by Meg Cabot
And while Sylvia and Marisol have been known to work late, they’ve never worked this late—and they don’t answer when I call out toward the workroom.
Great. This is the one disadvantage of living alone. The part where I could at any time be murdered, and no one in the building can hear my screams. Because I’m the only one in my building.
Gripping my keys so that each one protrudes from between a knuckle, my hand now resembling Wolverine’s from X-Men, I start up the stairs, my body tense as I strain to hear any heavy breathing or scraping of Freddy Krueger–like claws that will give away whoever is waiting to strangle me on the top floor.
But I hear nothing. The hallway is silent. Maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe, in the excitement of the evening, I did flick on the lights before I left.
I’ve almost convinced myself of this as I unlock the front door to my apartment, throw it open, and find a strange man standing beside my living room couch.
I let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead.
“Jesus,” Luke cries, laughing. “Lizzie! It’s me!”
It is. It’s Luke. Luke—my fiancé. Who is supposed to be in Paris, France.
Only he’s not in Paris, France. He is standing in my living room.
“Surprise!” he cries.
Oh, I’m surprised, all right. I’m very, very surprised.
Just not as surprised as Luke might have been, had I not come home alone. And it’s mere luck that I didn’t.
“What are you doing here?” I can’t help bursting out.
“I felt so awful about everything you were going through,” Luke says, coming toward me. “I heard Uncle Gerald had booked a private charter to the city for a meeting, so I grabbed a seat on it.”
He looks so handsome in his cream-colored linen suit, with his pale blue tie, and his dark tan and flashing white teeth. It’s almost as if he were another species from Chaz.
But not a species I care to know. Anymore.
I can’t help taking a quick step backward as Luke approaches me.
“Wow,” I say. “A private charter! How…luxurious!”
“Yeah,” Luke says, taking another step toward me. “I got here in six hours. Total travel time. From France! Can you believe it?”
“That’s amazing.” I take another step backward. If this keeps up, soon I’ll be in the hallway again.
“I know,” Luke says with another of his dazzling smiles. “Isn’t it?”
Luke takes another step forward, and I’m trapped with my back against the door. He twines an arm around my waist and leans down to kiss me. I have to use every ounce of self-restraint in my power to keep from jerking my face away from his.
And then his lips are on mine—those lips I used to love so much—and he’s kissing me hello.
And I feel…nothing.
Nothing! How can I feel nothing? I used to adore this man! I made love on a wine cask to this man! I wanted nothing on earth but to marry this man and have his babies and be with him for the rest of my life.
But I guess there’s more to a relationship than making love on wine casks. Like making the other person laugh until milk comes out of her nose.
And being there for her when she really, really needs you.
I guess that’s how, after not having seen him for nearly a month, when Luke kisses me, I’m capable of feeling nothing.
Luke lifts his head and looks down at me through half-lidded eyes—those eyes I’ve always found so dreamy, with those impossibly long, dark lashes.
“Is everything all right?” he wants to know.
“Sure!” I cry. “Everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” Luke says. “You just seem…nervous about something.”
“Oh,” I say, laughing like a hyena. I’m aware that his hands are on my hips. My hips that are unadorned by Spanx. I think this is the first time ever. Since last summer, anyway. I mean, that he’s touched my un-Spanxed hips and I haven’t been naked in bed. Lying down in a prone position. “I am. I just came from a meeting with the Gecks.”
“The who?” Luke looks confused.
“The Gecks. You know, Get it at Geck’s?”
“Oh,” Luke says. But I can tell he has no idea what I’m talking about. “And how did that go?”
“It went great,” I say. I can still hardly believe it. Suddenly my nervousness is forgotten in my excitement over recounting my incredible evening. “Luke, you don’t even know…your idea—offering brides beautiful dresses at prices they can afford—it was brilliant. A brilliant idea. Ava Geck and I—her whole family and I, as a matter of fact—we’re going into business together. My designs, their business savvy. We’re going to give brides across America beautiful, nice dresses that they can afford. Not just brides, either. Bridesmaids, mothers of the bride, flower girls, dogs—it’s going to be huge.”
Luke laughs—mostly at my enthusiasm, I think. It’s pretty clear he has no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t think he’s ever even heard of Geck’s. Well, his family probably never shopped there in their lives. Maybe his mom sent their housekeeper there to buy cleaning supplies.
But, ever the loyal fiancé, he acts like he knows what I’m talking about.
“Lizzie,” he says. “That’s great! I’m so proud of you!”
“Thanks,” I say. “This all just happened. Just now. I…I’m still a little shell-shocked, I guess. It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted, Luke. It’s going to solve everything. Mr. Geck made me an offer—you can’t even believe how much.”
“Well, that’s even better,” Luke says, grinning more broadly. “We can both fly back to Paris in style, then!”
I stare at him. And realize I need to sit down. Fast.
Oh God. How can I do this? I can’t—I can’t do this. I’m not a Bad Girl. I’m not!
And yet, for the past week, that’s exactly what I’ve been acting like. Maybe—deep down—I am a Bad Girl.
Either way, it’s time to pay the price for my actions.
“Yeah,” I say, heading for the couch, where I sink down before my knees can buckle beneath me. “Listen. About that.”
“Uh-oh,” Luke says. The grin has vanished. “I don’t think I like the tone of your voice right now, Lizzie. Should I be scared? Because suddenly I’m scared.”
I look up at him—his gorgeous, perfect face. I can’t help shaking my head.
“Luke,” I say, in a Who are we kidding with this? voice. “Come on.”
He spreads out both his hands in a What, me? gesture. “What?”
“Seriously,” I say. “Get real with me. For once. I know you’re Mr. Nice Guy and everything. But was that not the worst kiss ever?”
He drops his hands.
And suddenly he drops the pretense as well.
And I realize I may not have to pay anything at all.
“Okay,” he says in an entirely different tone, coming over to the couch and collapsing onto it beside me. It’s as if all the bones have gone from his body. I can see the jet lag has finally kicked in. “Yeah. I’m glad you said something. God…Lizzie…I thought it was me.”
The relief that surges through me is like an electric pulse. It leaves me slumped beside him like a rag doll. I think I must feel almost as exhausted as he is—and I haven’t just traveled thousands of miles to get here.
“It’s not you,” I say. It’s horrible to be falling back on a tired cliché like this. But in this particular case, it really is true. “It’s me.”
“No, Lizzie,” Luke says. “It’s not you.”
“No,” I assure him. “It really is.”
But I’m not going to tell him about Chaz. If I have my way, he’s never going to know about Chaz. At least, not until a suitable mourning period for our failed relationship has passed, during which Luke’s had time to find a fabulous new girlfriend—maybe someone like Valencia, a size 2 who’ll fit into that Vera Wang wedding gown I saw in that display window today—and who will cause him to forge
t all about me.
“I think I just…I pushed you too hard for a commitment you weren’t ready to make,” I say.
“No,” he says valiantly. “That’s not true. It’s just…we’re just at such different places in our lives right now. Jesus, Lizzie, we even ended up on different continents. How could we ever have hoped to make this work?”
I can actually think of a lot of ways we could have made it work. But considering it’s clear neither of us wants to make it work anymore, it seems better to leave them unsaid.
So instead I say, “Well, we can still be friends, right?”
“Always,” Luke says, trying to look sad. But I can see such relief in his sleepy brown eyes, it’s almost comical. It’s the same relief I’d felt out on my stoop that night before he’d left for France, when I’d told him we were taking a break.
I know exactly how he feels. How is this even possible? How could we have disentangled ourselves from this without so much as an angry word or even a tear? Is it possible that we’re just…well, adults?
“Here,” I say. “I want to make sure you get this back.”
And I pull off the diamond that’s been weighing down my left ring finger for so many months. It slips off so easily, it’s almost scary.
“No,” Luke says, looking slightly panicky, putting out a hand to stop me. “Lizzie—no. I want you to keep it.”
“Luke, I can’t keep it,” I say.
“Really,” Luke says, looking completely panic-stricken. I’m not imagining it. “I don’t want it. What am I going to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I don’t understand this. Why won’t he take it? “Sell it. Luke, I’m breaking off our engagement. I can’t keep it.”
“No, I’m the one breaking off our engagement,” Luke insists. “I can’t keep it. You sell it.”
The relief is gone from his eyes. Now I see genuine terror growing there. He really doesn’t want the ring.
Something, I can tell, is wrong. Very wrong.
And our breakup had been going so nicely up until now.
“Okay,” I say gently, slipping the ring under some magazines on the coffee table, since the sight of it seems to upset him so much. “I’ll keep it.”
The relief creeps back into his face.
“Good,” he says, visibly relaxing again. “Good. I want you to have it. I do.”
Um…okay. What kind of guy wants his ex to keep the ring? Especially a ring that cost as much as mine had to have. (Okay. Twenty-two thousand. Tiffany looked it up one day on the Cartier Web site. She was bored.)
I’ll tell you what kind of guy: a guy with a guilty conscience. That’s what kind.
But surely not. Not Luke. Not my sweet, handsome, loving Luke, whom I so cruelly wronged by boinking his best friend in a Knight’s Inn when I went home for my grandmother’s funeral. (Which, by the way, Luke did not fly home for. But he did fly home when I lost my job and apartment. Except that I was more upset about losing Gran. Let’s face it, you can always get another job and find another place to live. You can never replace your grandmother.)
Luke would never do anything for him to have a guilty conscience about. He’s exactly what Shari accused him of being—too perfect. Sure, I thought he might be cheating on me all those nights he spent studying at his place and those afternoons he was at the library, when he said he didn’t want to see me.
But that was just my overactive imagination. I’m the only one with a guilty conscience in this relationship.
Luke yawns—then does look guilty. But only about his rudeness.
“Oh my God,” he says. “I’m so sorry…”
“You must be exhausted,” I say. “You should go. I’d offer to let you crash here, but—”
But we just broke up.
I don’t have to elaborate. Luke gets the message.
“No,” Luke says, getting up. “Sorry. I’ll go to my mom’s. God, this feels so weird. It’s weird, isn’t it? Is it weird?”
“It’s weird,” I assure him, standing as well. It’s just not as weird as he knows. “But I think it’s good. It’s a good thing.”
“I hope so,” Luke says.
And, as we hug good-bye at my doorway, and he gazes down at me, I see that there are actual tears gathered in those deep brown eyes of his. No, really. They’re hovering, like the tiny Swarovski crystals that dot Ava Geck’s phone (only not pink) on the edges of his tremendously long eyelashes.
As if I didn’t feel guilty enough. Now I’ve made him cry.
“You know I’ll always love you, right, Lizzie?” Luke asks.
“Of course,” I say. Though I’m thinking, Oh my God. This is so…Are those really tears? Actual tears? Why aren’t I crying? Should I cry? I guess so, I’m the girl. Oh God, I should be crying. But I don’t feel like crying. Is that because I’m not in love with him anymore, because I’m in love with Chaz? Shouldn’t I cry for what might have been, for the children Luke and I will never have now? Is this because of the hives? It’s hard to cry for a guy who gave me so many hives, I guess. And because he gave up medical school to be an investment banker. If he’d gone through with the doctor thing, I’d be crying, for sure.
I think.
Then Luke gives me one last affectionate hug, kisses the top of my head, and leaves.
As soon as I hear the front door close, and I see him walking slowly down my street through my front window, I’m on my cell phone.
“Get over here right now,” I say into it.
“Is this a booty call?” Chaz replies, sounding delighted.
“You are never going to guess who was just here,” I say.
“Seeing as how you were at the Gecks this evening,” he says, “I am going to take a wild guess and say…Neil Diamond?”
“Luke,” I say, clutching my phone so tightly my fingers hurt. “He shared a private charter over from Paris with his uncle. We just broke up.”
“I’m on my way,” Chaz says, not even a hint of humor in his voice.
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
The first known bachelor party took place in Sparta in the fifth century B.C. Military comrades about to conduct a raiding party to fetch themselves some new brides toasted and feted one another. Since then, men have gathered on the eve before one of them is about to tie the knot to become inebriated, mourn the passing of their friend’s singlehood, and ogle dancing girls.
Brides are encouraged to ignore this long-standing rite of manhood. It’s been around way longer than you have, honey. Let him have his fun. You’ll get your revenge…on your wedding night.
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
Mother of the bride (or groom), don’t think we’ve forgotten you. You’ll want to look your best on the big day as well. How? It’s easy. Start shopping for your dress early, so you’ll have plenty of time to find the perfect look for you. Neutrals are always elegant (leave red to your husband’s trashy new wife and white is, of course, for the bride only), as is black if it’s not a morning ceremony. Nothing too glitzy unless it’s an evening reception.
And remember, you can never go wrong with a good support undergarment, such as Spanx.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 23 •
Let us celebrate the occasion with wine and sweet words.
Titus Maccius Plautus (254–184 B.C.), Roman playwright
He is at my apartment in fifteen minutes. It’s amazing how fast a taxi can travel seventy blocks uptown along First Avenue after midnight.
“I want to know everything,” he says, slinging his backpack—we have not progressed to the point where either of us has a drawer at the other’s apartment yet—onto my couch. “But first…how did it go at Ava’s parents’ place?”
“Oh, Chaz…”
And the next thing I know, I’m in his arms, and it’s—I don’t know how to describe it. It’s completely different from being in my former fiancé’s arms. Instead of feeling self-conscious and strange and awkward, the way I had when Luk
e and I hugged a little while ago, I feel safe and comforted and, most important of all, loved—completely and wholeheartedly loved—when Chaz’s arms are around me. I close my eyes, letting his warmth envelope me, and suddenly the tears that hadn’t been there with Luke show up.
“Whoa,” Chaz says with a gentle laugh, kissing my cheeks. “It was that bad? They didn’t like your drawings? How could they not have liked them? I’ve always loved your little stick women. Did you put top hats on them? I love it when you put top hats on them.”
“N-no,” I stammer, shaking my head as he grips my waist. “Th-they l-loved the top hats! Well, I mean, I didn’t put top hats on any of them. But they loved the drawings.”
“They did? Then what’s the problem?”
“I—I’m just so happy!”
It’s true. I feel so happy, standing there in my living room slash dining room slash kitchen, with Chaz’s arms around me, and—now that I’m no longer engaged—my status on the Bad Girl Scale back to negative, I think my heart might burst.
“So the Gecks are buying your designs,” Chaz says.
I nod. “I’m in charge of design and quality control. Ava’s doing marketing. Her dad’s taking care of everything else. Chaz…I think this could be really great. It’s not going to be crappy. It’s really not. Because Ava’s super-invested in it. Because her name’s going to be on it. She’s actually taking it seriously. I’ve never seen her take anything this seriously. It helps that she’s so into this DJ Tippycat guy, and he turns out to have a business degree from Syracuse. His real name is Joshua Rubenstein. He was there tonight too.”
Chaz looks impressed. “And what about the shop? Tiffany and Monique, and Sylvia and Marisol?”
I chew my lip. “I have a plan for them too,” I say. “But…it’s going to involve some driving.”
“Driving?” he echoes. “Driving where?”
“To New Jersey,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him down onto the couch. “But first…Chaz, seriously…and no joking around. Just tell me. I need to know. What did you mean when you said that stuff about Luke not being a Boy Scout while were dating? Because when we broke up just now…he insisted on my keeping this.” I lean over and pick up the ring from where I’ve hidden it beneath a copy of People. “Chaz, this is an expensive ring. Why would he insist on my keeping it unless he felt super-guilty about something? Huh? It doesn’t make any sense.”
