The Rehearsals

by Annette Christie

  He remembered how, as a first-year associate, he’d been expected to do a lot of the grunt work at Prescott and Prescott. On one particularly grueling occasion, the firm had been preparing for a high-profile antitrust case. A team that included both Tom and Brody was assembled and essentially locked in a war room for weeks. They combed through thousands of documents, knowing there was a good chance that the case would settle out of court and their efforts would be for naught.

  One of the other lawyers assigned to the war room was a woman who’d been at the firm for a couple of years, Mayumi. She and Tom had been working side by side for a few days, finding small ways to keep up morale. She had a particularly dry sense of humor that he liked. One late afternoon, she invited Tom for lunch.

  Tom politely declined. He enjoyed Mayumi’s company and figured the invitation was platonic, but Tom avoided even the faint aroma of infidelity. He didn’t want to spur any office gossip, nor did he ever want to give Megs a reason to worry.

  The memory snagged on his sense of irony as he stomped off the ferry. He’d done everything right yesterday, just as he’d tried to do everything right his whole life, and he was still spinning his wheels in this pit.

  Now he was wondering if he’d done himself a disservice. His devotion to Megs was appearing less romantic and more and more misguided. Maybe he would’ve been happier with Gina or Mayumi or…someone else.

  His memory conjured the second part of that anecdote; unsurprisingly, upon hearing his little brother politely refuse Mayumi’s lunch invitation, Brody’d offered to take her to his favorite deli.

  Tom was fairly certain Brody had never cheated on Emmeline. His brother did, however, openly embrace any opportunity to chat up an attractive colleague; it was almost as though he hoped the gossip would get back to Emmeline. Whether Brody’s behavior was a reaction to or the cause of the state of his listless marriage, Tom wasn’t sure. The relationship Brody and Emmeline had wasn’t what Tom would ever want for himself, but who was he to judge? You never really knew what relationships were like from the inside. And Tom and Brody didn’t tend to talk about anything below the surface of the frozen pond their family skated on.

  But Tom didn’t want to skate. Today, all Tom wanted to do was find a dark room to hide in. Maybe with a bottle of Jack.

  With his garment bag slung over his shoulder and his suitcase bumping along the docks, Tom grew angrier. And then he spotted Megs standing at the top of the ramp, her arms crossed. He didn’t want to hear one more of her well-intentioned plans. Her stubborn belief in her own logic made him really want that bottle of Jack.

  Why had he trusted someone so morally murky?

  Megs didn’t know any better than he did. Nobody did. Everyone was just ricocheting through life, trying to get through with as few bruises as possible.

  And this morning Tom had woken up black-and-blue.

  He picked up speed, his suitcase bouncing until it flipped onto its side, no longer rolling on its little wheels. Tom picked it up and awkwardly carried it by the still-extended handle, his garment bag dragging along the ground.

  He hadn’t even reached the top of the ramp when she spat out, “What did you do?”

  “What did I do?” Oh no. This little blame-shifter wasn’t going to put this whole space-time clusterfuck on him. “What did you do? Did you really send Leo away? Because for some reason, he was still at the rehearsal dinner last night. Did you really end it with him? Or did you decide to sleep with him once more for old times’ sake?”

  “No, I didn’t sleep with him again. And how could I have ended something that didn’t even exist?” Her hair blew wildly in the breeze off the ocean. “It happened years ago and I keep apologizing. Will you hold that against me forever?”

  He shrugged like a sullen teenager. “Maybe. I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong yesterday.”

  “Actually, Tom.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and glowered at him. “You didn’t do anything. Full stop.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You left me to flail up there during our speech. You didn’t talk to my family at all. I mean, we’re well past this, but how much of this wedding did you actually plan with me?” She pointed her finger at him. “And how dare you get too comfortable on the moral high ground when we still haven’t properly discussed your plan to hijack my life and take me to Missouri.”

  The pedicab rolled up, coming in at an awkward angle to account for the rental car inexplicably in the middle of the road.

  “Fancy a ride, you two? Where are you heading?” the silvery-haired strong woman asked. For the fourth time.

  “Go away!” Tom and Megan yelled at her in unison.

  “What do you mean, I didn’t do anything last night? Which last night?” Tom asked, getting them back to their fight. He had no idea what she was talking about or why she was angry with him. Aside from the Missouri thing, which he was the first to admit had been shitty.

  “Last last night! When I was trying to stop Alistair from embarrassing me in front of your parents and so I just kept talking.”

  Ferry passengers were trickling around them, not even trying to hide that they were eavesdropping. Tom didn’t care.

  “What did you expect me to do, Megan?” He was still holding his suitcase, his garment bag draped over the top, and his biceps were starting to burn, so he tossed it to the ground. “Interrupt you and say something coherent?”

  “Yes!” Her arms flew out. “That would’ve been great! I was clearly dying up there! But you never say anything! Ever!”

  She was making less sense as she went on. Tom was torn between wanting to dissect where this particular tirade was coming from and wanting to jump into the freezing ocean just to feel something other than hopeless frustration. Instead of asking her to clarify, he just stared at her. He knew it was a dick move. Something his dad would do.

  “You’ve never defended me to your family,” she said. “They treat me like I’m trash—”

  “They approve of you, they’re polite to you,” Tom said.

  “In a passive-aggressive way that lets me know I’m with you by their grace. You know as well as I do they wish you were with someone who came from better stock because they hate my family—”

  “You hate your family.”

  “I’m allowed! They’re mine!” She threw her head back and let out a guttural yell, alarming several passersby. Then she seared Tom with a gimlet eye. “You’re a coward, Tom. A fucking coward! You’ve never stood up to your family. Not for me, not for yourself. And if you want to live your life letting them bulldoze their way across you, be my guest. I want no part of it.”

  He nearly doubled over. They’d never spoken to each other like this. How long had Megs been holding that all in?

  You’re a coward, Tom. A fucking coward.

  Pain gave way to anger, which he tamped down with feigned apathy. Let her think he was a coward. He knew better. He’d spent his whole life keeping the peace. Every day trying to both impress his parents and love Megs. That wasn’t cowardice, it was a relentless, exhausting act of bravery.

  Fine. If the day was going to reset every morning, then there were no consequences. And if there were no consequences, then Tom definitely wasn’t going to waste today getting obliterated by his (former?) fiancée.

  The man with the giant fishing hat approached them with trepidation, his bright-eyed tabby twitching its whiskers with interest. “Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

  “Not now, cat man,” Megs snapped. The man scurried off.

  “All right. I’m a coward.” Feeling wild, Tom tossed his garment bag off the ramp. He’d wanted it to drift out to sea in a dramatic fashion, but instead it sort of rolled down the small cliff onto a short rocky beach. Oh, well. The tide would come in and take it away. “You want to know what this coward’s going to do today?”

  “What?” The word came out as a small blast of disdain from that mouth he’d kissed a mill
ion times.

  “Whatever the hell I want.”

  Tom kicked his suitcase, still lying on the ground, off the small cliff too. This time the momentum took it right out to the murky, seaweed-infested water with a satisfying splash.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Megan

  The liquor store offered Megan three types of gin: botanical, citrus, and peppercorn. When the cashier asked her preference, she said, “Surprise me. And throw in one of those two-liter plastic bottles of club soda.”

  She didn’t know what Tom was going to do today and she didn’t care. But Megan was going to get drunk in the bathtub.

  While adding more hot water by turning the faucet with her toes, causing the bubbles to rise up to her ears, she tried to let the gin and soda iron out her thoughts until her mind was wrinkle-free. A place of refuge.

  She didn’t want to think about how much Tom was to blame—for everything. For his invertebrate way of letting his family dictate his entire life and their entire life together. For the way he thought he was remaining a neutral party when what she really needed him to do was stick up for her family. Even once would’ve been nice. Donna might be a head case, but she’d always treated Tom well. And Brianna could be a pain, but she had her moments. Megan’s family wasn’t all bad, because, if they were, what did that make her?

  Maybe if Tom had shown more respect for the Givenses, it might’ve been contagious and rubbed off on John and Carol.

  The first time she’d met them was Thanksgiving of their sophomore year. They were babies, only nineteen, but their love felt bigger than their age, bigger than their experience (or lack thereof). Driving with Tom to his paternal grandmother’s house in Connecticut rather than flying home to be with her own family had felt brazen.

  It hadn’t occurred to Megan to worry about what she wore to dinner—until she took in Carol’s and Emmeline’s pointed once-over. It also hadn’t occurred to her to refresh her mental résumé before sitting down to converse with John, not realizing that impressing the Prescotts was a full-time job.

  Everyone had been polite to her in the most cursory way. She wondered if she’d imagined their disapproval. If her breeding had been East Coast wealth, for example, would they still have insisted she and Tom stay in separate rooms?

  Tom did manage to sneak into her room every night. They slept together only once, worrying about the creaky bed, but spooning with Tom until the sun came up made the daytime hours more bearable.

  Until the morning they were scheduled to drive back to Cambridge.

  Megan had showered and blown out her hair and was coming down the stairs for breakfast when she overheard Tom talking to his parents in the library.

  “You aren’t really serious about that girl, are you?” John asked. “She’s smart, but I’m afraid her background is too different. You know how important it is for children to have a father figure in the home.”

  “What does Thomas know about serious relationships? He’s still a teenager,” Carol had scoffed.

  “Well, son? Tell us if this is something we need to worry about.”

  And then Megan heard Tom speak in a voice that didn’t even sound like his own. The Tom she knew was compassionate, optimistic. Jovial. This one sounded meek. “It’s not a big deal,” she heard the man she loved say. “We’re just having fun.”

  But Tom was the first guy Megan had taken seriously. Every other boy she’d kissed had been a quick and playful diversion.

  She knew Tom had never felt about anyone the way he felt about her. He’d told her that the first time they’d slept together and often ever since.

  Why didn’t Tom’s parents approve of her? She wasn’t high-maintenance like her mother. She wasn’t a deserter like her father.

  Sure, she didn’t have traditional parental role models, but she could rattle off countless names of successful, incredible people who’d grown up in homes that didn’t look like the Prescotts’. What kind of monster believed there was only one right way to be raised? One way to be worth something?

  Of course, what kind of person spied on her boyfriend’s family from the hallway?

  As much as she wanted to put John in his place, she’d swallowed the argument. Instead, she’d cleared her throat loudly enough to announce herself, plastered on a bright smile, and thanked the Prescotts profusely for their hospitality. They might have found fault with plenty of aspects of Megan’s life, but her manners were impeccable.

  While she and Tom drove back to campus, they laughed about the stiffness of the weekend, full of relief to be back to a life where they could be themselves. She’d never mentioned the conversation she’d overheard or any of the other disparaging comments that followed over the years.

  Every family was complicated. It didn’t seem fair to openly pick on Tom’s when her own was equally problematic.

  She and Tom both put up with a lot. She supposed they’d had a tacit agreement—Tom trusted Megan to take point on dealing with Donna’s (and Brianna’s and Alistair’s) antics, and in turn, she’d let him deal with his family in his own way.

  She sank further into the bathtub, sipping from a plastic cup she’d found by the sink. The ratio of gin to club soda was rapidly increasing. She chewed on the rim, her bottom lip flexing to tip more into her mouth, letting the cool gin swirl between her bottom teeth and onto her tongue. She was well on her way to full-fledged inebriation when she heard the beep of the key card unlocking the door.

  “Megan Rose Givens,” Donna called. “Where in the fresh hell are you? I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

  “In the bath.” Megan’s words were garbled as she still had the plastic cup between her teeth. She opted to ignore her mother’s sudden and inexplicable Southern drawl.

  “I don’t want to see her naked,” she heard Brianna state matter-of-factly.

  Megan arranged the bubbles over the bottom half of her body, then snatched a washcloth off the edge of the tub and placed it over her breasts.

  In an instant, Donna was looming in the doorway, Brianna’s face peeking over her shoulder.

  “This is a fine time for you to be luxuriating,” Donna snapped. “When I am in crisis.”

  “Mom’s in crisis,” Brianna echoed dryly. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Why does no one in this family answer my texts?”

  “Because you don’t seem to like any of us.” Megan topped up a cocktail that was basically straight gin at this point. She was glad the liquor-store employee had given her the botanical flavor. It was indeed refreshing.

  “I like you sometimes.” Brianna glared at her before recoiling. “Ugh, rearrange your bubbles. I don’t need to know your preferred bikini-wax shape.”

  “I don’t wax. I trim.” Megan was enjoying giving very few fucks. Maybe she’d give them all away. Or not have any left. Her ability to be coherent was getting blurry.

  “Would you two stop bickering?” Donna bellowed. “You’re always making everything about the two of you when I have a very real and very disturbing problem.”

  “Mom’s dress is too boobalicious,” Brianna said, popping two sticks of gum in her mouth at once. “And I reminded her there are minors at this establishment.”

  “Mom’s dress is moot.”

  “My dress is what?” Donna seemed to feel she’d been offended, though she wasn’t quite sure how. She was teetering from Southern to British.

  “Moot.” Megan sat up, sloshing water over the sides of the clawfoot bathtub, her washcloth still sticking to her chest like a terrycloth bathing suit. “Irrelevant. There’s no wedding, ergo there’s no wedding rehearsal dinner.”

  Donna spun toward Brianna. “I can’t talk to her when she’s drunk. She’s acting just like Husband Number Three. You deal with her.”

  She marched out of the bathroom and, from the sounds of things, proceeded to flump herself onto Megan’s bed.

  Brianna was grinning wickedly. She snapped her gum. “You and Mr. Perfect have a fight?”

  “S
everal, actually. Over the course of many days. Or one day, if you want to get technical.”

  “I can’t talk to her either. She’s bonkers,” Brianna hollered at their mother over her shoulder.

  “Tell her to get her act together and help me find something to wear tonight,” Donna yelled back.

  “You’re supposed to get your act together and help Mom,” Brianna unhelpfully repeated. “She also said you’re her least favorite child and she’s bequeathing everything in her will to me. You may not have heard her say that last bit. It was quiet.”

  The last of the gin coupled with the unwelcome arrival of Donna and Brianna had turned Megan’s mildly bemused misery to anger. It happened so quickly, she almost didn’t register it.

  “You know what?” She stood up, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around herself as her washcloth top fell and she accidentally flashed her sister. “I don’t have to put up with you, I don’t have to solve Mom’s imagined crises, I don’t have to marry Tom, I don’t have to do a damn thing. Not today, not ever.”

  Brianna took a step back. “Whoa. Bridezilla is rearing her freaky head.”

  Brianna’s sass was covering up real unease. Even through her gin-soaked haze, Megan could see it. Megan had dedicated her entire existence to making everyone else comfortable, including her sister, whom she’d basically raised. Megan had been a pleaser since birth because she’d had to be. If she wasn’t actively trying to make everyone happy, her critics grew raucous. She’d always believed the world needed pleasers.

  However, today was different. Today, making her sister feel uncomfortable was making Megan feel powerful. She pushed past Brianna, dripping wet and wondering vaguely if she’d grabbed a hand towel instead of a bath towel by mistake.

  “Get the hell out of my room! Both of you. Today is about me and no one else.”

  To Megan’s great pleasure, Brianna and Donna both scurried away. The door slammed behind them.