by Meg Cabot
I look at Tiffany. “Tiff,” I say as the fireworks boom along the skyline behind me, “I told you. I don’t care. I don’t like Chaz that way.”
“Yeah, right,” Tiffany says with a hoarse laugh and takes a swig of her champagne. “Whatever! If he were the marrying kind, you would so have screwed him already. Just admit it.”
Z100 is blasting “Born to Run.” Shari’s girlfriend, Pat, is saying, “No. Just…no. Are you kidding me with this?” While Shari says, “Honey, it’s the Boss. What are you gonna do?”
“Here’s what you do,” Tiffany says, taking my empty ice cream bowl from me and setting it on a nearby picnic table. “Go over there—both Mae Lin and Valencia are gone now, it’s okay, they went downstairs to dry off. I ‘accidentally’ spilled my bottle of champagne on them—and tell him his pies were good.”
“Tiff.” She’s pushing me toward Chaz. I lock my knees, refusing to budge. “No. I’m engaged. And he doesn’t…what you just said. About marriage. Remember?”
“God!” Tiffany gives me another shove. “Why are you being so fucking stubborn? You can change him! I know all your other girlfriends are always telling you men can’t change, and in general it’s true. But not in this case. With you. And him. Believe me. I know. Come on, Lizzie. You’re always helping other people. Why won’t you let us help you for once?”
“Because you aren’t helping me,” I say from between gritted teeth. I have to raise my voice a little, because the boom of the fireworks—and the swell of Z100, playing from so many rooftops—is so loud. I notice two leather-braceleted men looking over at us in amusement.
I turn my back to them. “I told you, Tiffany, I love Luke. Luke, not Chaz.”
I almost completely believe this as I say it too. To the point that I even manage to convince myself that I have not spent the whole of the party trying not to look over to where Chaz is sitting and wondering how he’s managed to get such a dark tan so early in the summer, or why he insists on wearing khaki shorts. They’re so undignified for the urban male.
Although with muscular legs like his, he can, of course, get away with it…
“I don’t think you do,” Tiffany insists. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t think Luke loves you, either. He wouldn’t have gone to France—or agreed to your stupid fucking break idea—if he did. I think you two are both just afraid to admit it’s been over between you for a long time already. You had a summer fling that’s gone on way, way too long. Believe me, Lizzie, I know what real love is, and I see it standing over there by that fuckin’ beer cooler in a baseball cap. Now go…over…there…”
Tiffany shoves me with a strength surprising in so thin a person—well, she does work out—and I find myself stumbling in my lace-up platform espadrilles…only to end up stumbling practically into the beer cooler. I’d have fallen inside it if Chaz hadn’t reached out and grabbed my arm.
“Hey,” he says, looking concerned. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, turning beet red. “I’m fine. Tiffany wants me to tell you that, um. She liked your pies.”
Chaz stares down at me, his dark eyebrows raised.
“Oh,” he says. “Well, that’s nice.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “I did too. Good…pie. Both of them.”
Am I? I ask myself. Am I really the stupidest human being on the face of the planet? Or does it just feel that way sometimes?
“Great,” Chaz says. “So. How’s the break going?”
“The break?” I echo lamely.
“Yeah,” Chaz says. “The break you and Luke are on.”
“Oh, the break!” Behind Chaz’s head, fireworks are exploding into amazing shapes, like apples and kissing lips. And he’s not even looking. His gaze is riveted to my face. Which I hope he can’t tell is still burning as brightly as the lights of the skyline behind him. “Um, fine. I guess. Luke really seems to like it over there. It’s a lot of work. But then he knew it would be.”
“Well,” Chaz says, picking up his beer and taking a sip of it, “he’s always had a thing for numbers.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, he’s just doing this as a favor for his uncle.”
“Yeah,” Chaz says. “Right.”
I glance up at him sharply. “What do you mean by that?” I snap.
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” he asks defensively. “I don’t mean anything. I just said you were right.”
“You sounded like you were being sarcastic,” I say.
“Well, I wasn’t being sarcastic,” he says.
“You think he was desperate for any excuse he could get,” I say, clarity breaking over me suddenly like a crystal ocean wave, “to leave town and get away from me. Because I’m smothering him.”
Oh my God. It’s happening again. My mouth, I mean. Running away without me. What am I even talking about? I mean, I know, of course…it’s what I stay up nights—when I should have fallen asleep hours before, exhausted from adjusting seams all day with Sylvia and Marisol—worrying about.
But why am I mentioning it to Chaz, of all people?
Chaz seems to be wondering the same thing.
“How much wine have you had?” Chaz asks, laughing with disbelief.
“None,” I say. Amazingly, it’s the truth. Also, I’m wishing I’d shut up. But my mouth keeps on moving without me, as usual. “And you’re wrong. I don’t smother him at all. If anything, I don’t pay enough attention to him. And besides, that would completely fly in the face of what you said that day.”
“What day?” Chaz asks, looking more confused than ever.
“The day I told you he proposed. You said he was proposing only because he’s so scared of being alone, he’d rather be with a girl he knows isn’t right for him than be by himself.”
Shut. Up. Lizzie.
Chaz blinks at me. “Well…I still think that’s true.”
“But you can’t have it both ways.” In the distance, the fireworks are still going off, in much quicker succession than before. Boom. Boom. Boom. Each blast seems to be timed to go off with my heartbeat rather than the Bon Jovi song that’s now blasting from the radio around us. I’m standing so close to Chaz that I can see his chest rising and falling in the same rhythm through the front of his short-sleeved polo. It’s hard not to put my hands on his chest to see if his heart is beating in time to mine as well.
God, what is wrong with me?
“Either I’m smothering him or he’s scared to be without me,” I blurt out instead. “Which is it?”
“You are completely insane right now,” Chaz says to me, still laughing a little. “You know that, don’t you?”
The truth is, I do know that. But knowing it doesn’t help.
“You’re his best friend,” I point out. “You’ve known him longer than I have. And you seem to have so many opinions on our relationship. Or at least you used to. I realize we haven’t talked about it in a while because you’ve been so busy with Valencia, but I assume you must have some new theories on the matter. Go ahead. Let’s hear them.”
“Not now,” Chaz says, looking down at me with a grin I can only call suggestive. “Too many people around. Why don’t you come back to my place after this? I’ll be happy to tell you every theory I know. And illustrate them, as well.”
The grin has caused my breath to catch in my throat. Not that I’m about to let him know that.
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I demand. I’m standing so close to him now that our faces are just inches apart. “Is that the only way you can relate to women? As sexual objects?”
“As you know perfectly well,” Chaz says, looking mockly offended, “no. What is the matter with you tonight? Is this about Valencia? Are you jealous or something? I don’t think I should have to remind you that you’re the one who’s engaged.”
“Right. To your best friend.”
“Hey, he’s your fiancé. As you seem to feel the need to keep reminding yourself.”
“At least I ha
ve a fiancé,” I say. “At least I’m not an emotional cripple who is afraid to commit myself to someone just because the girl I liked turned out to like girls.”
“Oh yeah?” Chaz’s blue eyes flash more brightly than any of the fireworks that have exploded in the night sky so far. “Well, at least I didn’t get myself engaged to the first guy who asked me to marry him just because I’m in the wedding gown business and I couldn’t stand seeing all my clients getting pretty diamond rings on their fingers and not have one for myself.”
I suck in my breath, outraged—just as my cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my gingham sundress. I have to keep the stupid thing on all the time these days because of bridal gown emergencies. Although I have no weddings scheduled for today.
“That,” I snap at Chaz, “is so untrue. I happen to love Luke. And I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”
“Yeah,” Chaz sneers. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday you’ll even start to believe it.”
I slide the phone out, thinking maybe Luke is calling—although it’s close to two in the morning in France—then see that it’s my mom.
“And I suppose,” I say to Chaz, “you think you’re so much better for me than he is.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Chaz says. “I wouldn’t be stupid enough to go off to France for the summer and leave a girl like you on your own with guys like me around.”
Flustered by this, I fumble with the phone, nearly hanging up on my own mother in my attempt to answer her call.
“Mom?” In the background, the fireworks are reaching their crescendo. It’s the show’s grand finale. “I can’t talk right now. I have to call you back—”
“Oh, Lizzie, honey,” my mom interrupts. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I know you’re at Shari’s party”—we’d talked earlier in the week, and I’d mentioned that I’d be attending a party at Shari’s today—“and I don’t want to spoil it for you. But I wanted to tell you before you heard it from anybody else: Gran died.”
The fireworks are so loud, I don’t think I’ve heard her correctly. I put one finger in my ear and yell, “WHAT?”
“Honey, GRAN DIED TODAY. Can you hear me? I just wanted to make sure you didn’t hear it on your machine or from the Dennises or anything like that. Honey? Are you there?”
I murmur something. I don’t know what.
I think I’m in shock.
What had she said?
“Lizzie?” Chaz is looking down at me with a funny expression on his face. “What is it?”
“Can you hear me now?” Mom is asking in my ear. The ear I can hear out of. When I say yes, she says, “Oh good. Anyway, it was very peaceful. She went in her sleep. I just found her there this afternoon, in her chair. She must have dozed off watching Dr. Quinn. You know she figured out how to TiVo it. She had a beer in one hand, I don’t know how she got hold of it. Well, we had a Fourth of July barbecue, she must have sneaked one…Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, we’re planning a memorial service for this weekend. I know how busy you are, but I hope you’ll be able to come. You know how fond she was of you. It wasn’t right that she played favorites with you girls, but you really were always the one she liked best out of all the grandkids—”
The world seems to have tilted. Suddenly, I can’t stand up anymore. I feel my knees give out…but it’s all right, because Chaz has his arm around me and is steering me toward the beer cooler, the lid of which he’s snapped closed. He sits me down on it, then sinks down beside me, one arm around my shoulders, going, “It’s okay. Take it easy. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
“Gran’s dead,” I say to him. I can’t see him very well.
Then I realize it’s because I’m looking at him through a veil of tears. I’m crying.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry.”
“She was watching Dr. Quinn,” I tell him. I don’t know why. It’s all I can think about. “And drinking beer.”
“Well,” he says. “If you’re Gran, and you have to go, that’s the way to do it.”
I let out a hiccupy sound, halfway between a sob and a laugh.
“Lizzie?” Mom’s voice sounds in my ear. “Who’s that with you?”
“Ch-Chaz,” I say with another sob.
“Oh, honey,” Mom said. “Are you crying? I didn’t think you’d be so upset. Gran was ninety, you know. It wasn’t as if this was entirely unexpected.”
“It was by me,” I wail. I realize dimly that the booming of the fireworks has ceased, and that it’s grown very quiet all of a sudden. I realize, as well, that the pale blobs I can see through my tears are faces…the faces of everyone at Shari’s party. And that they’re all turned toward me. I fight to regain my composure, reaching up and trying to wipe away my tears with the back of my wrist.
But they won’t stop. They just seem to come faster.
Chaz, seeming to realize the problem, pulls me into a hug. And suddenly I’m weeping against his chest.
“Oh,” Mom says comfortingly into my ear. I’m clutching my cell phone tightly in one hand, and the front of Chaz’s shirt with the other. “Good. I’m glad Chaz is there. He’s a good, old friend and will take care of you.” I don’t mention that my “good, old friend” not five minutes ago was making lewd suggestions about “theories” he was going to illustrate to me back in his apartment.
“Yeah” is all I can manage to choke out.
Because the truth is, until she’d called, I had pretty much been going to accept his invitation.
“Mom,” I choke. “I’m gonna go now.”
“Okay, honey,” Mom says. “I love you.”
And then she’s hung up, and I’ve hung up, and Chaz is saying, “Shhh,” into my hair, and Tiffany has come over and is asking what’s wrong, and Shari is stroking my arm and going, “Oh, Lizzie. It’s going to be all right.”
But it isn’t. How can it be?
Gran is gone.
I never even got to say good-bye.
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
Why is the third finger of your left hand considered the ring finger? Ancient Egyptians and Romans both believed that a vein from that finger led directly to the heart, so it seemed like the logical position for the placement of the wedding band. Science has since proved this not to be strictly accurate.
But tradition lives on, and that finger is still universally known as the ring finger. And isn’t it romantic to think that our wedding rings are linked to our hearts? Well, by a creepy vein of blood, anyway?
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
It may sound obvious, but try on your rings—both bride and groom—in the days leading up to your wedding. The last thing you want to be doing during your wedding ceremony is squeezing a ring that won’t fit over fingers that have swollen due to nervous last-minute binge eating.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
• Chapter 14 •
You were born together, and together you shall be for evermore…but let there be spaces in your togetherness. And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Kahlil Gibran (1883–1931), Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer
Here’s another one,” my sister Rose says, dropping the casserole plate down on the kitchen table in front of me unceremoniously. “I think it’s green bean. Or something green, anyway.”
My other sister, Sarah, looks up from the notebook into which she’s recording the names of everyone who has brought something over for us to eat, since we are supposedly so consumed with grief over Gran’s death that we can’t cook. For some of us, this is actually true. The kitchen table is covered with casserole dishes.
“Who’s it from?” Sarah wants to know.
“I don’t know,” Rose says crabbily as she digs through her purse, which she’s left on the kitchen counter next to the sliding glass door to the deck. “I found it on the front porch. Check the card, nimrod.”
“Suck my dick,” Sarah says, snatching the card off the top of the casser
ole dish.
“Do you kiss your husband with that mouth?” Rose wants to know. Then she lets out a tinkly laugh. “Oh, that’s right. He left you. So where’s Luke, anyway?” Rose turns her attention to me.
“Don’t talk to me,” I say to Rose.
Rose looks at Sarah. “What’s her glitch?” she wants to know.
“She’s not speaking to you,” Sarah says. “Because you called TMZ on her client. Remember?”
“Oh, please,” Rose says with a laugh. “You’re not still mad about that, are you? That should be water under the bridge. Our grandmother is dead. Now, come on. Where’s Luke? Your fiancé? Isn’t he going to come to your own grandmother’s funeral? Or is he too busy with school or whatever? As usual.”
“He’s in France,” I say from between gritted teeth.
“Oh, France,” Rose says with another laugh. “Sure. Why not. France.”
“He is,” I say. Why can’t I not speak to people I’ve resolved never to speak to again? “He’s helping his uncle set up a new investment office. Not that it’s any of your business. He wanted to come. He’s really sorry. But he can’t leave right now.” And besides. We’re on a break. I don’t mention this to Rose, who doesn’t deserve to know any of my personal business. But it’s true.
“Of course,” Rose says. “You know, we’re all starting to wonder if this Luke guy even exists, or if he’s just some guy you’ve made up to make us think you finally got a boyfriend. As if.” Still laughing, Rose opens the sliding glass door and steps out into the cool evening air, not bothering to close it behind her, so all the mosquitoes come buzzing in.
“I hate her too,” Sarah informs me matter-of-factly as soon as Rose is out of earshot. “Don’t pay any attention to her. You have no idea how lucky you are you got out of here. Seriously.”
I am sitting with my arms crossed in front of my chest, holding on to both my elbows. I have been sitting like this since I got home.