My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

by Wendy Wax

  “Gosh, I can’t think when I’ve felt this relaxed and we’ve only been here a couple of hours,” Spencer says after another sip of his margarita.

  “This place can do that to you.” My mother is clearly pleased. “Maybe it will inspire something. Wasn’t Lin-Manuel Miranda on vacation on an island when he first read Alexander Hamilton’s biography?”

  “True,” Spencer says. “Hawaii, as I recall.”

  “Well, just let us know if a song starts coming to you, and I’ll ask for extra napkins,” I tease, although he has in fact started more than one song in just this way.

  He laughs but in truth this is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him if you don’t count the first minute or two after sex.

  We look over our menus, and I worry slightly that Spencer is going to try to turn this into a foodie experience, but he says, “All the appetizers look great. I’m happy to try anything you put in front of me.”

  And so he does as we work our way through orders of tuna nachos, fish tacos, mussels, steamed crab legs, and everything else we can think of that he might like until the sun puddles into the water, sending up a last celestial glow. Full and content, I lean against Spencer while he charms and entertains my mother, who is always a first-rate audience.

  It’s close to nine by the time we head back to the house. Inside, both Spencer and I yawn.

  “Must be all the fresh air. I have some reading I need to do and I wouldn’t mind doing it horizontal. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll call it a night.” He leans over and kisses my cheek then hugs my mother. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “My pleasure. Sleep well.”

  He nods pleasantly, but I know from experience that’s the last check he’ll let her pick up.

  “I won’t be too long behind you,” I say before following my mom into the kitchen.

  “So?” I drop down onto a dinette chair.

  “So . . . what?” She sits across from me with an innocent look on her face.

  I look back.

  “Seriously? I can’t believe you even have to ask. He’s a great guy. I like him. And he’s clearly crazy about you. Which in my book takes precedence over pretty much everything else.” She hesitates. “But the only thing that matters is how you feel. And that you’re certain.”

  My mother’s always taken this approach. No pushing, no agenda. I don’t know where she learned this given how young she was when she lost her parents or if she was just born that way, but at the moment I’m incredibly grateful that when fate spun the mother roulette wheel, I hit the jackpot.

  “Yeah.” I feel a warm glow at her praise. “He is great and I do love him. I want to marry him. It was just that there were some work things that took me by surprise. And then I turned forty and then there was the proposal. You know how badly I react to the unexpected. I just needed time to process.”

  An odd look of distress passes over her face, and I try to imagine why. My need to be prepared so that I’m not taken by surprise is, after all, no surprise to her.

  “And we come from such different places and backgrounds. He has no idea what it’s like to be without money or a family to lean on.”

  There’s that look again and then she says, “You and I have always had each other and friends who feel like family. And I hope . . . well, I know it hasn’t been easy, but I hope it’s been enough. I . . .” She clasps her hands and presses them in her lap. Her face clears, but not without effort. “What I mean is you and Spencer wouldn’t have lasted a year and Spencer wouldn’t have asked you to marry him if you didn’t have enough in common. You’re both creative. You both love and feel at home in New York. Although I don’t have much experience with marriage, my guess is you don’t necessarily want to spend your life with someone who’s exactly like you. Where would the fun be in that?”

  Her words make sense but there’s something off. She stands and begins to putter, getting coffee ready for the morning, double-checking ingredients for brunch tomorrow. This forces me to think of Bree and all the crap that’s piled up between us. I retrieve a sponge and wipe off the table and the already clean countertops. I wonder if I can get away with skipping the store visit and just ask Spencer to snap a candid photo of me that can be Photoshopped in front of Title Waves.

  As if she’s reading my mind my mother looks up from the cabinet she’s closing. “I hope you’ll try to mend fences with Brianna.” She swallows. “She could really use a friend right now.”

  My “hmmph” is barely audible. I don’t even ask why she thinks Brianna needs a friend. It’s not as if I didn’t need Brianna when she bugged out on me and the plans we’d made. And then when I tried to warn her that Clay wasn’t really ready to settle down yet she accused me of being jealous and petty and not wanting to see her happy. When I came back to be her maid of honor because of a promise we’d made in kindergarten and because my mother was planning it, she acted as if she’d been invited into some secret sisterhood that I couldn’t possibly understand.

  It only got worse when she started having children and I got published, which happened right around the same time. Ultimately, we had nothing left in common except a shared birthdate, a former friendship, and a mother who still treated us like sisters even when we so clearly weren’t.

  I pull silverware out of the drawer and start setting the table, mostly to have something to do with my hands. I nod so she knows I heard her, but I don’t promise anything. I can’t. Even if Bree and I both apologize for letting the other down—and that’s a big if, I don’t really see us suddenly being BFFs again as if nothing happened. I don’t care what those glass-is-half-full people say. Positive thinking and good intention can take you only so far.

  My mother carries juice glasses over to the table and begins to place them rather emphatically as if in punctuation. “You know, sometimes people make mistakes.” Blam. “One bad choice can lead to another.” Blam. “And then another.” Blam. “Before you know it your life is upside down and you’ve hurt people you never meant to.” Blam. “People you love.”

  This of course has nothing to do with what we’ve been talking about. Or if it does she hasn’t explained what that connection is. Plus, her voice is kind of shaky and it’s a miracle none of the glasses shattered.

  “Mom?” She isn’t looking at me. She’s studying the table as if wondering how the glasses got there. I feel a prick of fear. “Are you all right?” I step closer and reach for her hand.

  Her head jerks up. There’s a haunted look in her eyes I’ve never seen before. But it’s gone in seconds.

  “Of course I’m all right. I’m just overexcited. All I need is a good night’s sleep and I’ll be raring to go.” She yawns as if to illustrate, but once again something feels off. “I know you never sleep the night before you fly. I’m guessing you could use a good night’s sleep, too.”

  I watch her closely as she brushes off my concern. My mother always urged us to share our worries and problems and I’m an adult now. Good God, I’m middle-aged. “You do know that I love you and that I’m here for you, whatever you need, just like you’ve always been for me.”

  Her face clears and her smile is warm, but I can tell the change required effort. “I know, sweetie, and it means a lot to me. But I think I need to get to bed now.”

  There’s a reticence in her manner, a watchfulness. Something is bothering her and for some reason she’s unwilling to share it.

  “Okay,” I say, finally blowing a hank of hair out of my eyes. “Until tomorrow, then.” I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Sleep tight.”

  “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” She completes our bedtime ritual automatically, and I turn reluctantly and leave her there. As I walk to my old bedroom, I think of all that she’s sacrificed and done for me. How we’ve always shared everything, how she’s always given and demanded total honesty. At least with me. She’s always treated Bree as if she’s somehow too
fragile for such things.

  My imagination sits up and gets to work spewing out a stream of worst-and-even-worst-case scenarios. Potential illnesses fill my head. I attempt to beat them back but there are too many possibly awful diagnoses to demolish them completely. I tell myself that whatever it is we’ll deal with it together. Sick is not a death sentence. I can handle sick. I have resources. And some of the best doctors in the world are in New York City. Terminal, however, is out of the question. I am not ready to even contemplate a world without my mother in it.

  * * *

  I enter the bedroom where Spencer is sleeping peacefully in the center of the joined mattresses, clearly unconcerned with the crack. His arms are thrown out in abandon. I love that he sleeps with the same enthusiasm he does everything. I slide gently into bed, careful not to wake him. Then I curl up against his side and lay my head on his shoulder.

  I’m watching his chest go up and down, cataloguing each breath, when I hear my mother moving around her bedroom. I used to fall asleep to that sound, soothed and comforted by the fact that she was just across the hall. The wind kicks up another notch and I hear the sand pelt the house. The Sandcastle begins to sway.

  Now I send up a silent prayer to counter my out-of-control imaginings. Please, God, don’t let her die. I’ll find a way to be okay with anything else but that.

  Fifteen

  Kendra

  Given the confession I’m going to have to make tomorrow I expect to spend the night wide-eyed and awake, but I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  When I wake early-morning light is creeping through the window. Telling myself this is a good omen, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and dress, then head into the kitchen to make coffee.

  The warm dark smell wafts through the kitchen and wraps itself around the salt-tinged air, and I tell myself that everything will somehow work out. That I’ll find a way to explain. That I’ll keep talking until I make Lauren understand that I never set out to pass myself off as a widow but that when I saw the sign in front of Snug Harbor and went in to see about renting a room, I burst into tears and admitted Lauren and I were pretty much alone in the world. When I stopped crying long enough for Barbara, the landlady, to tell me that she knew how hard it was to lose a husband, I didn’t correct her mistaken assumption.

  When I realized that I was going to have to let go of Jake completely for his and Lauren’s sake, I had no choice but to jettison his parents, too.

  The story I made up about the tragic loss of my parents came not long after when Barbara inquired whether I didn’t have any “people” at all. When they actually died in a car crash a year and a half later, I worried that my lie had tripped some “kill” switch or something in the universe. Between the fictional deaths and the real ones I felt like some sort of serial killer for whom forgiveness would always be just out of reach.

  But it did allow me to show Lauren pictures of her father and both sets of grandparents without making her feel unloved or ignored by absent relatives. Looking at the small photo album that was one of the few things I’d left home with was one of her favorite pastimes. For me it was more like a penance.

  I drink the last of my coffee to the soundtrack I love; the quiet chirping of birds, the rustle of wind in the trees, and the distant but ever-present sound of the surf advancing and retreating. The house settles companionably around me and for a time I manage to lose myself in the tasks at hand. There’s a part of me that knows I should also be preparing for “the talk” we have to have today, but I’m not sure this is something that can be prepped for. I tell myself not to be afraid. That this is my daughter, the person I love most and am closest to in the world, and that somehow I’ll not only recognize the right moment when it arrives but will also know exactly what to say. I believe this because I must. I simply can’t consider the alternative.

  When Lauren comes out I pour her a cup of coffee then continue my preparations as she settles at her old seat to drink her coffee. She is not a morning person, my daughter, and I know from long experience it’s best to let her let you know when she’s ready for conversation. My heart thumps too wildly while I wait.

  “What can I do to help?” she finally asks mid-yawn.

  “You can just keep me company for now.”

  The yawn ends on a nod. “What are we having?”

  “I’m going to do a triple-cheese and asparagus scramble with buttermilk biscuits and crispy potatoes. Plus, stacks of my world-famous chocolate chip pancakes with homemade syrup.” I realize I’m rushing my words and force myself to slow down. “Bree’s bringing a blueberry crumble for ‘dessert.’”

  “Glad to see you’re keeping it simple and low-cal.” Her tone is light but her eyes on my face are not. “So you are feeling okay.” It’s a statement and a question.

  “Yes.” I take her empty cup and refill it. “Of course.” I find a smile. I know it’s selfish, but I need these last few hours to feel as normal as possible. “I was just thinking that you might want to try on THE DRESS later today.”

  I see her eyes spark with excitement and I tell myself that it’s all right to allow myself the pleasure of seeing her in THE DRESS before I launch into any kind of explanation. I keep the conversation light as we catch up. But I hate having to watch every word and I breathe a shaky sigh of relief when Spencer arrives and places a kiss on the top of Lauren’s head. “Okay—was it my imagination or was the Sandcastle actually swaying last night?”

  Lauren snorts. I welcome the smile that tugs at my lips.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” He drops into the chair next to hers.

  “Yes, it was swaying,” Lauren says. “But that’s a good thing. Houses are built on stilts so that they can move and give in the wind rather than snapping or collapsing.”

  “Ah, so I didn’t actually need to lie there with one eye open in case we had to escape the rubble or something.”

  “Nope.” She’s holding back another snort.

  “That would have been good to know before I went to bed. You know, so that I wouldn’t have spent most of the night worrying about dying.”

  “Sorry. That’s exactly how I feel the whole time we’re in the air.” Lauren leans over and busses his cheek. “Here it’s just part of ‘home.’ You looked so sound asleep when I came to bed I didn’t think to wake you and warn you of what might happen if the wind picked up.” Her amusement is clear.

  “I’m sorry you had a rough night. I’ve always liked the feeling—it’s kind of like sleeping on a boat.” I like him, and I’m incredibly grateful that Lauren will have emotional backup if my confession goes badly. “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Black, thanks. And lots of it. I’m going to need extra caffeine to make up for the hours I lost imagining the roof caving in.”

  “Poor baby,” Lauren teases. “Around here warning someone not to be afraid of the wind is like telling a tourist in New York not to worry about all the people. It’s just part of the package.” She finishes off her second cup of coffee and gets up to serve as my assistant.

  “Are you two planning to look at potential wedding venues while you’re here?” I ask in an attempt to imagine some outcome of my talk with Lauren that will not end in her refusal to ever speak to me again.

  “Absolutely,” Spencer answers quickly. “I think we should look at all the possibilities then sit down and hash it out.”

  “That’s very practical of you,” I say. Have I mentioned how much I like him?

  “Well, I’m only planning to get married once. We might as well take the time to make sure we know what we want.”

  “The Elizabethan Gardens are really beautiful,” Lauren says. “We can take a look around when we go over to Roanoke Island.”

  “Roanoke Island?” Spencer looks up. “Isn’t that where those early colonists disappeared from?”

  “Yes, in fact the Beach Road
out front is also called Virginia Dare Trail. She was the first English child born in the Americas and disappeared with the rest of the colony. Every summer The Lost Colony is put on in this cool waterside theater near the spot where the fort once stood.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah. It’s America’s longest-running outdoor drama—it’ll be eighty-two years this summer.”

  “Eighty-two years, huh?” Spencer smiles. “Kind of puts a good Broadway run in perspective, doesn’t it?”

  “I thought you’d appreciate that.” She smiles impishly at him.

  “You should definitely take Spencer back to Jennette’s Pier and show him the event space upstairs,” I add. “It’s got high ceilings and tons of glass. The view is gorgeous and there’s a covered outside deck.”

  Lauren laughs. “Do you remember when one of the groomsmen at a destination wedding slipped off the pier and went into the water in his rented tux?”

  “Hey, I have a few friends who could use a good dunk now and then,” Spencer says amiably.

  I keep the discussion going, peppering them with questions and suggestions as I get out the brunch ingredients. Right now all I care about is hearing as much of my daughter’s voice and laughter as possible.

  * * *

  Bree

  I slept in my office last night and I’m still barely speaking to Clay on Saturday morning when it’s time to head over to Kendra’s. I’m not sure I can bear to be in the same car with him even for this short a ride. Not today of all days.

  “I’m going to take the Jeep. I need to run back to the store afterward anyway and that’ll save me a little time. See you there.”

  Clay shoots me a look, but I just grab my keys and head outside. Lily climbs in the passenger seat, her thumbs flying over her phone screen, unaware there was a choice to be made. “Dana says she thinks Spencer Harrison is hot. You know, for an old guy.” She buckles her seat belt. “I’ve never met anybody who’s a famous playwright and songwriter. That’s pretty cool, right?”