My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

by Wendy Wax

  I’m struck by how good I feel. How great it is not to weigh each word or worry that what I’ve said has been taken the wrong way. Twenty years without your best friend is like a life sentence. I need this to be more than a temporary reprieve.

  When Bree pauses in her story about something one of the B’s said at a recent book club meeting I say, “I’m so sorry, Bree. Sorry for holding a grudge for so long, for treating you as ‘less than’ and for forgetting—or possibly blocking—how talented a writer you are.”

  When she doesn’t speak I continue, “I hate that we’ve lost all these years, and I especially hate that I hesitated for even a minute to tell you how great your novel is.”

  Her smile takes up most of her face as I continue, “Despite the fact that we had to settle for real pizza instead of the ice cream version, this has been one of the best days I’ve had since I came to New York. And that includes the red-letter days when I signed my first publishing contract, hit the New York Times bestseller list, and slept with Spencer; an unforgettable experience in its own right that possibly deserves its own holiday.”

  Bree’s smile grows even larger. In her eyes I see the same relief I feel. “I’m so glad we had this day together. I can’t tell you how great it is not to have to pretend I haven’t missed you. To finally be able to be honest with each other,” she says just as I’m wondering how on earth I lived without her all this time.

  Then we both start crying. I’m dimly aware that my tears are falling on the pizza and that this will make the crust soggy. I couldn’t care less. It’s so odd to smile and sob at the same time. To be so sad and perfectly happy in the same instant.

  If there’s such a thing as a monkey’s wedding of the heart, this is it.

  Thirty-seven

  Lauren

  I don’t normally drink to excess, but I can tell when I open my eyes early Sunday morning that I have a hangover and that it’s going to be memorable.

  Bree and I sat up way too late drinking wine and laughing and finally catching up without all the filters and censors in place. I lost count of the number of times she replayed my video praising Heart of Gold. But if you could wear a groove in a cell phone hers would have a big one.

  The sky is that deep, ugly gray that tells you it means business. Rain spatters the windows. What little light makes it through the windows is half-hearted, as if the sun, too, has been drinking and just can’t give its all. I pull on my robe. As I tiptoe past the open door of my office I see Bree snoring lightly on the sofa bed. She’s curled into a fetal position, wrapped around her manuscript.

  Even before I put on the coffee, I down three Tylenol with two full glasses of water—something I wish I’d remembered to do last night. The rain intensifies as I make the first pot of coffee, and I promise myself that the minute Bree leaves for the airport—something I’m no longer looking forward to—I’m climbing right back into bed.

  Breakfast sandwiches have been ordered and I’m ready for a second cup of coffee when Bree appears at the top of the stairs. Her eyes are at half-mast. Her hair is a rat’s nest and she winces at each step as she makes her way slowly down the stairs.

  “Here.” I shake two Tylenol into her hand and pour her a glass of water. “Drink all of it.”

  “Thanks.” It’s half whisper and half groan.

  “Go sit.” I motion to the living room. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

  There’s another groan of thanks as I join her on the sofa and hand over a steaming mug. She lowers her face over it and inhales. Then she rubs her neck and does a slow neck roll to work out the kinks.

  “I’ve never actually seen someone sleep with a manuscript before,” I say when she seems a little more awake.

  “Yeah. I don’t recommend it.” She does another slow neck roll. “But I couldn’t seem to let go of it.” A small smile plays on her lips. “I watched your video the second I woke up. I was afraid I only dreamed you telling me it was wonderful.”

  “No.” I meet her gaze. “Not a dream.”

  “So I promise this will be the last time I ask. But I just need to double-confirm everything in the light or”—she nods to the window—“not so light of day. I want to be sure you weren’t just trying to make me feel better.”

  “This is me you’re talking to,” I reply. “Gentle is not my default setting.”

  She nods. A fresh smile flickers. “So just to recap. You think that with some work it will sell?”

  “I do.”

  “To a traditional publisher.”

  “Yes.”

  We sip our coffee in silence while rain beats against the windows and headlights flash in the darkness. Umbrellas bob by on the sidewalks below.

  “In that case I don’t think I hate being forty anymore,” Bree says. “Forty’s not too late to be published for the first time, is it?”

  “Given how slowly publishing moves you could be forty-one or even forty-two by the time it hits the shelves. But I believe it’s highly possible. And from what I’ve read and seen, a lot of writers are just getting started at forty. People change fields, decide it’s time to follow a new dream. Some think you have to live for a while first to have something to write about.”

  “Do you think it’s too old to be single?” she asks quietly. “If it comes to that?”

  “Clearly not. As I and millions of others have proven.”

  She glances down into her coffee then back at me. “I was thinking about Clay giving you my manuscript. That was really considerate of him. It shows love. It makes me wonder if maybe we have enough love for each other to save our marriage. If we both try.”

  I know what she wants to hear. “Are you looking for the truth or for reassurance?”

  “I forgot just how direct you can be,” Bree says. “I don’t suppose you’d lie if I needed you to?”

  “I think it would be great if you guys could turn things around, but I think you need to be careful to let him prove himself first,” I say as gently as I can.

  The intercom squawks, announcing a delivery. A few minutes later there’s a knock on the door. I retrieve our egg, cheese, and bacon sandwiches and pass them to Bree. Then I fetch us both another cup of coffee.

  “I’m glad it didn’t rain yesterday,” Bree says when I settle back on the couch and unwrap my sandwich. “I might not have seen Central Park and Strawberry Fields or eaten on the patio at Tavern on the Green or discovered that there’s such a thing as ice cream pizza.” Her gaze is pinned outside, but we’re both focused inward.

  She gives a long, questioning sigh. “How could I have let myself miss all this?” Her gesture encompasses all of New York. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  We take a bite of our sandwiches, which I have been madly in love with since I first discovered them.

  She groans. “I missed breakfast sandwiches.”

  We eat and sip coffee for a few minutes. I’m licking the last bit of cheese from my fingers when a text dings in on Bree’s phone.

  “Oh man. It’s from Delta. Two-hour weather delay.” She thumbs through her apps and reads something. “Hey, can you put on the Weather Channel?”

  On the TV we see a map of the eastern half of the United States. The area from north Georgia up to New York is outlined in a menacing electric green. I turn up the volume and we hear the meteorologist, who is using a pointer to show the nor’easter that’s hunkered down over the East Coast. “Severe thunderstorms with damaging winds and torrential rain are currently drenching cities up and down the Atlantic coast. Hundreds of flights have been delayed or canceled. We’ll be bringing you more as this storm develops.”

  * * *

  Bree

  We’re still watching the Weather Channel when my phone rings. It’s Clay, whom I haven’t spoken to since I left on Tuesday. He doesn’t say anything when I tell him about the delay. “Is the weather as bad as it look
s on television?”

  “Yeah.” There’s a pause. “Did you ever speak to Lily?”

  “No. She didn’t even respond to the photos from Kleinfeld’s. I’m going to have to have a talk with her about not picking up when I get home. That’s not acceptable.” I’m careful not to look at Lauren as I say this.

  “So, you never heard from her at all?” There’s something too tentative in the question.

  “Clay, what’s going on?”

  The silence that follows causes the small hairs on the back of my neck to rise.

  “I’m, uh, not exactly sure where she is.”

  “What . . . what does that mean?” I sit up and clutch the phone tighter to my ear.

  More silence and then, “We had an argument Friday morning before she left for school. I asked her to pick up the mess she left in the kitchen and she went off on me. I lost my temper. She got in my face and . . . I . . . well . . . it got ugly. She yelled at me, told me that she hated me. And then she just stormed out.”

  “Oh, Clay. I asked you to be careful with her.” I feel Lauren’s eyes on me and I try to dial back my anger.

  “I couldn’t help it. She was giving me all kinds of grief and . . . I didn’t appreciate being told to fuck off by a sixteen-year-old. Then later she texted that she was going to spend the weekend at Dana’s so I just . . . Well, I thought we could both use the weekend to cool off. And then you’d be back . . .”

  “Good grief, Clay. You’re the parent. You’re supposed to be present and paying attention. She shouldn’t have spoken to you that way, but you can’t huff off in a snit because your sixteen-year-old daughter said something nasty to you. That’s what sixteen-year-olds do.” I rub my forehead as if that will somehow clear my thoughts. “What did Dana’s mother say when you checked in with her on Friday night? Was Lily okay?”

  This silence is even longer. I get up from the couch and move to the window, but I have no idea what I’m looking at. Everything’s a blur.

  “I didn’t think to call Loretta. Like I said, I thought we could use the weekend off from each other and she’s spent the night there plenty of times.” His tone is defensive, aggrieved. “You should never have gone off to New York for a conference in the middle of everything.”

  “You are not going to turn the tables this time. I came here on business and you were in charge. Parenting is not a nine-to-five job with weekends off.”

  He doesn’t respond to this, which tells me that whatever’s coming next is not something I want to hear.

  “Last night the weather started turning and I figured I’d pick her up this morning.” There’s a change in his voice. A tremor of what sounds like fear.

  My heart is beating way too fast and I can hear the blood throbbing in my ears. “And?”

  “Lily wasn’t there. She spent the night Friday night but on Saturday morning Shane picked her up to go to a house party at a river cabin up near Richmond. She asked Dana to cover for her if I called or came by.”

  “Which you didn’t. Because you were . . . Did you say Shane?”

  “Umm-hmm.”

  “That’s the boy you teased her about.” The one she wanted to ask her out so badly.

  “Yeah.”

  I can’t seem to drag breath into my lungs. I turn and start pacing the living room.

  “Does Dana know which river?”

  “No.”

  “Did she and Lily talk after Lily left?” For Lily, “talking” is teenager speak for texting.

  “No.” His voice drops. “She figured that was because they were having such a good time.”

  I reach the end of the room and turn back. I’m afraid to stop moving. I’m afraid to think about what kind of good time Dana thought Lily was having. “So assuming they actually went to this house party they’re on a river somewhere near Richmond and no one’s heard from or spoken to her since yesterday morning?”

  I try to dial back my anger, but I prefer it to the panic bubbling up inside me. Lily could be anywhere. Anything could have happened to her. And with the stalled-out nor’easter wreaking havoc all the way up the coast Shane might or might not be the biggest danger. “If anything’s happened to her I will never forgive you.”

  Another text dings in informing me that all flights out of New York have been canceled at the exact moment I most need to get home. I check the television and see the same information scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to her,” he says, but his voice shakes and I know it’s all bravado. “I’m going to drive up there and get her.”

  “Drive where? We don’t even know where she really is.” My voice gets louder. My head spins. “Wait.” I think back to the conversation Lily and I had about Shane. She said she’d die if he asked someone besides her out, but she never mentioned him again. “He’s an athlete, right? You said he played basketball when you teased her about him. His last name starts with an . . . an A or a C.” I try to pull it up in my mind, but I’m so panicked I can’t find it. “Can you look up the basketball team roster? Or. No. Wait . . . I’m not sure but I think his last name’s Arnold . . . or Amberton . . . or . . . wait. I’m pretty sure it’s Adams. They’re relatively new here but his parents’ contact information should be in the school and PTA directories. They’re on the top shelf of my office bookcase.” Then it hits me. “Oh my God! They could have been in an accident. She could be in a hospital somewhere. Or . . .” I think but don’t say a morgue.

  Lauren is on her feet and moving toward me.

  “No, we’re not going there, Bree. Not yet,” Clay says. “I’ll speak to this Shane’s parents and find out where they think he is. We need an address—some kind of starting point. And a phone number for this boy or the cabin itself.”

  I want to shout at him. To yell and swear and ask him what the hell he was thinking. But more than anything I need to find Lily. Given the weather and all the people now stranded and hoping to fly out tomorrow, it could be days before I can get on a flight back to Norfolk, where my car is parked. I can’t just sit here doing nothing.

  “I’m going to get a rental car.” I scroll through the apps on my phone. “According to Google maps it’s just over six hours to Richmond via I-95.”

  I turn and stride to the stairs. Lauren falls in behind me.

  “I’ll keep trying Lily’s phone, too,” he says. “And we’ll let each other know if we hear anything or if she turns up, okay?”

  I hang up and throw my phone on the sofa bed then put my suitcase beside it.

  “What is it? What happened to Lily?” Lauren is standing beside me.

  I pull out the first clothing I come to, rip off my pajamas, and start putting on the jeans and T-shirt. “Short version—she and Clay had a fight and then she went off with some boy to a cabin on a river somewhere near Richmond. He . . .” I stuff my pajamas into the bag. Then I race-walk to the bathroom, scoop up my toiletries, and cram them in on top of my pajamas. “I’m sorry but I don’t have time for this. Is there a car rental place anywhere around here?” I zip up my bag.

  “Yeah,” Lauren says. “There’s an Avis at 76th and Broadway. Not far. Are you seriously considering driving all the way to Richmond in this weather?”

  “Of course. I have to. I can’t just sit here. I’m . . . I’ve got to go.”

  We look at each other. She takes my phone and her thumbs fly. Then she hands it back. “Here’s the Avis website. Go ahead and call and make sure they have a car. I just need a couple minutes to get dressed.” She turns and sprints to her room. “There’s no way in hell you’re going alone.”

  Thirty-eight

  The only car available to drive is a tiny Ford Focus that is as basic as a car can get. Lauren looks dubious but we don’t have time to wait for a bigger, better car or satellite radio or automatic seats. My daughter is with a boy we don’t know in a place w
e haven’t yet discovered and I’m not about to waste a second getting on the road.

  I scrawl my signature across the paperwork and we throw our things in the backseat. Lauren gets behind the wheel to get us out of the city. I stare straight out the windshield, twisting my hands in my lap as she follows the GPS prompts onto the Henry Hudson Parkway, through the Lincoln Tunnel, onto 495 to New Jersey. I assumed the weather would keep people off the road—the puddles are already deep enough to swim in—but New Yorkers don’t seem to be fazed in the least by what Mother Nature has decided to unleash on them.

  It takes a little more than an hour to work our way onto I-95 south. We intend to stay on it until we have a specific location to aim for.

  “You okay?” Lauren asks once we’ve merged all the way onto I-95. I almost can’t hear her over the slap of the windshield wipers and the drumming of rain on the roof. It’s like being in a tin can that someone is holding under the kitchen faucet.

  “Not really.”

  I reach forward and hit redial for Lily’s phone for the thousandth time. It goes directly to voice mail. Which means it’s either off or not receiving a signal. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

  “I know.” Lauren reaches to turn on the radio. Her foot presses down on the gas pedal. “But we’re going to find her. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Thunder booms. Lightning flashes, and I can’t remember what counting between them is supposed to tell you. The car shimmies so badly it feels as if we might go airborne any minute.

  I stare straight ahead, straining to see through the curtain of rain that has cut us off from everything and the windshield wipers that seem to be all slap and no wipe.

  “Too bad this car didn’t come with one of those inflatable potties,” Lauren says as I strain to see through the deluge. “But then I guess we’re lucky it came with tires.”