Queen of Babble Bundle with Bonus Material

by Meg Cabot

  “Okay,” he says in an entirely different tone, coming over to the couch and collapsing onto it beside me. It’s as if all the bones have gone from his body. I can see the jet lag has finally kicked in. “Yeah. I’m glad you said something. God…Lizzie…I thought it was me.”

  The relief that surges through me is like an electric pulse. It leaves me slumped beside him like a rag doll. I think I must feel almost as exhausted as he is—and I haven’t just traveled thousands of miles to get here.

  “It’s not you,” I say. It’s horrible to be falling back on a tired cliché like this. But in this particular case, it really is true. “It’s me.”

  “No, Lizzie,” Luke says. “It’s not you.”

  “No,” I assure him. “It really is.”

  But I’m not going to tell him about Chaz. If I have my way, he’s never going to know about Chaz. At least, not until a suitable mourning period for our failed relationship has passed, during which Luke’s had time to find a fabulous new girlfriend—maybe someone like Valencia, a size 2 who’ll fit into that Vera Wang wedding gown I saw in that display window today—and who will cause him to forget all about me.

  “I think I just…I pushed you too hard for a commitment you weren’t ready to make,” I say.

  “No,” he says valiantly. “That’s not true. It’s just…we’re just at such different places in our lives right now. Jesus, Lizzie, we even ended up on different continents. How could we ever have hoped to make this work?”

  I can actually think of a lot of ways we could have made it work. But considering it’s clear neither of us wants to make it work anymore, it seems better to leave them unsaid.

  So instead I say, “Well, we can still be friends, right?”

  “Always,” Luke says, trying to look sad. But I can see such relief in his sleepy brown eyes, it’s almost comical. It’s the same relief I’d felt out on my stoop that night before he’d left for France, when I’d told him we were taking a break.

  I know exactly how he feels. How is this even possible? How could we have disentangled ourselves from this without so much as an angry word or even a tear? Is it possible that we’re just…well, adults?

  “Here,” I say. “I want to make sure you get this back.”

  And I pull off the diamond that’s been weighing down my left ring finger for so many months. It slips off so easily, it’s almost scary.

  “No,” Luke says, looking slightly panicky, putting out a hand to stop me. “Lizzie—no. I want you to keep it.”

  “Luke, I can’t keep it,” I say.

  “Really,” Luke says, looking completely panic-stricken. I’m not imagining it. “I don’t want it. What am I going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I don’t understand this. Why won’t he take it? “Sell it. Luke, I’m breaking off our engagement. I can’t keep it.”

  “No, I’m the one breaking off our engagement,” Luke insists. “I can’t keep it. You sell it.”

  The relief is gone from his eyes. Now I see genuine terror growing there. He really doesn’t want the ring.

  Something, I can tell, is wrong. Very wrong.

  And our breakup had been going so nicely up until now.

  “Okay,” I say gently, slipping the ring under some magazines on the coffee table, since the sight of it seems to upset him so much. “I’ll keep it.”

  The relief creeps back into his face.

  “Good,” he says, visibly relaxing again. “Good. I want you to have it. I do.”

  Um…okay. What kind of guy wants his ex to keep the ring? Especially a ring that cost as much as mine had to have. (Okay. Twenty-two thousand. Tiffany looked it up one day on the Cartier Web site. She was bored.)

  I’ll tell you what kind of guy: a guy with a guilty conscience. That’s what kind.

  But surely not. Not Luke. Not my sweet, handsome, loving Luke, whom I so cruelly wronged by boinking his best friend in a Knight’s Inn when I went home for my grandmother’s funeral. (Which, by the way, Luke did not fly home for. But he did fly home when I lost my job and apartment. Except that I was more upset about losing Gran. Let’s face it, you can always get another job and find another place to live. You can never replace your grandmother.)

  Luke would never do anything for him to have a guilty conscience about. He’s exactly what Shari accused him of being—too perfect. Sure, I thought he might be cheating on me all those nights he spent studying at his place and those afternoons he was at the library, when he said he didn’t want to see me.

  But that was just my overactive imagination. I’m the only one with a guilty conscience in this relationship.

  Luke yawns—then does look guilty. But only about his rudeness.

  “Oh my God,” he says. “I’m so sorry…”

  “You must be exhausted,” I say. “You should go. I’d offer to let you crash here, but—”

  But we just broke up.

  I don’t have to elaborate. Luke gets the message.

  “No,” Luke says, getting up. “Sorry. I’ll go to my mom’s. God, this feels so weird. It’s weird, isn’t it? Is it weird?”

  “It’s weird,” I assure him, standing as well. It’s just not as weird as he knows. “But I think it’s good. It’s a good thing.”

  “I hope so,” Luke says.

  And, as we hug good-bye at my doorway, and he gazes down at me, I see that there are actual tears gathered in those deep brown eyes of his. No, really. They’re hovering, like the tiny Swarovski crystals that dot Ava Geck’s phone (only not pink) on the edges of his tremendously long eyelashes.

  As if I didn’t feel guilty enough. Now I’ve made him cry.

  “You know I’ll always love you, right, Lizzie?” Luke asks.

  “Of course,” I say. Though I’m thinking, Oh my God. This is so…Are those really tears? Actual tears? Why aren’t I crying? Should I cry? I guess so, I’m the girl. Oh God, I should be crying. But I don’t feel like crying. Is that because I’m not in love with him anymore, because I’m in love with Chaz? Shouldn’t I cry for what might have been, for the children Luke and I will never have now? Is this because of the hives? It’s hard to cry for a guy who gave me so many hives, I guess. And because he gave up medical school to be an investment banker. If he’d gone through with the doctor thing, I’d be crying, for sure.

  I think.

  Then Luke gives me one last affectionate hug, kisses the top of my head, and leaves.

  As soon as I hear the front door close, and I see him walking slowly down my street through my front window, I’m on my cell phone.

  “Get over here right now,” I say into it.

  “Is this a booty call?” Chaz replies, sounding delighted.

  “You are never going to guess who was just here,” I say.

  “Seeing as how you were at the Gecks this evening,” he says, “I am going to take a wild guess and say…Neil Diamond?”

  “Luke,” I say, clutching my phone so tightly my fingers hurt. “He shared a private charter over from Paris with his uncle. We just broke up.”

  “I’m on my way,” Chaz says, not even a hint of humor in his voice.

  A HISTORY of WEDDINGS

  The first known bachelor party took place in Sparta in the fifth century B.C. Military comrades about to conduct a raiding party to fetch themselves some new brides toasted and feted one another. Since then, men have gathered on the eve before one of them is about to tie the knot to become inebriated, mourn the passing of their friend’s singlehood, and ogle dancing girls.

  Brides are encouraged to ignore this long-standing rite of manhood. It’s been around way longer than you have, honey. Let him have his fun. You’ll get your revenge…on your wedding night.

  Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

  Mother of the bride (or groom), don’t think we’ve forgotten you. You’ll want to look your best on the big day as well. How? It’s easy. Start shopping for your dress early, so you’ll have plenty of time to find the perfect look for you.
Neutrals are always elegant (leave red to your husband’s trashy new wife and white is, of course, for the bride only), as is black if it’s not a morning ceremony. Nothing too glitzy unless it’s an evening reception.

  And remember, you can never go wrong with a good support undergarment, such as Spanx.

  LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™

  • Chapter 23 •

  Let us celebrate the occasion with wine and sweet words.

  Titus Maccius Plautus (254–184 B.C.), Roman playwright

  He is at my apartment in fifteen minutes. It’s amazing how fast a taxi can travel seventy blocks uptown along First Avenue after midnight.

  “I want to know everything,” he says, slinging his backpack—we have not progressed to the point where either of us has a drawer at the other’s apartment yet—onto my couch. “But first…how did it go at Ava’s parents’ place?”

  “Oh, Chaz…”

  And the next thing I know, I’m in his arms, and it’s—I don’t know how to describe it. It’s completely different from being in my former fiancé’s arms. Instead of feeling self-conscious and strange and awkward, the way I had when Luke and I hugged a little while ago, I feel safe and comforted and, most important of all, loved—completely and wholeheartedly loved—when Chaz’s arms are around me. I close my eyes, letting his warmth envelope me, and suddenly the tears that hadn’t been there with Luke show up.

  “Whoa,” Chaz says with a gentle laugh, kissing my cheeks. “It was that bad? They didn’t like your drawings? How could they not have liked them? I’ve always loved your little stick women. Did you put top hats on them? I love it when you put top hats on them.”

  “N-no,” I stammer, shaking my head as he grips my waist. “Th-they l-loved the top hats! Well, I mean, I didn’t put top hats on any of them. But they loved the drawings.”

  “They did? Then what’s the problem?”

  “I—I’m just so happy!”

  It’s true. I feel so happy, standing there in my living room slash dining room slash kitchen, with Chaz’s arms around me, and—now that I’m no longer engaged—my status on the Bad Girl Scale back to negative, I think my heart might burst.

  “So the Gecks are buying your designs,” Chaz says.

  I nod. “I’m in charge of design and quality control. Ava’s doing marketing. Her dad’s taking care of everything else. Chaz…I think this could be really great. It’s not going to be crappy. It’s really not. Because Ava’s super-invested in it. Because her name’s going to be on it. She’s actually taking it seriously. I’ve never seen her take anything this seriously. It helps that she’s so into this DJ Tippycat guy, and he turns out to have a business degree from Syracuse. His real name is Joshua Rubenstein. He was there tonight too.”

  Chaz looks impressed. “And what about the shop? Tiffany and Monique, and Sylvia and Marisol?”

  I chew my lip. “I have a plan for them too,” I say. “But…it’s going to involve some driving.”

  “Driving?” he echoes. “Driving where?”

  “To New Jersey,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him down onto the couch. “But first…Chaz, seriously…and no joking around. Just tell me. I need to know. What did you mean when you said that stuff about Luke not being a Boy Scout while were dating? Because when we broke up just now…he insisted on my keeping this.” I lean over and pick up the ring from where I’ve hidden it beneath a copy of People. “Chaz, this is an expensive ring. Why would he insist on my keeping it unless he felt super-guilty about something? Huh? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Chaz looks down at the ring and shakes his head.

  “God,” he says. “I can’t believe he didn’t take it back. Did he cry?”

  “When we broke up?” I look at him in surprise. “Yeah, he did, a little. How did you know?”

  Chaz takes a deep breath. Then he lets it out in a whoosh.

  “Luke wasn’t exactly Mr. Innocence himself the whole time you two were going out, all right?” Chaz lifts his gaze from the ring and locks it onto mine. “Did you really think he was studying all those nights he said he was at the library? Because that’s not what he was doing.”

  I blink. “I knew it,” I say. “Shari was right! He really was too perfect. There was something creepy about it.” Then I add, “Wait. You’d better not be making this up to make me feel better about what we’ve been doing…”

  “Better?” Chaz echoes. “Hell, all this time, I’ve been afraid to tell you. I thought you’d have a nervous breakdown if you found out.”

  “If this is a joke,” I threaten, still not sure whether or not I believe him, “to make me feel less like a two on the Bad Girl Scale, it really isn’t very funny…”

  “I’m not joking,” Chaz says gravely. “And I don’t know what a Bad Girl Scale is. It was that girl Sophie, from his class, all right? The one who knew the guy who got us a table at the Spotted Pig that night. He was doing her behind your back all last semester. You should have seen her. You’d have flipped out. She wore that Juicy Couture stuff you hate. And those giant sunglasses with Dolce & Gabbana written on the side?”

  I shake my head.

  “No,” I say. “Nice try. But you’d never have kept something like that a secret this long. You’d have told me.”

  “Actually,” Chaz says, sounding dead serious for a change, “I couldn’t tell you, Liz. How could I have told you about Luke sleeping with another woman behind your back when you were still so in love with him—or at least when I thought you were still so in love with him? How would that have looked? Consider my position, being in love with you, and wanting you for myself. Had I come to you before I’d actually, ahem, managed to win you over, as I apparently have now, and suggested to you that your fiancé was sleeping around behind your back, what, exactly, would I have accomplished? Yeah, you might have broken up with Luke, and yeah, you might have slept with me. But how would I know that I wouldn’t have been just some revenge screw—some way for you to get back at Luke for what he’d done to you?”

  I blink at him.

  The thing is, I believe him. Mostly because of the details—he couldn’t make up that Dolce & Gabbana thing. Chaz doesn’t know anything about designers—look at his shorts. But also because of the incredibly coarse way he was putting it.

  What he was actually saying is incredible.

  But, given his bluntness, it might just be true.

  “That’s not what I wanted,” Chaz goes on. There isn’t a hint of sarcasm or laughter in his tone now. His blue eyes look almost pained. “That’s the last thing I wanted. For the longest time—since way before New Year’s, since the day I helped you move into this place—I wanted you any way I could get you. And that’s the truth. But I wanted you for keeps, Lizzie. And you weren’t going to stick around if that’s all I was to you, a revenge screw, a way to hurt Luke. So…yeah, I didn’t tell you. Until now. So sue me.”

  Then, his shoulders still hunched, he whips out his cell phone. “Besides. I can prove it to you.”

  The next thing I know, he’s pressed a button on his keypad. A second later, he’s saying, “Luke?”

  “Chaz,” I cry. “No—”

  But it’s too late.

  “Oh, hey, man,” Chaz says conversationally, into the phone. “Oh, sorry, did I wake you? Oh no? You’re in town? What are you doing in town?”

  I cannot believe this is happening. I flop back against the couch, slapping my hands over my eyes. I can’t watch.

  “Oh, you did? Really? Oh yeah? Oh, she did? Oh, really. Oh, that’s too bad.” Chaz leans over and pokes me, but I don’t take my hands from my eyes. Finally, after a few more “really”s, I hear Chaz say, “Yeah, so, if you and Lizzie are splitting up, I guess that means things are really going to heat up with Sophie.”

  Chaz must have put the phone close to my ear, because I hear Luke’s voice saying, “Well, you know, I’m going to be moving to France, so I guess I won’t be seeing as much of Sophie. But you know there’s this fantastic woman I�
�ve been seeing in my new office, that one I was telling you about, Marie…”

  I take my hands away from my eyes and just look at him. Chaz’s expression is a beguiling mixture of anxiety—that my feelings are hurt—and laughter. It is kind of hard not to see the humor in the situation. It’s not as if I care who Luke’s been doing behind my back.

  I just hope he, like me, has been using a condom.

  When he sees that I’m smiling too, Chaz puts the phone back to his ear and says, “Uh, Luke? So, listen, since you and Lizzie aren’t seeing each other anymore, I was wondering…how would you feel if I asked her out? Because, you know, I think she’s a great girl, and I’ve always sort of—”

  Even from where I’m sitting, three feet away, I can hear Luke’s voice curtly cutting Chaz off.

  Chaz’s grin grows more broad.

  “Oh,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling at me. “You don’t think that would be a very good idea? Why? You think you’re such a sex god you should just have all the great girls for yourself, even after you’re done with them, is that it?”

  Laughing, I gasp, “Chaz, don’t!” and reach out to wrestle the phone away from him.

  “No?” Chaz is saying into the phone, even as he wraps an arm around my waist and wrestles me noisily to the floor. “Oh, because she’s in a very fragile state right now? I don’t think she’s in quite as fragile a state as you might think. What was that noise? Oh, I think that was just…my upstairs neighbor. Yeah, he just brought home another trannie from that bar down the street. Hey, Johnny”—Chaz takes the phone away from his face and yells at the walls as he tickles me mercilessly, while I try not to blow our cover by laughing—“it’s called abstinence! You should give it try! Oops, Luke, I gotta go, he’s puking in the hallway. Yeah, he’s sliding around in his puke. I’ll call you later.”

  Chaz hangs up, throws his cell phone over his shoulder, then dives on top of me, burying his face in my neck. I can barely breathe I’m laughing so hard.

  And I realize something: I’ve never had such a good time in my entire life.