going on between Clay and me, I recognize Lauren is holding something back. What I don’t know is what it could be or why.

  Thirty-five

  Lauren

  Bree’s face turns kind of green. I show her to the bathroom knowing that if I were in one of those old V8 commercials I’d be slapping my forehead right now. Just five minutes ago I could have come clean. I could have told Bree the truth. Smack. I could have reached beneath the counter, pulled out her manuscript, and said, I’ve already read it and I can’t believe how good it is! Smack. If I were willing to be completely honest I could have even added, And I’m ashamed that I’m kind of conflicted about it.

  My mother’s face and words fly by. “I always intended to tell you and your father about each other.”

  I now know firsthand that any kind of admission sounds feeble if it comes too long after the fact.

  Which means I need to just speak up and get the topic out in the open. I decide to do this as soon as she comes out of the bathroom, but when she heads back toward me I ask, “Are you good to walk in those shoes?” Smack!

  “I think so. Where are we going?”

  “Well, since we only have the day, I thought we’d have brunch at Tavern on the Green and then wander around the neighborhood.”

 
“The Tavern on the Green?”

  “Yes. In all its farm-to-table, stunningly renovated Victorian Gothic glory.”

  We head out into a truly beautiful May morning. The temperature is in the low seventies. The sky above is a pastel blue. The park is lush and green. Brightly colored blooms are everywhere. So are people bent on enjoying them.

  At the restaurant we’re shown to a table on the bricked patio that is virtually in the park. I order mimosas to sip while we peruse the menu. I hope they’ll help me find the backbone required to “do the right thing” and to maybe ease the anxious look in Bree’s eyes.

  At the waiter’s suggestion we start with an appetizer of Maple Brown Sugar Bacon. It takes the whole mimosa and several slices of bacon each for the mixture of sugar and alcohol to begin to relax us.

  “I think they should rename this ‘ambrosia of the gods,’” I say around a mouthful of bacon. “Why didn’t someone invent this sooner?”

  “Because those of us with a sweet tooth and an inefficient metabolism would gain so much weight we’d be waddling.” Bree waves a piece as she replies. “You could probably eat it all day and still fit into those skinny jeans of yours that I used to covet.”

  We order a second round of mimosas and sip them with Eggs Benedict Florentine (so that we can say we had spinach) and Brioche French Toast (because once you awaken your sweet tooth resistance is futile).

  “I’m afraid to think about how many calories I’m consuming,” Bree says.

  “Then don’t.” I hold up my mimosa to hers. “Let’s make this a designated calorie-free day.”

  She smiles, taking in the setting, the food on our plates, the patio filled with equally fizzy smiles and low conversation. The occasional celebrity gets seated or strolls by and no one makes a fuss. “This really is the life, isn’t it?”

  “It has its moments.” My smile tightens as I think what it took to get here. When I look up, Bree’s eyes are on my face. A strange, almost reluctant expression spreads across hers.

  “I’ve been thinking about how far you’ve come since you first arrived in New York alone. And I . . . I just want to tell you how sorry I am that I left you in that situation. At this point I’m not even sure why I backed out. I know I was afraid. I know I had no real belief in myself or my writing ability.” A shadow passes over her face and is followed by an intentional straightening of her shoulders that she’s been making since she entered my apartment. “I wanted to be safe and loved.” She takes another sip of her mimosa. “I don’t even know whether Clay ever really loved me. Or if anyone could have ever given me as much love as I needed.”

  Her words are as unexpected as they are comforting. Her apology is a balm that flows over the hard knot of loss and hurt and anger I’ve clung to all these years. “I know Clay loves you.” I picture him with the box holding Bree’s manuscript and vow to make sure she knows that he was directly responsible for me reading it. “He just doesn’t seem to be all that good at forsaking all others.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you did get Rafe and Lily out of it.”

  Bree smiles and it’s not the resolute one she appeared with today. “I wouldn’t trade being their mother for anything.” She looks at me. “I know for a fact that your mother feels the same. How many times has she told you that?”

  That number is beyond counting. My mother’s is the first voice I remember. The one I hear inside my head. The positive one that tells me I can do or be anything I choose. That voice didn’t laugh when I decided as a child that I would be a bestselling author. It didn’t chide me or try to keep me from going to New York on my own, though she must have been worried. It never pushed me to do anything but be myself and follow my dreams.

  My mother has been a one-woman cheering section my entire life, and I have been torturing her for more than a month now. I haven’t even attempted to hear her out or to get over my hurt and anger. I’ve just rained it down all over her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Hmmm?” I look up. “Yes. Sorry. Just thinking.”

  And not just about my mother.

  I set down my glass, fold my hands on the table, and look directly at Bree. My fear and hesitation are gone. I know deep inside that it doesn’t matter what words I choose. Or—hopefully—how long it’s taken me to find them. If our reality—our status quo—is about to shift, then so be it.

  “I’ve read Heart of Gold and it’s really, really good.”

  * * *

  Bree

  I blink. Lauren’s words came out in such a rush that I assume I’ve misheard. Or maybe I’ve put the words I most want to hear in her mouth. “What?”

  Lauren’s hands are clasped so tightly on the table that her knuckles are white. “Clay gave me your manuscript when we left your house and . . . I finally read it yesterday. In one sitting.”

  Our eyes lock. I wait, barely breathing, for whatever is going to come next.

  “And it’s so good that I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you.”

  The adrenaline that’s been pumping through my bloodstream must have muddied my thinking along with my hearing. “You read Heart of Gold yesterday and you didn’t want to tell me that it’s good?”

  “I just . . . I wasn’t prepared. It took me by surprise . . .” Her voice trails off and I can see how much she wants to look away. “I guess deep down—or maybe not even very deep down at all—I didn’t want it to be good.”

  I am actually speechless. As in I’m still trying to absorb this and do not know what to say. Our friendship eroded almost twenty years ago, and apparently her memory of anyone’s talent but her own went with it.

  “Because?”

  “Because . . . I’m small and petty and it was so good and it was so . . . honest . . . that . . .” She swallows and sets her jaw. “I was jealous.”

  Lauren is jealous of me. Of my manuscript. Because it’s so good.

  This is possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. The single nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. The very thing this morning’s found rejections made me fear I’d never hear.

  I let go of the urge to give her shit for not believing in me all these years. “Could you say that part about my manuscript again?”

  “It’s really good.” This time she nods for emphasis as she says it.

  I feel the absolute mind-numbing joy of validation, but . . . “Do you think you could say it one more time?”

  “It’s so good and so fresh and so honest, that I’m jealous.”

  I close my eyes. A celestial choir sings in my head. When I open them she’s watching me. Waiting.

  “I’m very glad—and relieved—that you liked it. But . . . I found three form rejections in my spam this morning. If it’s so good why didn’t any of them want it?”

  Lauren smiles. “Do you remember me telling you about all the rejections I got before Sandcastle Sunrise finally sold?”

  I wince as I always do at the mention of the book that we brainstormed together and that she used to build her career. But I also nod. What are the chances that I would have hung in there for twenty nos when I’m so thrown by my first three?

  “Would you like to hear a few?” Lauren asks. “Just to put things in perspective?”

  I nod again but only because I don’t want to sound like a frightened child.

  I wait for her to pull letters or pieces of paper from her purse or out of her pockets, but she just clears her throat and says, “‘I find I can’t like the characters in the way that I wish I could. I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.’”

  I gasp.

  Lauren continues, in a carefully emotionless voice. “‘Your submission is missing that special something that really good novels require. I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I suggest extensive rewrites before you submit elsewhere.’” After a short breath she adds, “‘This submission
lacks an interesting plot. Your characters are also one-dimensional. I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.’”

  The lack of emphasis makes the words even harsher and more difficult to listen to.

  Her face is equally expressionless as she concludes with, “‘I find your characters wooden and unrelatable. I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. Best of luck in placing your work elsewhere.’”

  “Oh my God. That’s . . . those are horrible.”

  She nods. “Great reviews and feedback feel fabulous in the moment, but for some reason it’s the negative ones you never forget. Some of the others were even worse.” She sighs. “But I came to realize they were just opinions. I reread them for years. Twice on the days I wanted to give up. I was determined to prove them wrong and to have the last word. Three or four years ago, two of those editors tried to lure me away from my current publisher. They were both throwing big money at me.”

  “And?”

  This smile is one of grim satisfaction. “And it inspired my publisher to offer even more to keep me. Plus, I had the pleasure of instructing Chris Wolfe to tell both of them that their offers did not excite me as I’d hoped. And that I was afraid I’d have to pass.”

  Her answer is both terrible and wonderful. I could never say or do such a thing.

  “The point I’m trying to make is that you can’t control what others think. You’ve heard that saying, ‘Opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one’? The only things you can control are how good a book you write and how you react to the assholes. You alone choose whether you’re going to let them stop you. Or use them to spur you on.”

  “So that’s all there is to it? I just keep sending out proposals until somebody says yes?”

  “Well, your proposal could use a little tweaking. You made a few rookie mistakes at the beginning of the book. It’s not a difficult fix. I can show you how if you want before you submit to anyone else.”