The Rehearsals

by Annette Christie

  It was time to say goodbye to Tom, time to truly let go of the life they’d imagined together.

  “How was your day?” he asked her, still fiddling with the strap of his watch.

  “Oh, you know.” She shrugged, dropped her shoes in the front entrance, and joined him at the table. “I told my mother she needed to start solving her own problems and stop relying on men for validation. I bonded with Paulina, went for a hike, then made up with my estranged sister.”

  “Sounds eventful.” He smiled at her, not bothering to cover the sadness in his eyes.

  “What about you? A tall and litigious bird told me you quit your job.”

  “I did. That happened after I yelled at Brody to fix his marriage and stop being a dick to me and while I was yelling at my dad on the golf course for treating me like a citizen in his dictatorship.”

  She resisted the temptation to reach for his hand. Instead, she settled on the words “That must’ve been hard.” And long overdue, she thought.

  “I also said goodbye to Leo.”

  “What a coincidence, so did I.” Suddenly nervous, she wished she had something to fiddle with. She reached for the heart pendant around her neck, remembering only when her fingers grazed her skin that she hadn’t put it on. She continued. “This morning, when you said we should be the best versions of ourselves…I thought about that a lot. I don’t think I’ve let myself be my best with you.” Her words stung him; she could see that in the set of his jaw. But she needed him to understand.

  “There was this ease with us, and yet the more we let the outside world in, let our families in, the more I let that outside world shape who I was. I was making decisions based on either this bottomless fear of turning into my mother or what your family wanted. I told myself you couldn’t ever understand but I also didn’t let you try. I hate that I couldn’t just say, ‘Donna messed me up and now I’m afraid to do anything even remotely spontaneous’ or ‘Hey, I’m feeling pushed out of all the decisions that actually affect our life together.’”

  Letting go of everything, even briefly, to imagine a life with Leo had taught Megan that letting go wasn’t necessarily what she wanted; that to get what she wanted, she had to face her fear of speaking up. Of allowing the messiness of life to gather and show.

  “I get it,” Tom replied. “I thought if I could be the peacekeeper, it would make things easier for everyone, but all I actually accomplished was making you feel like you weren’t supported. And the whole thing was this misguided pursuit to get my father’s approval. A man who said he was proud of me only after I yelled at him and quit his firm. It’s pretty messed up.”

  They locked eyes. He stopped fiddling with his watch and set it on the table.

  There was one question that had been burning within Megan all afternoon on her hike. She had to ask. “What if we had known this all along? What if, that first day I sat next to you in Natural Disasters, we’d been able to just be ourselves? Wholly and honestly?”

  He leaned his elbows on his knees, drew a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

  Megan knew. She and Tom could’ve had something spectacular. In fact, they had, in a lot of ways.

  But the damage was done and it was also spectacular.

  She shook those thoughts free. She couldn’t get caught on any more what-ifs.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow should the actual tomorrow not arrive?” Tom asked.

  Even if the repetition didn’t stop, Megan had decided on her hike today that she would try to have some semblance of a life, one that began in the hotel bed but always continued away from the wedding that would never happen. “I think I’m done jumping through these rehearsal hoops, regardless of what day it is when I wake up.”

  “I figured. Me too.”

  She only wished this knowledge they’d fought for, that had come at such a price, wasn’t for nothing. Because chances were, everything they’d done today wouldn’t matter.

  She walked over to the minibar, pulled out a tiny bottle of champagne, and poured it into two disposable cups. When she offered one to Tom, he raised it with her. “To not repeating our mistakes tomorrow,” she said.

  “Cheers.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Tom

  Droplets of rain broke free of the clouds to patter at the bay window. Tom and Megs sipped their champagne, the accompanying silence uncomfortable. Thinking through the mistakes he’d made over the years was like opening the flaps on the world’s worst Advent calendar.

  Still, every other time he and Megs had been in this room, they’d been arguing. To be able to sit with her and just be, even in an impossible situation, was its own salvation. He couldn’t let the moment pass without saying something he still owed her. Sure, they’d covered a lot of ground while watching the sunset on that rock wall in Sidney. There was still one thing he needed her to know.

  He turned pretty words over in his mouth but finally let the simplest combination fall out. “I’m sorry, Megs. I’m a bottomless pit of sorry.”

  It was an apology that required no qualifier, a shapeshifting thing that could be as small as she wanted it to be or as vast as she needed.

  “I’m sorry too.” A sweet sort of anguish touched her eyes as they finally reached an understanding.

  There had been a lot of apologies between them in a lot of different loops, most notably yesterday, yet this one tasted different. The sorrys they exchanged tonight weren’t about airing grievances or confessing sins. They were about marking a path forward.

  Or at least Tom’s was.

  The wind picked up and rain pelted the windows, offering cover; white noise to shield them from the outside world. He hadn’t remembered it raining this hard on any other night. Maybe a sprinkle? This was a deluge.

  “Oh no!” Megs suddenly exclaimed, getting up to look out the window. “The brides who are outside. Their wedding!”

  “The ones who danced to ‘And I Love Her’?” Tom asked.

  Megs nodded.

  “Great song.”

  “Great song,” she agreed, just as she had in an earlier loop, though this time the exchange was warmer. “I see them…it looks like they’re not letting this downpour ruin things—the whole wedding party’s dancing around in it.”

  She let the curtains drop and sat back down at the table.

  “Hey.” Tom drained the rest of his warmish champagne and lightly tapped her hand on the table with his pinkie as he put the cup down. It was the smallest of gestures, an inkling of contact, and it only made him miss her…despite having her across from him. “Since there’s no wedding tomorrow, can you tell me what song we were supposed to dance to?”

  Their intention was to plan the wedding together save for a few details. Megs let Tom pick the destination of their honeymoon; he’d been Optimist Tom when he’d eyed the Amalfi coast, imagining them several time zones removed from work and family pressures. Tom let Megs choose the song they would dance to for the first time as a married couple. She’d insisted on total secrecy.

  Of course, they hadn’t actually done any wedding planning together.

  “You would’ve been happy with my song choice,” Megs said coyly.

  “If you don’t tell me what it is, I’ll never find out.” It was meant to be a playful comment.

  Megs finished her champagne and slid her empty cup into his before tossing them into the recycling bin. She worried her bottom lip, sorrow in her eyes, although a pull at her mouth indicated she’d been pretty pleased with herself when she’d made the selection.

  “I went with your favorite Cure song,” she said, waiting until the end of the confession to meet his eyes. When she did, something in his chest exploded.

  How could he let go of this woman forever? Tom knew it was time. He owed it to them both to take a risk. To bet on himself. On them.

  Those private vows he’d written months ago—he still meant them; even more, they’d evolved and grown over the past several reincarnations of this day. The vo
ws he’d say to her now would mean more. Because they knew each other better than they ever had.

  “Seems a shame to let that blatant act of diplomacy go to waste.” Tom got up, found “Pictures of You” on his phone, and turned up the volume.

  The familiar dreamy guitar riff played, muffled slightly by the storm outside. He reached out to her, the bursting in his chest flickering like fireworks when she put her fingers in his palm.

  He placed one hand on the small of her back, and they swayed, their bodies moving closer together in blissful habit, an attraction so familiar he hoped they’d still feel that pull when they were ninety. He wanted to feel it forever. He wanted her forever.

  “Thanks for this,” he murmured into her ear.

  “Don’t get too excited. The only reason I didn’t go with my favorite is that the beat of ‘Just Like Heaven’ is too quick for a slow dance.”

  He chuckled softly; her head nuzzled into his in response.

  The storm clouds outside obscured the stars. If Tom could, he’d move those clouds so Megs could have her starry sky. He’d stick plastic constellations onto every ceiling so she’d always have them above her head.

  Whether it was Tom who made the first move or Megs, he didn’t know; they seemed to make the decision together. Touching each other desperately yet with care because they knew they needed to one last time. To remember what it was to have the intimacy that was uniquely, spectacularly theirs.

  Grazing a finger across her cheek because he was tired of not grazing a finger across her cheek. Pulling him closer because she was tired of not pulling him closer. It seemed to happen in a choreographed dance; first through their fingers, then arms, then bodies. Just as they had years ago at his beach house. He said, “Please, may I?” and she said, “What are you waiting for?” and then his fingers delicately unzipped her dress while hers slipped each button through its eye. As their touches became familiar, muscle memory they’d built up over so many years, their lips came together, hungrily.

  When a clap of thunder startled them, they laughed softly—smiling as they continued to kiss, refusing to let go, to release this connection.

  Being with Megs had never been just one color, one shade. It was heat, it was humor; sweetness and depth.

  Clothes slid to the floor and his fingers raked through her silky hair. He promised himself he’d remember this, memorize every caress and feeling. The softness of her skin, the push of her kiss. The way her body opened to his, accepting him, wanting him, relishing him. He held her tighter and she gripped him in kind.

  He couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else.

  They came together, their climaxes shaking the earth. They rolled through the aftershocks together, her tears dipping into their kiss. Or perhaps those were his.

  As the storm raged on outside their room, it was the perfect conclusion to a most imperfect journey.

  Day

  8

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Megan

  Morning tiptoed softly in with the sun, as though someone were slowly turning up the dimmer switch. They’d forgotten to close the curtains last night. Megan rolled over, her feet cold, wrapping more blankets around her.

  As she tugged at the sheets, there was an answering tug back from the other side of the bed. She opened one eye. And then the other.

  Incredulity covered her like a mist, altogether startling and refreshing.

  “Good morning.” Tom stretched luxuriously and then froze, catching up to what Megan had already realized.

  “We did it,” she whispered.

  “How can we be sure?” he whispered back as though their voices might crack this delicate discovery.

  They both reached for their phones, showing each other the new day on their calendars.

  “But how can we be sure?” Tom asked again, still whispering.

  “Well, if it is the same day, then Donna’s at least an hour late bursting in here and pitching a fit about her rehearsal-dinner dress.”

  They gave each other mini-high-fives before glee yielded to the gravity of a looming wedding. Despite how hard Megan had wished for the day of the rehearsal dinner to end, she hadn’t quite worked out just what she’d do if her wedding day actually arrived.

  Taking a deep breath, she leaned back onto her pillow. Tom mirrored her actions. Whenever Megan had a seemingly unsolvable problem rise up at work, she’d breathe, clear her mind, and wait for the brainstorm to come.

  But instead of answers, all she saw were the dollar signs of their families’ travel and event expenses, cash that might be a drop in the bucket for the Prescotts but for the Givenses side were the bucket.

  She thought of the friends who’d taken time off work to come to the other side of the country, used portions of their hard-earned paychecks to buy wedding gifts.

  She imagined the shocked faces that would fall, giving way to anger or tears or I-told-you-sos. Every messy imminent exchange, not to mention all the gossip.

  “What do we do?” Tom asked, obviously full of the same questions.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Should we start telling everyone the wedding’s off?” There was a small crack in his voice. She might have missed it if she hadn’t been so close to him. If she didn’t know him as well as she did.

  Megan rolled to her side and took in his familiar profile, the cut of his jaw, the line of his forehead, the angle of his nose. She’d stared at this face for countless minutes over the years, never stopping to appreciate that one day she might not have his face to stare at. She searched his expression now for answers. Indicators.

  “Yeah,” she agreed, her own voice threatening to break. “I guess we should.”

  “Then we should probably get started. We’ve got a lot to do.” Tom swung his legs around and off the bed with great effort. He retrieved clean clothes from his suitcase, pulled on his briefs, his slacks. Slipped his arms through his shirt, taking care as he buttoned it closed.

  Megan followed suit, because it seemed to be the thing to do. Get dressed. Close this chapter.

  They brushed their teeth, avoiding each other’s gaze in the mirror. When he left to give her a moment of privacy, she tried to feel anything but bottomless grief. She washed and dried her hands. Opened the bathroom door. And took a moment to stare at her former fiancé—the man she’d loved her whole adult life—seated at the table where they’d sipped champagne the night before so he could put on his socks and shoes and walk out of her life. Forever.

  Life was a series of actions and consequences, coincidences and happy accidents (to borrow a phrase from her grandparents’ sailboat). Over and over again, the past seven days had taught her what she was willing to let go of and what she wanted to keep.

  What she wanted to keep.

  A fondness for Tom broke through her until she was flooded with nothing but how much she loved him. Not based on nostalgia or the devil she knew. It was a feeling of seeing him in the light of a new day. It made her knees buckle.

  Over the course of their relationship, she’d tried to be a good partner to him. Over the course of the last few days, she’d tried to be true to herself. Could there be a way to do both? To have both?

  Because Megan suddenly knew that if she let him walk out now, she’d never forgive herself.

  “Hey,” she said softly, leaning against the door frame.

  “Hey.” He spared her a quick glance before returning to his shoes with extreme focus.

  She wondered if he were trying very hard not to cry.

  She took a seat beside him and rested her chin on her hands, willing him to look at her. “For a class called Natural Disasters, this lecture is pretty dull. Disaster-free, even.”

  He froze, only the smallest of smiles indicating he knew just what she was doing. He locked onto her with his gaze. “Have you ever noticed our professor looks like a nerdy version of the lead singer from the Cure?”

  “I have.” She nodded, then reached out, an invisible thread reaching o
ut too, winding around their connected hands. “Megan, by the way.”

  “Hi, Megan By-the-Way. I’m Tom.”

  She snorted at his ridiculous joke, watching the flicker of familiar amusement dance in his eyes at the snort. “So, Tom. What’s your favorite song by the Cure?”

  He appeared to consider this. “Good question. I’m going to have to think on this. I mean, I’m partial to ‘Pictures of You’…but I’m also willing to admit that ‘Just Like Heaven’ has its merits.”

  Megan leaned across him, her arms grazing his chest, and grabbed the notepad and pen on the side table where the phone lay. She scrawled some of the lyrics to “Just Like Heaven” onto the paper followed by something just as important. She ripped the top page off, folded it, and gave it to him.

  “What’s this?” A catch in his voice gave her all the hope she needed.

  “It’s my phone number, Tom.” She swallowed, tamping down the emotion in her own voice so the next thing she said to him would be clear. “I’d really like to see you again.”

  He unfolded the paper, eyes gleaming with happiness as he read the lyrics and her number. He folded it back up, put it in his pocket, and looked up at her. “Well, now I know exactly what I want to do with this day.”

  Her heart beat against the pendant she’d been sure to put on that morning. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

  “I want to go wherever you’re going.”

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve felt compelled to write for as long as I’ve been able to write. For years this was a solitary act. What a delight it was when I began pursuing this career in earnest to learn that writing doesn’t have to be solitary at all. I am surrounded by some of the smartest and kindest people in the industry, which makes this dream-come-true all the sweeter.

  Thank you to my editors, Helen O’Hare and Kimberley Atkins. Your enthusiasm and vision for this story from the very beginning made the process of revising it so painless. Working with you both has brought me such joy and I’m endlessly proud of how this book turned out. Thank you for believing in me and these characters.