by Meg Cabot
“Lizzie,” Luke says. “I know all that. I was there when you made that little speech, remember? Can’t a guy just want to see his girlfriend?”
I sigh, visions of my fun evening of high-fashion photos and bubbles going down the drain. Literally. “I’ll be there around seven.”
The bar is crowded, but thankfully not smoky, since New York City banned all smoking indoors and actually enforces it. I find Luke and Chaz in a booth beneath one of the dozens of televisions hanging suspended from the ceiling and blaring college basketball games. Luke leaps up to kiss me hello. Chaz, I see, is wearing one of his ubiquitous (except when he’s in evening wear) University of Michigan baseball hats, pulled down low over his hair. He is unshaven and looking a little rough around the edges… rougher, even, than when I’d seen him last, after a night of too much champagne…
And too much other stuff as well.
“Come on,” Luke says to me, grinning his adorable grin. “Show him.”
I’ve slid into the booth beside Luke, and am taking off my coat and unwinding my scarf.
Chaz is nursing a beer, his eyes on the game above my head.
“Luke,” I say, blushing, though I don’t know why. “No.”
“Come on,” Luke says. “You know you want to.”
Chaz’s gaze flicks down from the television screen and onto me. “Show me what?”
Luke lifts my left hand to show Chaz my engagement ring. Chaz lets out a long, low whistle, even though of course he’s already seen it. “Nice,” he says.
Luke’s grin is now ear-to-ear.
“Let me get you a drink,” he says to me. “I’ll just run up to the bar, since the waitress takes forever. White wine?”
I nod. “That’d be great… ” I wonder if I need to remind him to get it with a side of ice. I hate warm white wine, and I can never seem to drink it fast enough. It’s tacky, but lately I’ve started asking for my white wine with a glass of ice on the side. It also lasts longer and has less calories that way.
“Be back in a flash,” Luke says before I have a chance to say anything, as I slide to let him out of the booth to go to the bar, then slip back into the seat he’s just vacated.
Oh well. He’ll remember about the ice.
Chaz has lifted his gaze back to the game over my head. I clear my throat.
“Thank you for the roses,” I say quickly, to get it over with, and before Luke gets back. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah,” Chaz says shortly, still not looking at me. “I did.”
“Well.” I see that Luke is still frantically trying to get the bartender’s attention, so I lay a hand—my right—over Chaz’s. “Thank you. It meant a lot to me. You have no idea.”
Chaz looks down at my hand. Then he looks back into my eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”
I pull my hand away, stung—though I’m not sure why.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
Chaz chuckles and reaches for his beer. “Nothing. God, what are you so defensive for? I thought you and Luke were so blissfully happy.”
“We are!” I squeak.
“Well, then”—he tilts his beer at me in a toast—“mazel tov.”
“You don’t seem very depressed,” I can’t keep myself from remarking.
Then I immediately want to kill myself.
He seems almost to choke on the mouthful of beer he just swallowed.
“Depressed?” he echoes when he’s recovered enough to speak. “Who said I’m depressed?”
I look around for a conveniently loaded pistol. Sadly, there doesn’t appear to be one available, so I have no choice but to answer the question.
“Luke,” I mutter shamefacedly. “He thinks you’re depressed because he’s getting married and you’re all alone.”
“Luke would think that,” Chaz says with a smirk.
“So… you’re not depressed?” I ask, feeling a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe suicide won’t be necessary, just this once.
Chaz looks me dead in the eye and says, “Why, yes, Lizzie. I’m manically depressed because the girl I’ve finally realized I’ve always been in love with, and who I was beginning to think just might love me back, turned around and got herself engaged to my best friend, who, frankly, doesn’t deserve her. Does that answer your question?”
It’s the weirdest thing, but my heart seems to do a flip-flop in my chest, and for a second, I can’t breathe, nor can I drop my gaze from his.
Then I realize he’s joking.
And I feel my cheeks begin to burn.
He’s joking. Of course he’s joking. God, I’m such a fool.
“What does it matter to you?” I demand, ignoring his sarcasm. I’m furious at myself—for thinking he meant it when he said he loved me, but even more, for having felt bad that I’d hurt him. He can’t be hurt. I mean, obviously he can. But not by me. Never by me. “You should be relieved you escaped my sights. You don’t even believe in marriage. It’s just a slip of paper, right? That’s what you said, anyway.”
“You got that right.” Chaz has leaned back to watch the game. “You want a happy romantic relationship? Don’t ruin it by getting married.”
I blink at him. I can’t believe he’s serious.
“Since when did you start feeling this way?” I ask. “You never felt like this about marriage when you were with Shari. You two were the picture of connubial bliss. Without the connubial part. But you were always making pies and doing her laundry and stuff… ”
“Yeah,” Chaz says, still not taking his gaze off the television screen… although I notice he’s set his jaw. “Well, she left me, remember? For a woman. Believe me, I won’t be making that mistake again. Marriage is for suckers.”
“You don’t mean that,” I say, a little shocked at his bitter tone.
“Don’t I?” He smirks at the screen. “I think I know what I’m talking about. My dad’s a divorce lawyer, remember?”
“And yet he’s been married to your mom,” I say, “for like, what, thirty years?”
I can’t believe I’m still upset about the I’ve always been in love with you remark, which, considering all the making out we were doing in the back of that cab on New Year’s, wasn’t really in the best of taste. I’m even more upset about the way my heart had reacted to the information. What had that been about?
And how, even for one second, could I ever actually have believed him?
I know I’m a naïve Midwestern girl. But I really try not to act like one. Most of the time.
“I try to keep that on the down low,” Chaz says. “The happily married parents thing doesn’t really go with my whole persona. You know, newly single philosophy Ph.D. candidate, living alone in an East Village walk-up, hard drinking, hard living, kind of dangerous—”
Now it’s my turn to smirk.
“What?” Chaz drags his gaze from the television screen and eyes me. “You don’t think I’m dangerous?”
“Not in that hat,” I say.
“Oh, I’m dangerous,” Chaz assures me. “More dangerous than Luke.”
“I don’t like Luke because he’s dangerous,” I point out.
“Oh, right,” Chaz says. “You like him… why? Because he’s rich? Handsome? Suave? Debonair? Thoughtful? Kind? Going to save the children someday?”
“All of the above,” I say, “except rich. I intend to make my own money, thank you, so I have no need of his. In fact, I just took on Ava Geck as a client today.”
“The skanky crack whore?” Chaz looks horrified.
“Why does everyone call her that?” I ask in annoyance. “No one has ever actually seen her do crack or have sex in exchange for money, and yet everyone calls her a skanky crack whore.”
“I don’t have to see her do it,” Chaz says. “Have you ever checked out Celebrity Pit Fight?”
It’s my turn to look horrified. “What is a hard-drinking, hard-living, philosophy Ph.D. candidate doing watching Celebrity Pit F
ight?”
Chaz grins. “It’s a really good show,” he says. “I mean, if you’re ever in the mood to examine one of the bleaker examples of the depraved depths to which we as a society have sunk. Or at least the depraved depths to which the entertainment industry is determined to make us think we’ve sunk.”
“Hey.” Luke slides back into the booth and hands me my glass of wine. “Sorry that took so long. This place is a madhouse. There are five different games on.”
I notice with a slight feeling of disappointment that he’s forgotten to get a side of ice. Oh well. We’ve been going out for only six months, after all. He can’t remember everything.
“You forgot the ice,” Chaz says. “Luke, tell your girlfriend she isn’t going to get ahead in the wedding gown biz if she takes on skanky crack whores as clients.”
I blink, not quite able to believe Chaz remembered.
“What ice?” Luke looks confused. “Wait. Who’s a skanky crack whore?”
“No one,” I say at the same time that Chaz says, “Ava Geck.”
“Who’s Ava Geck?” Luke wants to know.
Chaz guffaws. I take a hasty sip of my wine, knowing what’s coming.
“Do you even watch television?” Chaz asks Luke. “Do you ever even read a periodical besides The Wall Street Journal? Tell me, because I really want to know. When you’re in the dentist’s office, do you ever, even by accident, pick up a copy of Us Weekly?”
“Stop it,” I say to Chaz. I’m getting annoyed with him now. More annoyed, maybe, than the situation warrants. “Just because Luke doesn’t know who Ava Geck is—”
“Everyone knows who Ava Geck is,” Chaz bursts out.
“Who’s Ava Geck?” Luke asks again.
“She’s—” But suddenly I’m so tired I can’t even go on. I can’t take it, the voices of the announcers from the televisions and the screams of the fans and the clapping whenever someone’s team scores a basket—not to mention the drunk homeless guy I can see bobbing around outside the plate-glass window a few feet away, begging for change from anyone who passes by the place.
But what I really can’t take is the voice inside my head that’s returned. It’s a familiar voice. It ought to be. Because it’s the voice of the guy sitting directly across from me… the big, rumpled one in the University of Michigan baseball cap.
“Why, yes, Lizzie. I’m manically depressed because the girl I’ve finally realized I’ve always been in love with, and who I was beginning to think just might love me back, turned around and got herself engaged to my best friend, who, frankly, doesn’t deserve her.”
But simultaneously I hear that same voice saying, “You want a happy romantic relationship? Don’t ruin it by getting married. I know what I’m talking about.”
“You know what?” I say suddenly, my own voice tight with unshed emotion. “This has been fun. But I’m really tired. Do you guys mind if I call it a night? I have a big day tomorrow, and I think I’m gonna turn in early.”
“Oh, come on,” Luke says. “You just got here. Don’t go yet. The game just started.”
I look at Chaz. His face is impassive beneath the brim of his hat. But he’s looking right back at me.
“Yeah, Lizzie,” he says. “Don’t go yet. The game just started.”
It’s weird. But something in the way his gaze holds mine—not to mention his tone—tells me he isn’t talking about the game on TV.
Not at all.
“Okay, I’ll be seeing you guys later,” I say, my own voice pitched way too high, as I all but shove Luke out of the way in my haste to leave the booth.
“I’ll walk you home,” a confused Luke says, but I brush this offer aside with a quick kiss on his cheek and a whispered No, thanks, I’ll be fine, stay and have fun, then bolt for the door, where I stand gasping in the bitterly cold January air.
“Spare a quarter, miss?” the homeless drunk asks me, holding out a filthy, chipped coffee cup.
I don’t even answer him. That’s what a jaded New Yorker I’ve become. I never have a quarter to spare anymore. I need my quarters. I need all the quarters I can get. Do you have any idea how much it costs to do laundry around here?
“Fine,” the homeless guy says with a sniff. “Be that way, bitch.”
My eyes fill with tears. I’m not a bitch! I’m not! Any more than Ava Geck is a skanky crack whore. Any more than Chaz Pendergast is in love with me. Oh, why did he have to say that, anyway? Why does he have to be so mean? After having gotten those beautiful roses, I’d been completely ready to forgive him for all the nasty things he’d said yesterday morning… and then he’d had to go and say that.
… the girl I’ve finally realized I’ve always been in love with… who I was beginning to think just might love me back…
He’d only been teasing. He’s always teased me, the whole time I’ve known him.
So… why does it hurt so much this time?
“You want a happy romantic relationship? Don’t ruin it by getting married.”
But if you don’t get married… what’s the point?
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
The Elizabethan age brought us the flowering of poetry, literature, theater, and romance. So it’s no wonder we have Elizabethan England to thank for so many of our modern-day wedding traditions, including the exchange of rings, a more traditional (i.e., non-weapons-bearing) use of bridesmaids, the exchange of wedding vows, even bridal bouquets. Most upper-class marriages were still arranged during this time, often from birth. Only the lower classes had the luxury of being able to marry for love.
But if this hadn’t been the case, what else would William Shakespeare have had to write about?
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
Your sister-in-law-to-be might have the cutest kids in the world—and she just very well may have a point: Maybe they should have a role in your wedding. But don’t let her browbeat you into sacrificing one of your bridesmaid, ring bearer, or flower girl positions for her kids. Don’t upset one of your friends or family members just to placate his sister. There are lots of other tasks her kids can perform throughout the ceremony, such as guest book holder, confetti or program passer-outer, or even adorable, if slightly height-challenged, usher. Use your imagination, and you’ll both be happy.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 7 •
Now join hands, and with your hands your hearts.
William Shakespeare (1564–1616), English dramatist and poet
“Your friend Chaz sounds like a pig” is Monique’s observation when she and Tiffany overhear me relating the details about my evening to Gran (Mom, as usual, wasn’t available) while the three of us are having a quick, between-fittings lunch in the shop the next day.
“She’s right about that,” Gran, on my cell phone, agrees. “Whoever she is.”
“He’s not really,” I say, pausing with my Così tandoori chicken sandwich halfway to my lips. “I mean, under ordinary circumstances. That’s what’s so weird about this.”
“Well, that’s it, then,” Monique says firmly. She’s a beauty every bit as statuesque—and sure of herself—as Tiffany.
Unlike Tiffany, however, Monique has a British accent that makes her sound like a college professor every time she speaks.
A college professor who talks a lot about men being “wankers,” I mean.
“What’s it?” I ask.
Tiffany and Monique exchange glances. Tiffany nods.
“He’s in love with you, of course,” Monique says.
“You’ve never even met him,” I cry.
“I have,” Tiffany says, stuffing a wad of Jamaican jerk sandwich into her mouth. “And he totally is.”
“She’s right,” Gran says. “I’ve always thought that boy wanted to put a load of coal into your steam engine.”
I nearly spit out the bite of tandoori chicken I’d just taken.
“How can you say that?” I cry. “He’s Luke’s best friend! He’s my best friend’s ex-boyf
riend!”
Tiffany looks at me blankly. “So?”
Monique is giving me the same blank stare. They must teach it at modeling school. “Yeah,” she says. “So?”
Gran sounds impatient. “Dr. Quinn comes on in ten minutes. How long is this going to take?”
“So… so…,” I say, for once in my life actually sputtering to find the right words. “So… Look. I’m sure men fall head over heels for you two all the time. I mean… look at you. But in real life—for real girls, like me, that is—that just doesn’t happen. Men don’t go around falling in love with me. And certainly not without encouragement.”
“Oh, and your letting him touch your titties in that taxi wasn’t encouragement?” Monique asks.
“You let him spend the night too,” Tiffany points out.
I put my finger over the mouthpiece of my cell. “Excuse me,” I say. “My grandmother is listening in on this.”
“Too late,” Gran says. “I already heard. This is even better than Dr. Quinn.”
“We were both drunk,” I insist in my own defense for what has to be the millionth time. I’m regretting ever having opened my mouth about any of this, a not unfamiliar sensation. I’m especially regretting not having hung up when Gran answered. “Look, forget I said anything. It was nothing.”
Why had I even said anything, especially to these girls? I wouldn’t have if I’d been able to discuss any of this with Shari. If I could just call Shari and go, Shari. This is what my fiancé’s best friend said to me. What do you think? none of this would be happening.
But I can’t do that. Because my fiancé’s best friend is her ex-boyfriend.
And I can’t talk about what happened with Chaz with Shari. Because it would all be too weird.
But Monique and Tiffany, it turns out, are not proving to be adequate Shari substitutes. Not at all.
“That last bit he said,” Monique says, “about the game just starting? That didn’t sound like nothing to me. Does it to you, Tiff?”