Dinner began promptly at seven o’clock. When her future mother-in-law cringed at the family-style service, Megan let it roll off her back. It was good for Carol to have to share salad tongs with the Givenses. Family-style would be the great equalizer. Even if Carol was squirting hand sanitizer into her palms under the table every time she touched something.
“These wild salmon crostini are delectable.” Donna stretched out the word, creeping dangerously toward her fake British accent. “Aren’t they delectable, Carol?”
Knowing her mother was desperate for attention and Carol was the least likely candidate to give it to her, Megan lunged for one, stuffed it in her mouth, and nodded enthusiastically. “Delectable.”
Brianna, on brand as always, had her eyes glued to her phone.
“What’s going on?” Megan asked, nudging her sister kindly as Tom relived his golf game with John and Brody.
“I’m texting Alistair.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to text him.”
When Brianna scowled, Megan realized she wasn’t supposed to know about Alistair’s long-distance complaints. That was something Brianna had revealed only on the second version of this day.
“I know I’m not supposed to,” Megan lied. “He’s always complaining about his cell phone bill like it’s my fault he’s couch-hopping all over the world.”
Brianna brightened. “Right? I mean, if you don’t want people to contact you, just don’t give out your number.”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Exactly.”
“Well, buckle up, because our dirtbag brother should be here any minute.”
She feigned surprise. “Oh, really? Great.”
And he’ll show up in cargo shorts and tell a sketchy story about his latest girlfriend followed by a cringeworthy anecdote about why he isn’t smart enough to be a roofer, and it’ll turn this dinner into a free-for-all of silent judgment and humiliation.
“I was just wondering if maybe telling Megs and me about any surprises now instead of in a speech in front of everyone might be better,” she heard Tom saying.
“Who said anything about a speech?” John replied as Donna butted in and asked, “What surprise?” and Carol chided him for being disrespectful to his father.
Damn it, Tom.
At least when John had first made the house-in-Missouri announcement in his speech, it hadn’t caused this full-table fracas.
Megan needed to act now because Alistair was about to make this situation worse. She had to divert the table’s attention, and fast.
She grabbed Tom’s hand, turned toward Brianna, and finally took that unwanted ace out of her sleeve. “Hey, Bree. Tom and I were talking and we think you should live with us when you move to New York.”
“We do?” Tom’s voice cracked.
“And Dan too?” Brianna asked, brightening.
“Who’s Dan?”
“Dan too. It just makes sense.” Megan kicked Tom’s ankle under the table, ignoring his questions. “It’s a big move and we want to make sure you’re happy. We might be relocating with Tom’s job, but you can stay in our apartment for free for as long as you want. Until you’re feeling financially ready to move on.”
“As long as she wants?” Tom muttered under his breath, kicking her back.
Megan couldn’t believe he had the nerve to fight her on this when she’d just publicly gotten on board with the move to Missouri.
Brianna squealed. “Oh my God, you guys. You won’t regret this.”
As the waitstaff cleared away the appetizers and salad plates and brought in the main courses, Megan took the opportunity to whisper into Tom’s ear, “Let’s just make everyone happy tonight, okay?”
“I know. You’re right.” Tom took a swig of water. He turned to her and whispered, “We haven’t handed out the gifts yet. And shouldn’t Alistair be strolling in here any minute? What’s our game plan there?”
Megan stood up, a bolt of inspiration hitting her. She tapped her fork against her glass. The room quieted down. “Thank you so much, all of you, for coming. My heart is full. First we’d like to hand out gifts to our wedding party.”
Tom was right. They were late on this, and Alistair was going to show up at any minute. But if the festivities were in full swing, he might just slink in quietly. Alistair wouldn’t hesitate to interrupt a casual speech, but surely he wouldn’t take the focus from the bride. As such, Megan was prepared to filibuster, because if he didn’t tell his story, the Prescotts would have one less thing to complain about. Maybe it would ease the tension in the room.
As they handed out gifts, Megan kept one eye on the wall clock. “Tom and I are grateful…eternally grateful…deeply and eternally grateful to have you all here with us. I know San Juan Island isn’t the easiest destination to get to, especially for you East Coasters.”
There was an appreciative titter across the room.
“It does take two planes and a ferry to get here,” Carol said, loudly enough for Donna to redden and Brody to choke on his stuffed prawn before raising his glass in a toast.
But Megan wasn’t done. She ignored them all, letting her voice carry, elongating syllables where she could.
“To have you here to celebrate our love, and love in general, for what is life with no love?” Oh no; she was pretty sure she was paraphrasing dialogue from a sitcom she’d seen a dozen times, and Alistair still hadn’t arrived. “It’s a lonely life. A dark life. And I am so grateful—”
“You said that already,” Brianna cut in.
Why wasn’t Tom joining her? He was letting her flail.
“I did. Yes,” Megan agreed. She needed to change tack. “Tom and I have been together for years. When I first met him—”
“When Megan first met Tom—” A voice cut through her speech. Alistair was standing at the door, his sunglasses still on even though the sun was going down, his frayed cargo shorts a beacon for fifty stares. “She was a goner.”
Damn. Her rambling wasn’t dissuading him from making himself the center of attention. He was a real piece of work, her brother. Megan had grown up with Alistair and yet she still couldn’t fathom where all this baseless confidence came from.
“She came home for Christmas her freshman year of college and was like, ‘I met the cutest guy.’”
To her horror, Alistair was adopting a high-pitched, girlish—not to mention vaguely sexist—squeal that was apparently supposed to be Megan. She suddenly missed the versions of this day where her brother only told a ridiculous story about himself.
Taking the murmurs of the guests as encouragement, Alistair waved his arms around comically, continuing his roast. “‘His name’s Tom Richie Rich and he’s a dreamboat!’”
“Tom is definitely a dreamboat,” Megan cut in, pretending to laugh. “Welcome to the rehearsal dinner, Alistair, prodigal son of the Givens family.”
She knew the biblical reference would be caught by the East Coast Protestants while likely going over Alistair’s head; her brother’s religion was primetime television and hunting.
Even though she didn’t want to hear Great-Aunt Florence give another speech full of platitudes, it was better than letting Alistair get one more word in.
“And now we’d like to open the floor to the rest of our guests.” Megan raised her glass. “Aunt Florence, Tom has always told me you have the soul of a poet. Won’t you start us off?”
Aunt Florence fanned herself, blushing from the effective flattery, and began droning on about love. It was only slightly worse than Megan’s own speech.
“Nice save,” Tom whispered when she was once again seated beside him.
Mentally, she chided him for leaving her alone up there. On the surface, she kissed his cheek and thanked him.
“I’d love to give a speech,” Donna said prissily. “But I can’t seem to get a word in edgewise.”
Carol let out a passive-aggressive little hum.
Tired of putting out every fire herself, Meg poked Tom in the ribs. He was extremely
ticklish and flinched. But the motion caught Leo’s eye, several tables away, and she felt his gaze keenly. Hadn’t she told him to leave?
Something locked between them, strong enough to require great effort for Megan to pull her focus back to her own table.
“We’d love it if you’d give a speech tomorrow,” Tom said to Donna smoothly. “When all the guests are here.”
This time Carol clucked her tongue as Donna beamed.
Megan chewed her lip, silently counting all the promises they’d made to family members thus far; if their plan worked and tomorrow actually arrived, the fallout would be brutal.
“You too, of course, Carol,” Megan added, because if she had to bear the humiliation of her mother up there, so did Tom.
Carol put her fork down. She’d been pushing her food around rather than eating. “I’m sure your mother will say it all.”
Digging to the bottom of her quickly depleting supply of compassion, Megan tried desperately to find any way to connect to her future mother-in-law. Someone she wasn’t hardwired to love. Someone she was struggling even to like. Because the universe wasn’t likely to be pacified with lip service alone and Megan was getting concerned that that was all she and Tom were doing. Megan needed to offer up a true kindness, one that wasn’t motivated by selfishness alone.
She watched Carol squeeze another dollop of sanitizer into her palm and scrub it into her skin.
Perhaps Carol’s actions were less about her thinking she was too good to share food with the Givenses (although she likely believed that was true) and more about a deeply rooted neurosis.
Carol was a germaphobe.
Carol was anxious.
Carol covered both these very real and sympathetic struggles by being a withholding and raging snob.
“I’ll be right back,” Megan said to the table. At Tom’s questioning look, she patted him on the shoulder. “It’s fine. Trust me.”
She ran to the kitchen and found a senior-looking employee. “Excuse me? I know we asked for family-style and I don’t want to make things more difficult for you, but do you think we could have a separate plate made up for the mother of the groom?”
Instead of heading back to her own table, Megan lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching over the guests. She willed herself to relish this moment, to take in every detail, but her eyes kept traveling to one person. Megan felt an itch in her palm. The phantom note, giving her paper cuts. All her efforts today had been about doing things right, making everyone happy, ensuring she and Tom would be together in the end.
But she couldn’t help wondering: What if being with Tom wasn’t right?
Later, they walked back to the hotel quietly, past the couple dancing to “And I Love Her.”
“Great song,” Tom said, so low she almost missed it.
“Great song,” Megan agreed just as quietly.
The sky was too cloudy for stargazing. She thought again of those plastic stars Tom had stuck to their ceiling, of their engagement, and wondered how long it would take for them to feel that free to love each other again.
By the time Megan and Tom were in their suite, Megan was more exhausted than she’d thought possible. Outside, thunder rumbled, threatening another storm that simply wouldn’t materialize. She found herself wishing she could crack those clouds open like coconuts and let the rain out herself. There was something cleansing about a good downpour.
Megan’s eyes hurt from looking bright and agreeable. Her stomach hurt from pushing down irritation, stress, and fury. Her heart hurt from the effort of trying to love every person in the right way when she wasn’t confident she knew what any of those ways were.
Tom and Meg collapsed on the bed still in their formal wear and kicked off their shoes one by one, letting them thump to the floor, not caring if the noise annoyed the guests in the room below.
“We did it.” Megan inexplicably wanted to cry.
“We did it.” Tom sounded choked up too. “We did everything right.”
She rolled to look at the face she’d stared at almost every night for over a decade. He followed suit. Gazing at each other in that familiar way was a small comfort at the end of any difficult day. Normally, it was something she looked forward to, because regardless of what happened at work or how many frenzied voice-mail messages she received from her mom, Tom was a constant. There was worth in even their smallest traditions. Like lying side by side and sharing a kiss before rolling over and going to sleep.
Megan had made her choice and she wasn’t going to let herself be weighed down by endless what-ifs.
They each leaned in, meeting halfway, to share a perfunctory kiss.
“See you tomorrow,” Tom said.
“I really hope so.”
Day
4
Chapter Seventeen
Megan
When Megan opened her eyes, she oriented herself by remembering how the night had ended. If Tom was beside her, it meant they’d moved on. If he wasn’t…
She turned her head slowly to his side of the bed.
Empty.
She lifted the covers to confirm what she already knew: she was wearing her striped shorts and a tank top. This day was never going to end.
The lock on the door beeped. Oh no. There was absolutely no way Megan was going to go through this song and dance again. Instinctively, she rolled off the bed and onto the floor, cursing quietly when her knee bumped against the frame. As the door opened, she scooted underneath the bed to hide from her mother.
There was a pause. Could Donna see her from where she was standing? More important, it was surprisingly clean under the hotel bed. Not a dust bunny or forgotten candy wrapper in sight. If she ever broke out of this loop, Megan was filling out a comment card and leaving a tip for the cleaning staff.
“Moopy?” Her mother padded around the room. There was a small squeak as she cracked the bathroom door open and then Megan felt the mattress sink just a little as her mother sat down, her ankles so close to Megan’s face she could’ve bitten them.
Her mother gave a great exaggerated sigh (as it turned out, Donna’s dramatics weren’t reserved for an audience). Megan felt the mattress spring up again and watched her mother’s feet walking out of the room. She didn’t roll out from under the bed until the door had clicked shut and she’d counted to ten in case Donna was coming back.
Rubbing at the knots forming in her neck, Megan deliberated over what had gone wrong the day before. Yes, she’d had some doubts, an aching moment or two of weakness. But she’d pushed those doubts aside. She’d committed herself to Tom.
Which meant the mistake hadn’t happened on her end. Her temper flared. Whatever was keeping her in this day must be Tom’s fault. She needed to find out what the hell he’d done to keep her imprisoned in this nightmare.
Every action was an eruption, an act of exasperation. She pulled her dress over her head in a rage. Brushed her teeth as though she were scraping mildew off shower tiles. Didn’t bother with the dry shampoo because oily hair didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
Nothing except figuring out just how Tom had screwed her over.
She drove the rental car with abandon, gritting her teeth when rocks bounced up from the highway and left pockmarks in the windshield. No need to bother with the parking lot; Megan slammed on the brakes, making the tires squeal, at the curb close to the ferry docks. That would block the stupid pedicab driver from offering them a ride.
Today, she would keep everything that was supposed to happen from happening, down to the most minute detail. Maybe she’d steal that baby carrier and walk around with the cat.
The ferry was slowly making its way through the pass toward Friday Harbor. Every second that ticked by added fuel to Megan’s fury. When Tom set foot on land, she was going to explode.
Chapter Eighteen
Tom
The foghorn that Tom swore got louder every morning.
The sharp pain piercing through his neck.
The ferociously per
ky “Good morning, sunshine!” from the poor man’s Henry Winkler as Tom’s eyes squeezed shut, then fluttered open.
Tom was going to die in this never-ending day.
In every other version, Tom had responded to Henry Winkler. He didn’t have it in him today. He stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.
This apparently only persuaded the man to try again, because Henry Winkler leaned in and tapped the green perforated metal between them. “I can never sleep on this ferry, so I envy you. I just caffeinate and caffeinate until I have the jitters. And then do you know what I do?”
Since not responding hadn’t shut down the conversation, Tom relented. “I don’t know,” he said through gritted teeth.
Henry Winkler chortled. “Caffeinate some more!”
Tom couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t summon the energy to be even remotely polite. “No.” The word came out before Tom had even decided what to say.
“I beg your pardon?”
He took the eye drops out of the plastic bag in his pocket and squirted them into his eyes with abandon. The liquid dripped down his cheeks. He must’ve looked like a maniac. He didn’t care. “I said no.”
“No what?” Henry Winkler adjusted his glasses. There was dog or cat hair all over his sweater vest.
“No to this day, no to small talk with you, no to all of it.” Tom had never been so blatantly rude in his life. He didn’t hate it.
But to his horror, Henry Winkler’s eyes grew watery, and guilt kicked Tom in the nuts. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “I’m having a bad morning.”
“It’s okay.” Henry waved him off. “It happens to the best of us. But think of it this way: It’ll get better. And if it doesn’t, tomorrow is another day.”
If only Henry Winkler knew.
While the ferry docked at a glacial pace, Tom’s list of regrets sped through his mind at breakneck speed. He wasn’t just thinking about the mistakes he’d made recently; he was going back further. Since misery loved company and Tom was all alone, he decided to drag himself down as far as he could.
The Rehearsals Page 14