My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

by Wendy Wax

  Lily leans across the table. “What did Lauren say about your manuscript?”

  “She congratulated me on finishing.”

  Lily sits back. “You mean she hasn’t read it?”

  “Of course not. Like I said, there’s been a lot going on for her this visit.”

  “Um-hmmm.” She looks and sounds unconvinced.

  “Besides, it’s not like you can read an entire manuscript in a couple of hours.”

  “But you asked her to read it, right?”

  I glance away then force myself to look back and meet my daughter’s eyes. “No, I didn’t. But I’m sure if she thought she’d have the time she would have offered.” The lie sticks in my throat for a second, but I manage to get it out. Then I stand and go to the pantry, where I pretend to be looking for something, so that I won’t have to see the expression on Lily’s face.

  In the end it’s Clay who steps in and changes the subject by asking Lily about an upcoming basketball game. Then he teases her about a guard named Shane.

  By the time I come back to the table she’s forgotten about me and my manuscript and is denying that she has a “thing” for the junior who’s apparently lettering in more than one sport. Her blush reminds me of how I once felt about Clay. How, after Lauren left, he and I turned to each other and I told myself that the best marriages often grew out of friendship.

  I drag in a breath of air and try not to fixate on ancient history. I’ve always hated my parents’ preference for things that are dead and buried. But in view of the current state of my marriage it’s almost impossible not to think about all the mistakes I’ve made. The wishful thinking that allowed me to marry a man who didn’t love me quite as much as I loved him.

  And then there’s my last-minute decision not to go to New York with Lauren. Did I back out because I knew I didn’t have the talent, courage, or determination to make it in New York or publishing? Or because I was afraid to leave the familiar comfort of the small town I grew up in? Should I have listened to Lauren when she told me that Clay wasn’t ready to settle down?

  As I sit in the kitchen and stare at the man I married I’m afraid the answer to each of these questions is a resounding, if horrifying, yes!

  * * *

  Kendra

  It’s still dark when I wake early Wednesday morning after yet another night spent tossing and turning. So I sit at the kitchen table sipping coffee and staring out the kitchen window waiting for daybreak. I’m still not sure how to repair the damage I’ve done, or if that’s even possible. But I can’t hide inside the Sandcastle a moment longer.

  Unlocking the front door is only a symbolic gesture, I know. But it’s a declaration of sorts. A start. So are the shorts and T-shirt I pull on.

  As soon as it’s light enough to see I head out to the beach, where my bare feet sink into the cool sand. The breeze is a soft caress as the sun rises out of the ocean and climbs through a cloud-streaked sky.

  The swells roll in low and clean. A squadron of pelicans glides over the surface in search of breakfast. The only prints in the sand are mine and those of the sanderlings scurrying and pecking at the water’s edge.

  I raise my chin and breathe deeply, pulling the beauty deep inside me. With each sparkle of sunlight that reflects off the water I feel calmer, better able to grapple with my guilt over the damage I’ve done.

  I realize as I walk that my vow to never again leap without thinking has made me timid. Too much thought can be as crippling as too little.

  On Jennette’s Pier fishermen bait hooks and send lines flying. Another stands waist high in the shallows casting far out in front of him. The more patient pelicans wait and watch from their preferred perches while others swoop and dive.

  I want to stand here forever, soothed and reassured by my surroundings, but I know now that I need to act. I have to find a way to speak to Lauren. I may not be able to control her reaction to what I have to say, but I can’t let her leave without saying it.

  With new resolve I turn and head back up the beach, my eyes scanning the horizon as my brain sorts through possible courses of action. The most immediate challenge will be getting her to agree to see me.

  I’m almost home when a man comes down the Sandcastle steps and walks toward the water so that our paths will intersect.

  “I thought I might find you out here,” Jake says as I approach. “Not right away, of course. But after I searched your unlocked house for signs of foul play.” His smile is the crooked wry one that’s like an arrow through the heart.

  “I took a walk to try to clear my head.”

  “Did it work?”

  “I think so.”

  “So what happens next? Now that you’ve made it off the couch?”

  “First of all I need to apologize. I’m so very sorry, Jake. Based on what Aunt Velda shared about your wife and your family life, I truly thought I was protecting both of you.”

  He remains silent and I know he has every reason to hate me. I also know that he, more than anyone, should understand why his wife’s instability kept me from making contact.

  “The thing is, I don’t even know if Lauren will ever forgive me. She has very strong opinions and reactions. And she isn’t one to change her mind easily.”

  He flinches at the reminder of how well I know the daughter he’s only just met. And I think of all the times I regretted running. How often I wished he were here. And not just because being a single parent was so hard. But because I loved him so much.

  His jaw hardens and it’s my turn to flinch. Because of the hurt I’ve caused him. And because the person I’ve been closest to since her birth forty years ago doesn’t even want to be in the same room with me.

  “I can’t let her leave without one last attempt at a conversation. But I’m not even sure I can find a way to get in front of her.”

  “I can make it happen.”

  “How?” I keep the why to myself. I am not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

  “I’m taking her and Spencer and Bree and Clay to Blue Point tomorrow night.”

  “You want me to come for dinner?” I search his face, trying to read what’s there.

  “Truthfully, no. I’d actually like the meal to happen and it’s possible that Lauren would insist on leaving when you arrive.” He looks me in the eye. “I think you come over to the table as we’re finishing dessert. Maybe you can act as if you’re just stopping by for a drink and happened to see us. That way it won’t feel like a conspiracy.”

  “And it leaves you off the hook if there’s a blowup.”

  “Yes.” He doesn’t look away, but I can’t read his true motives. I don’t know if he’s setting me up for a fall or is only watching out for our daughter’s best interests. “Yes,” he says again. “It does.”

  Twenty-five

  Lauren

  Blue Point is one of my favorite Outer Banks restaurants. Just past the Duck town center, it sits on the northern end of a boardwalk of shops that overlooks Currituck Sound. This makes it a perfect place to watch the sunset and get a great meal.

  Unfortunately, I’m still so wrung out that food of any kind remains totally unappealing. I have no idea how I’m going to swallow even a bite.

  Expanses of window bring in light and frame the spectacular water views. The decor is contemporary upscale yet cozy. The food is Southern, coastal, and seasonal. They were farm-to-table before the phrase became popular. Spencer’s been happy to try the food everywhere we’ve been but his foodie “antennae” begin quivering the moment we walk in the door.

  It’s not full season yet so the BackBar outside isn’t open and the crowd is largely local. Bree and Clay nod and smile at people they know. I recognize a few friendly faces and even more curious ones.

  We leave early tomorrow morning to catch a three P.M. flight out of Norfolk, so this is our last meal. No sooner do I th
ink this than my brain calls up images of the Last Supper. I’m certainly not picturing myself as you-know-who here, but if I painted my mother into the picture she’d be Judas. I still can’t grasp how greatly my life has shifted. How little I knew the person I thought I knew best. My stomach roils. Like everywhere I’ve been since last Saturday I’m afraid I’m going to run into her and that when I do I’ll burst into tears. Or shout like a crazy person. And, of course, I’m aware that the truth about my past is now common knowledge.

  Heads bend and people whisper as we walk by. I don’t have to guess who and what they’re talking about. To be fair, if it weren’t me this happened to, I’d be talking about it, too. It would be a great plot twist except I’m sure there are those who would call it contrived or far-fetched. Maybe even outside the realm of possibility. Because who on earth would live a lie of this magnitude for forty years?

  We divide our attention and conversation between the sunset and the food that keeps arriving. First come shared appetizers of cornmeal fried wild Virginia catfish, creamy burrata and minted spring pea, and a “taste of Southern goodness,” tiny servings of which I put on my plate but cannot eat. I watch Spencer practically inhale his main course of pan-fried local jumbo lump crab cakes. When he catches me pushing my seared sea scallops around my plate, he first tries to convince me to eat them. When I don’t, he ends up eating them, too. The others sample one another’s dishes. Jake made it clear that we’re his guests. Spencer only agreed if the wines were on him. I’m grateful that they’ve reached a détente about the bill. I don’t think I could take another ounce of conflict without fleeing. Fortunately, the more wine I drink the more able I am to breathe and at least act like myself.

  Spencer takes my hand in his. “It’s good to see you smiling.”

  I smile again, because I can see how much it pleases him. And because I am inebriated.

  “Maybe we should hire someone to drive us in the rental car to the airport,” I suggest as I hold out my empty wineglass for another refill.

  “Why would we do that?” he asks.

  “So I can keep drinking until I get back to my real life.”

  He leans forward to whisper in my ear. “This is your real life, Lauren. And whether or not you like it right now, Kendra is still your real mother.”

  “No.” I shake my head and let go of his hand. “No she’s not. Not anymore.”

  I feel Bree’s eyes on my face and turn my head, reaching for a piece of bread and buttering it before she can say anything. Afterward I alternately drink and pull the bread into pieces that I can’t imagine swallowing. The alcohol helps, but it’s a fine line between comfortably cushioned and a head that’s spinning. I’m not sure I’ll know when to stop.

  I glance up and see Clay blanch. I glance around, afraid he might have spotted Kendra, but there’s no sign of her. When I look again Clay’s face appears perfectly normal.

  “Wow.” I put down my fork and knife. “I am stuffed. I don’t think I can eat another bite.”

  Spencer, who knows how little I’ve eaten, doesn’t comment.

  “What? No room for dessert?” Jake asks.

  “You, who can eat multiple ice cream sundaes in one sitting? I can’t believe it. I have always envied your metabolism.” Bree blushes. I know she has to have envied my career, too. If I’m honest, and it’s hard to lie even to yourself when you’ve had this much to drink, there’ve been times I’ve enjoyed that envy. We look at each other.

  She has bemoaned her curves since we first sprouted breasts and had to start wearing bras, something my mother took us both shopping for. It has apparently never occurred to her that people who are built like a stalk of wheat might trade some of their metabolism for a little of what she’d like to get rid of.

  I raise my chin. Like I said, I am nothing if not competitive. “I might be able to find some room for a little something.”

  “You must have gotten my sweet tooth,” Jake says. “I’ve eaten way more than my share of the triple-chocolate cake at the Dogwood.” My father smiles. If he doesn’t realize that’s one of my mother’s best-known confections, I’m not going to tell him. And if he does? I reach for my wineglass to drain the last of it, then hold it up to Spencer for a refill.

  “You might want to slow down just a little.” He keeps his voice low, but I am way beyond caution. When you’re rushing headlong toward oblivion it’s hard to keep track of each step. We order warm Southern pecan pie, a white chocolate torte, and a piece of key lime pie to share.

  Even though my stomach is roiling and my head feels oddly light and fluffy, I don’t share my Jack (as in Jack Daniels) and Coke float. I feel numb but not in a particularly good way.

  “Will you excuse me?” Bree stands and sets her napkin on the table. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

  “I’ll come with you.” It’s an automatic response that brings me to my feet. How many times did we share a trip to the bathroom in high school and college?

  It takes serious concentration to reach the restroom without weaving or stumbling. On occasion I’ve been jealous of a man’s ability to simply unzip and do his business so quickly, but as I lower myself to the toilet seat I’m glad we do this sitting down and that I don’t have to hurry back to the table. I’m not at all sure how long I’ve been in the stall when I realize I’m finished and have lost track of where Bree might be in the process. I sway slightly as I stand and zip my pants then fumble with the door lock. I don’t see her as I walk carefully to the counter to wash my hands. I do see a much taller blonde at the sink. She appears to be watching me in the mirror. It takes me a minute to assess the face. It’s not the blonde I saw Clay with in their house, but I can tell they’re related. She has the same cheap dye job. Same features. Same build. Same sneer.

  I stare back. I’m perfectly ready to give someone some shit. It might even release some of the pressure that feels like a geyser bubbling inside me. But even as I turn on the faucet I know that the best outcome for Bree, who is just now coming out of her stall, is no outcome at all.

  Bree barely glances at the woman as she washes her hands next to me. She does a very thorough job of it, studying her hands the entire time.

  This really irritates the other woman, who huffs, looks down her narrow nose at Bree, then says, “Some people should pay a little more attention to their husbands if they don’t want to lose them.”

  Bree doesn’t even look up. She is focused on her hands as if they’re the only things in her world that matter.

  “Did you hear me?” the tall blonde says in a tone of voice that normally accompanies a finger poke.

  I’m actually holding my breath trying to figure out how to insert myself between them or, failing that, kick-start my brain so that I can mediate the situation and get rid of the problem. I’m still trying to get my thoughts in order when Bree calmly looks up from her hands as if she just now noticed the other woman. “Kind of hard not to.” She turns off the faucet and waves her hand to activate the paper towel. “Is there anyone in your family who can keep their hands to themselves or their mouth shut when they don’t?”

  I close my mouth, impressed.

  The blonde has no comeback. Finally, she says, “Huh! Some people aren’t as smart as they think they are.”

  “And some people just aren’t smart, period.” Bree dries her hands thoroughly, but not desperately, then drops the used paper towel in the trash. “And that goes for you and your sister.”

  “Huh!”

  “This woman needs to work on her vocabulary,” I point out. “It’s a bit limited.”

  “Damn straight,” Bree agrees. “And maybe she and the other women in her family need to set their sights a little higher than other women’s husbands.” She looks the blonde up and down, cool as a cucumber. “You know what they say. If a man is cheating on his current wife he’ll be cheating on the next one.”

 
The woman huffs again. Then she scurries out with a toss of her hair.

  “Well done, you,” I say with admiration. I’ve let myself forget that Bree was never really the marshmallow people thought she was.

  Bree closes her eyes briefly before meeting mine. “I wish I could tell you that’s the first time another woman thought I needed to know that my husband had strayed. You did warn me that he wasn’t ready for marriage, but that was twenty years ago. I assumed he’d grow out of it.” Her eyes well with tears. “You can go ahead and tell me I told you so if you want to. I deserve it.”

  “No. No you don’t.” I shake my head. I do not mention that Clay brought that woman’s sister into their home. “But . . . how in the world do you put up with it?”

  She squares her shoulders and continues to meet my eyes. “Same way you get to Carnegie Hall.” Her lips tremble even as they tilt up into a smile. “Practice.”

  I blow out a harsh breath at the sheer, awful irony of her smile. Both of us have been lied to by the very people we have loved and thought we could trust. As we head back to the table I’m filled with anger and sorrow on Bree’s behalf.

  Somebody needs to teach Clay Williams a serious lesson. He doesn’t deserve Brianna or the devotion that she’s given him. The way she’s put him first. It would serve him right if . . . I stumble, unable to finish the thought or the step I’ve just taken. Not when I realize what my eyes just skimmed over on their way to the darkening sky outside the windows.

  I yank my gaze back to the pale face that I do not want to see. My gaze narrows so that I feel as if I’m looking down a long, oddly narrow tunnel. At the end of that tunnel is my mother. She’s standing next to our table and talking to my father and my fiancé.

  A voice rings out and silences all the others. It takes a couple of heartbeats to realize that the voice is mine.