by Meg Cabot
I cannot speak, due to all the cookie in my mouth. This, I think, can only be a good thing.
“Lizzie?” I turn my head and see Shari standing there. My heart sinks. Not that I’m not happy to see her. I’m just not looking forward to what I know is about to follow.
I swallow. “Hi, Share,” I say. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine,” Shari says, eyeing my sisters with distaste. “I was wondering if I could have a word with you—alone—for a moment.”
“No problem,” I say. But of course it’s a problem. I can tell from the expression on Shari’s face that I’m not going to like whatever she’s got to say.
I follow her up the stairs to my old room—which has been turned into a guest room—nonetheless, and sink down onto my old bed, trying to avoid the accusing stares of the Madame Alexander dolls my mom’s parents sent me over the years. Jo March looks particularly disappointed in me as she glares down at me from my childhood bookshelf.
“Lizzie,” Shari says, closing the door behind her. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, keeping my gaze on my feet.
“Yes, you do,” Shari says. “Are you on those drugs my dad prescribed you? Because if you are, I want you to stop taking them. I thought they’d help, not send you into a complete break with reality. I mean, sleeping with Chaz? Have you lost your mind? What about Luke?”
Tears fill my eyes. I look up, only to find that Jo’s mom, Marmee, is staring down at me with an even more accusing look than her daughter. Why, oh, why, had Grandma and Grandpa insisted on sending me a Madame Alexander doll for every birthday and Christmas until I turned sixteen? There are just so many of them, all looking down at us.
“It’s… it’s not like that,” I say, my voice catching. “I never even took any of those pills.”
“Then what the hell is going on, Lizzie?” Shari demands. She crosses the room in a single step and sinks down on the bed beside me. “Because this isn’t like you. And don’t try to deny it’s going on, because it’s written all over both your faces—beard burn not withstanding. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always thought you and Chaz would make a great couple. I’ll admit the whole Mae Lin thing was to make you jealous. I knew you’d never realize how great Chaz was until you saw him with another girl—a real girl, not a fembot like Valencia. I knew how he felt about you—it was totally obvious. He couldn’t talk about anything but you. It’s true you were the one thing he and I still had in common, but no guy talks about a girl that much unless he’s crazy about her. Which he all but admitted to me. You were the one I wasn’t too sure about.”
I shake my head. “What do you mean, Mae Lin was to make me jealous? What are you talking about?”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it? You were jealous, right? I couldn’t believe how you stomped over there and picked a fight with the poor guy the minute Mae Lin and Valencia went downstairs. He had no idea what was going on. Oh my God, I nearly wet my pants I was laughing so hard.”
Now I’m a little mad. Also a little stunned by Shari’s underhandedness. She’s been my best friend since forever. But I had no idea she was capable of this kind of duplicity.
“Shari,” I say. “That’s so mean. You were plotting all along to fix me up with your ex, when you knew perfectly well I’m engaged? To his best friend? And you used some poor girl from your office to do it?”
“Oh, whatever,” Shari says, making a pooh-poohing gesture. “Mae Lin’s dating a hot paramedic. She was willing to play along. But I never thought you’d actually fall into bed with the guy before breaking up with your fiancé. At your grandmother’s funeral. What are you doing? Have you completely lost it?”
I glare at her. I’m pretty sure I look every bit as accusing—and disapproving—as the Madame Alexander dolls above our heads.
“For your information,” I say, “I was not jealous of Mae Lin. And who I sleep with behind my fiancé’s back at my grandmother’s funeral is my business.”
“Well, excuse me,” Shari says, looking taken aback. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. You or Chaz.”
“Oh,” I say, unable to keep from letting out a bitter laugh. “Now you’re worried about Chaz’s feelings?”
“Hey.” Shari narrows her eyes at me. “That’s not fair. You know I loved him.”
“Well,” I say. “So do I.”
“Do you?” Shari wants to know. “Well, then why are you still wearing Luke’s ring on your finger?”
“I have some things I still need to figure out,” I admit, uncomfortably pressing my left hand into the mattress so neither of us can see my ring finger. “I’m not saying I have all the answers just yet, Shari. I feel like I’m barely hanging on, as a matter of fact. But I know I love him, and I think I always have.”
“What about Luke?” Shari demands.
“I’m doing the best I can, okay? Luke’s in France,” I say. “I’ll wait until he gets back to figure out what’s going on—or not—between the two of us. In the meantime… well, engaged isn’t married, you know,” I add. “Or dead.” I’m a little startled to find myself parroting Gran’s words. But what more appropriate place to do it, I realize, than after her funeral.
Shari looks at me as if she were seeing me for the first time. Maybe in a way she is. She shakes her head and asks, “Did you ever look up what solipsistic means?”
“Yes,” I say indignantly. “And it’s not true. I’m not extremely preoccupied with indulging my own feelings and desires. If I were, I’d never have moved out of Luke’s Fifth Avenue apartment, much less looked twice at Chaz. He’s a poor graduate student, whereas Luke’s a rich prince, remember?”
Shari, to my relief, lets out a laugh. The Madame Alexander dolls look startled.
“That’s true,” she says. And she reaches over and takes my hand, the one with the engagement ring still on it. “Oh, Lizzie. Be careful. You’re playing with fire here.”
“Me?” I raise my eyebrows. “You’re the one who just admitted you hired a girl from your office on purpose to flirt with Chaz to try to make me jealous!”
“But I thought you’d do the right thing and break up with Luke first,” Shari cries. “Not start sleeping with Chaz during your grandmother’s funeral. Not that it isn’t a fitting tribute to her, one she’d have gotten a huge kick out of. Still. I’m just worried someone’s going to get hurt. And I’m afraid it’s going to be you.”
I squeeze her hand. “I’m a big girl now, Share,” I say. “I can take care of myself.”
But as we make our way back downstairs, I wonder if that’s really true. Can I? It’s true I’m living on my own for the first time ever. I’m supporting myself, running my own business (well, practically), and at any given time spinning a dozen plates in the air at once. If I dropped just one, the whole thing would come tumbling down in a mess like no one would believe…
So what am I doing, having this torrid affair with my fiancé’s best friend?
And it is torrid, I realize when I walk into the living room and notice him standing there waiting for me, and my heart slams into my ribs as it always seems to whenever I see him. I’m not going to escape from this unscathed. None of us are, I know.
But when Chaz lifts his head and I feel that electric shock that always seems to go through me lately when I look in his direction and his gaze meets mine, I realize I don’t care. I don’t care what’s going to happen. As long as we can be together…
For now.
For however long now lasts.
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
F lowers have always played an important role in weddings, since the very first recorded marriage ceremonies in ancient Greece, where they were used to make a crown for the bride to wear as a gift of nature. Floral wreaths and garlands were often used in ancient ceremonies to bind couples together in lieu of rings.
Different herbs and flowers—such as garlic flowers as well as bulbs—were often carried to ward off evil spirits. Evil spirits, of c
ourse, are not the only ones who’d be warded off if brides today started carrying garlic bulbs.
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
It’s traditional to give your wedding guests a favor by which to remember the day. This is a centuries-old practice that stems from the French habit of giving bonbonnieres, or sugared almonds, to departing guests. Today’s couples tend to choose candles or, if you really want to bring on the bling, rhinestone sunglasses.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 17 •
In all of the wedding cake, hope is the sweetest of plums.
Douglas Jerrold (1803–1857), English dramatist
I am standing with my forehead resting against the wide glass window overlooking the planes landing and taking off on the tarmac in front of me. Chaz and I have flown commercially out of Ann Arbor and are waiting for our connecting flight to LaGuardia from Detroit.
What I hadn’t prepared myself for is Luke’s unexpected phone call midway through the screwdrivers Chaz and I were downing at the Fox Sports Bar while waiting for boarding.
“How are you?” Luke had wanted to know. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you, Lizzie. I know it must have been really, really hard. But you know I couldn’t get away from the office. Uncle Gerald really needs me here.”
I’d had to leave the bar and wander the concourse. I couldn’t talk to Luke in front of Chaz.
“Of course,” I’d said. “I know. And I’m good, I’m fine.”
There are thunderheads gathering along the horizon. They’re what’s causing our flight to be delayed. Just a half hour so far. But who knows? We could be stuck in Detroit overnight.
And yet somehow the thought of being stuck in Detroit—or anywhere—with Chaz doesn’t bother me. At all.
It’s wrong that I’m talking to my fiancé on the phone and thinking about how much I don’t mind being stuck in an airport with his best friend. Whom I can’t seem to stop touching. Every time I’m away from him I feel something akin to a physical pain until I can get back to his side and lay my hand on his arm or touch his shoulder or slip my fingers into his… It’s totally bizarre, and something I’ve never experienced before. Not even with Luke, the man to whom I’m engaged.
Rose is right. I am a slut.
“But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Luke is saying.
“You have?” I’ve completely lost track of the conversation. Behind me, one of those people movers is going beep-beep-beep as it tries to shuttle some elderly passengers to their gate, and no one will move out of its way.
“I have,” Luke says. “How would you feel about coming to Paris for a week?”
I shake my head as if there were a bee inside it.
“Me?” I ask. “You mean…?”
“Right. I want a break from our break,” he says.
“Um,” I say. “You want me to come visit you? In Paris?”
My God! He can tell! He can tell about me and Chaz! I hadn’t mentioned that Chaz had shown up to the funeral. And Chaz obviously hadn’t spoken to Luke since he’d arrived.
This is horrible. Luke’s going to break up with me now, over the phone. Oh well. I deserve it. I’m a horrible person. I’m on the highway to hell.
I close my eyes, in preparation for being broken up with.
But all Luke says is “It’s just, I’ve really been enjoying my time here. I know I shouldn’t say that, considering what you’ve just been through. But it’s true. I forgot how much I love Paris. And working with Uncle Gerald has been great. I’m really having a blast.”
I open my eyes. Wait. This isn’t breaking up with me. This doesn’t sound like breaking up with me at all.
“I forgot how much I love working in the business world,” Luke goes on. “It’s really been fantastic. And I think you’d love it too. You know what a great time you had here last summer. It’s such a shame you didn’t come with me.”
“Well,” I say. “I really couldn’t afford the time away from work.” Each word sounds foreign as it falls from my lips. Except that I’m speaking in English.
“Sure,” Luke says. “I know. Your job is important to you. I know that now. This break has taught me that. Really, Lizzie. It has.”
I sneak a peek over at Chaz. He’s watching the television over the bar. It’s broadcasting a golf game. Based on his television viewing habits back in the hotel room—the few times we actually turned it on—I’m starting to realize there really isn’t any sport Chaz won’t watch.
“That doesn’t freak you out, does it?” Luke asks. “I mean, that I’m enjoying it here so much?”
“Why should that freak me out?” I ask. What’s freaking me out is that I’m sleeping with my fiancé’s best friend, a guy who also happens to be my best friend’s ex-boyfriend. Yeah, my best friend who’s a lesbian now. That’s what’s freaking me out.
Not that I’m going to mention this to him.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Luke says. “I mean, I haven’t given up on the medical school thing yet. Not completely. I’m just… I’m not totally sure it’s for me, and Paris… well, Paris is so incredibly great. I just think you’d really love it—”
Okay. Now I’ve officially freaked myself out. I have to get off the phone. I have to get off the phone now.
“Uh-oh, they’re calling my flight,” I lie. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later, Luke.”
“Oh, right,” Luke says. “Love you!”
“Love you too,” I say and hang up.
What just happened? What just happened there? I don’t even know if I can deal with it. I hurry across the crowded concourse to slide back onto my bar stool at the Fox Sports Bar, pick up my screwdriver, and drain it.
“Slow down, there, slugger,” Chaz says, observing me with some alarm. “They have more vodka back there than just what’s in that glass, you know.”
I set down my empty glass and lay my head down upon the bar. “He wants me to come to Paris to see him,” I say to the beer nuts that have fallen to the airport floor.
“The bastard,” Chaz says. “Next thing you know, he’s going to want to set a date for the wedding.”
I lift my head and look at him. He’s wearing a Wolverines baseball cap and is looking adorably—and sexily—rumpled, as if he’s just rolled out of bed.
Which, in fact, he has. With me.
The guilt over what we’ve done slams me—as it does a hundred times a day—yet again.
I drop my head back onto the bar. I want to start sobbing. I really do.
Chaz lays a large hand on the back of my neck. “Cheer up, sport,” he says. “It could be worse.”
“How?” I demand of the bar top.
“Well,” he says after stopping a moment to think about it. “At least you’re not pregnant.”
This doesn’t have the comedic effect Chaz apparently intended it to.
“Chaz,” I say miserably. “Everything you said that morning after Jill’s wedding is true. I know it. Luke really did ask me to marry him only because he was scared of being alone. I realize that now. He doesn’t care about me. I mean, he does, but not… not the way you care about me. If he did, he’d have shown up for Gran’s funeral. You did. But even so. Now look at the mess I’m in. I’ve got a fiancé I don’t love who wants to marry me. And a lover I do love who doesn’t. Why don’t you want to get married, Chaz? Why?”
“I’ve told you why,” Chaz says. “And if you won’t accept me as I am, warts and all, then maybe you’re better off with Luke. He’s the one offering you the ring, the investment banker’s bonus, and the place on Fifth Avenue. You’d be crazy not to go with him. All I’ve got is a walk-up in the East Village and a low-paying teaching assistant’s salary. Oh, and no ring. I don’t know what you’re doing sharing this bowl of beer nuts with me in the first place.”
I stare blearily down into the nut bowl. He’s not, I know, referring to beer nuts. At least entirely. I can’t help remembering that cold night when we’d sparred so un
pleasantly at O’Riordan’s, and I’d asked myself afterward what, if you didn’t end up getting married, the point was.
The crazy thing is, with Chaz, I’m sort of starting to see. I mean, the point is just to be together. Who cares about a stupid piece of paper?
Wait—did I just think that? What is happening to me? Who am I even turning into? Can I actually be turning into that kind of girl? The kind of girl who doesn’t care about marriage?
I guess so. I mean, I’m already the kind of girl who cheats on her fiancé—with his best friend.
I groan aloud suddenly. “How can I do this to him? How can we do this to him?” I cover my face with my hands. “I’m going to throw up. I swear.”
“Please do it in that trash can over there,” Chaz says. “And stop beating yourself up. He hasn’t exactly been a Boy Scout himself while you two have been together.”
I blink at him from between my fingers. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Do you want another drink? They just delayed our flight by another hour. I think you need another drink.” He signals the bartender. “This young lady would like another screwdriver. Ketel One.”
The bartender nods and takes away my old glass to make a new drink.
“I’d rather have a Diet Coke,” I say to the bartender. I’ve lowered my hands and am gripping the bar in an effort to stay upright. The vodka I’ve just downed so quickly has made me light-headed. “What do you mean, Luke hasn’t exactly been a Boy Scout while we’ve been together?” I ask Chaz.
“I told you, nothing. Look, I’ve always wanted to ask you. What’s with the garter?”
“What?” I stare at him in an alcohol-befuddled daze.
“The thing with the garter,” Chaz says. “At weddings. You know, when the groom peels the garter off the bride and throws it to the guys.”
“Oh,” I say. The bartender has delivered my Diet Coke, and I take a grateful swig. “That’s from olden times, when people in the court were required to follow the newly wedded couple to their bedroom after the ceremony to make sure they consummated the marriage. They’d demand the royal bride’s garter or stocking as proof that the defloration had occurred. Since peasants like to imitate the behavior of nobility, it became standard practice to demand that all brides give up their stockings or garters after the ceremony—sometimes the wedding guests would take the garter by force, so it became traditional for the groom to take it off during the reception so people wouldn’t follow the bride and groom back to their bedroom, and also so that the wedding guests wouldn’t rip it off her.”
