Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  I glared at him through narrowed eyes. I noticed that he’d recently had his light-brown hair cut and there was a small shaving nick on his jawline. He was wearing a navy-blue polo shirt, pressed khaki pants, and, inexplicably, leather thong sandals. I’d never seen the sandals before. Elliott had always been a confirmed penny-loafer man, insisting that sandals for men were “very, very gay.” I wondered if they were a gift from Naomi.

  “I know I hurt you,” Elliott said. “I made a mistake. A stupid, idiotic mistake. I fully admit that.”

  “That’s big of you,” I said sarcastically.

  “You can’t tell me you really want to throw away three years of shared history over one mistake?” Elliott’s eyes were soft and pleading. His expression reminded me of Harper Lee when she’s begging at the table, ever hopeful that a forkful of my dinner will come her way. “Because I think what we have is worth saving. I love you. And I know you still love me. That doesn’t just go away overnight.”

  “Seven nights,” I said.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “It’s been seven nights since I found you in our bed with your new girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” Elliott said quickly.

  “I don’t really care one way or the other. Your sex life is no longer any of my business.”

  “No, what I mean is, I’ve already told Naomi that it’s over—because I love you, Lucy. It took losing you to make me realize that, to realize how much I’ve taken our relationship for granted. But now I know—you’re the woman I’m meant to be with. You’re the love of my life.”

  This speech was delivered with the same soft eyes and urgent, earnest tone. And then Elliott dropped to one knee and held out a white ring box I hadn’t noticed in his hand. He opened the box, revealing a gorgeous, glittering two-carat diamond solitaire ring nestled on a bed of white satin.

  “Marry me, Lucy. Let me spend the rest of our lives making it up to you,” he said. A lock of light-brown hair had fallen forward over his brow, giving him a boyish air. With every gesture and every word, he was the very picture of repentance.

  He had to be insane if he thought I was going to buy it.

  “Did you practice that little speech?” I asked.

  He hesitated for the briefest of moments. So I was right: He had practiced. Probably in front of a mirror.

  “No,” he said. “Of course not. Every word came from my heart.”

  With his ring-free hand, he patted himself on the chest, just over his heart. Or where his heart would have been if he actually had one. I looked down at his clear hazel eyes, narrow face, and thin, hard lips and wondered why in the hell I had ever wasted a single moment of my life with this man, how it was that I had failed to see what he really was. All along I’d always thought he was one of the good ones. I thought he only had a minor commitment hang-up and, despite that one flaw, he was worth waiting for. Now I finally saw Elliott for the selfish, manipulative jerk he really was.

  Considering how wrong I’d been about his sense of loyalty, I probably shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he was a gold digger as well. Because it was blindingly obvious to me that there was one reason, and one reason only, that he was here now.

  “The answer to your question,” I said, “is a most definite no.”

  “No what?”

  “No, I will not marry you.”

  Elliott’s eyes widened, and I thought I could detect the faintest trace of sweat on his forehead. He was still down on one knee, and—as though suddenly aware of how ridiculous he looked—stood abruptly.

  “But I thought this was what you wanted. To get married. For me to commit,” he said.

  “Oh, it was,” I agreed. “But I’ve changed my mind. Thank God.”

  I could see something shift behind Elliott’s eyes. I didn’t know if it was anger, or frustration, or maybe even genuine disappointment.

  “Are you saying no just because of Naomi? Because I promise, that’s completely over,” Elliott said.

  “No, that’s not it. Well, I mean, of course I’m angry about that. I did walk in on you screwing some random woman on my bed, after all. But that’s not why I’m saying no to your proposal,” I said.

  “Then why?”

  “Because you’re an asshole, Elliott,” I said gently. “And I’m well aware that the only reason you’re proposing to me now is because of the lottery money.”

  “That’s not true!” Elliott gasped. Two spots of red flamed suddenly on his cheekbones. I’d always envied him his cheekbones, which were high and prominent, like a model’s. “I’m not here because of the money! I’m here because I love you.”

  “The thing is, I don’t think you really do love me. I’m sure it must stick in your craw to know that if you’d been decent and kind and faithful, that money would now be yours too. But you weren’t—and it isn’t. And now I’d like you to leave,” I said.

  I turned and opened the door for him, taking care to step back so the photographers wouldn’t be able to catch sight of me again. As if a switch had been flicked, the reporters immediately began shouting out questions. Elliott stood staring at me, not sure what to do. Then he blinked and looked down at the ring. With a decisive snap, he shut the box and thrust it into his pants pocket, where it made a noticeable bulge.

  He left without saying another word.

  Elliott got his revenge on me the next morning.

  “Yes, it’s been very hard,” he said to Diane Sawyer, as she interviewed him on Good Morning America.

  Diane was wearing a dove-gray suit and pearls, her lovely face frowning at him in concern. Elliott had on the blue sport jacket I’d bought him for Christmas last year over a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His expression was a perfect mixture of stoicism and sorrow. I even felt a little sorry for him, before remembering that he was, at that moment, betraying me for the second time in less than two weeks.

  “I loved—no, I still love Lucy very much,” Elliott said sadly. “I was prepared to stand by her through the stunning allegations made against her by this student. But then she won the lottery—and for whatever reason, she broke off our engagement.”

  “Engagement? What engagement, you lying turd,” I muttered at the television.

  “You believe she ended your relationship because she didn’t want to share the money with you?” Diane Sawyer asked.

  Elliott shrugged while tilting his head to one side. “I have to wonder if that was her motivation,” he admitted, conveniently failing to mention how he’d cheated on me. The bastard.

  “And what do you think about the allegations made by Ms. Parker’s former student, claiming that she attempted to coerce him into having sexual relations with her?”

  “At first I thought the allegations were ridiculous. The Lucy I knew would never have done something like that. But now…” Elliott looked right at the camera. “Now I’m starting to realize that I never knew the real Lucy Parker.”

  My jaw dropped open, and I shook my head silently. Which was worse: Walking in on your boyfriend screwing another woman…or having him appear on national television, telling the world that you’re the new Mary Kay Letourneau? And then, to make matters just that much worse, Good Morning America flashed the most unflattering possible video of me. It had been taken as I was letting Elliott into the house, and featured me looking like a sloppy, guilty mess with my face twisted in an ugly expression of anger.

  “Oh. My. God,” I said. My legs felt suddenly weak, and I sank down on the sofa.

  “Where do you go from here?” Diane Sawyer was gently asking Elliott.

  He smiled bravely. “I’ll be fine. It will just take a little while for my heart to heal, I think.”

  Diane Sawyer smiled warmly at him. “Good luck, Elliott.”

  “Thank you, Diane.”

  “And coming up on Good Morning America, we’ll be taking a look at the epidemic of female teachers seducing their male students. It’s an eye-opening story every parent of a son should
hear,” Diane Sawyer said seriously, as somber piano music played in the background.

  I groaned softly and lowered my head into my hands. Without looking up, I lifted the remote in one limp hand and turned off the television.

  By Friday afternoon, the reporters were still there, and I was still a prisoner in my home. The phone rang constantly whenever I plugged it in. They’d even somehow managed to track down my cell-phone number and began calling on that too. I finally turned off the cell phone and tossed it in the junk drawer in the kitchen.

  I’d hoped that if I just ignored the reporters, they’d get tired of waiting and go away. But it had been a slow news week; there wasn’t even a runaway bride or starlet heading to rehab around to distract the media. If anything, there were even more reporters camped outside than there had been the day before. I stood by the window, chewing on my lower lip and peering out at them from behind my curtains. There was a sandwich truck out there today, doing a brisk business serving BLTs and grilled hot dogs to the news crews.

  I had to get away. I just wasn’t sure where I could go. My parents’ house was out of the question—it was far too crowded with dogs and wedding plans. And for the first time in our twenty-year friendship, Maisie and I weren’t speaking. I’d always dreamed about traveling to Europe, especially to England, home of my beloved Jane Austen and Henry James. But when I’d pictured myself going overseas, it was a trip I thought I’d make with someone I loved. Going alone, and when my life was in a free fall, seemed somehow wrong.

  The phone rang. I cursed myself for forgetting to take it off the hook after calling my parents’ house, which I had immediately regretted when my little sister answered. As Mom had predicted, Emma was only too happy to let me pay for the wedding of her dreams. She was pointedly ignoring Dad’s stubborn insistence that he and Mom were going to pay for the wedding and that she would have to make do with the budget he’d given her. This all put me rather horribly in the middle, and even though I’d begged to be left out of it until they’d hashed it out, Emma had taken to whispering her latest over-the-top ideas whenever we spoke. Today she’d gone on and on about releasing doves—real live, flying, cooing, shitting doves—just as the minister was pronouncing Emma and Christian husband and wife.

  “And wouldn’t it be fabulous to have my wedding at Pine Gardens? It’s one of the nicest country clubs in the state.” Emma burbled along enthusiastically. “There’s just one problem.”

  “What?” I asked wearily.

  “Owen Forrester.”

  I felt a spasm in the region of my stomach. Just hearing the name of Matt Forrester’s father shook me. The money made me feel like I had a bull’s-eye taped to my forehead. What if the Forresters did decide to sue me? Or, even worse, have me criminally prosecuted?

  “What about him?”

  “He’s a member at Pine Gardens. In fact, he’s the president of the board. I’m worried that he’ll try to stop us from holding the reception there.”

  “He probably would,” I said.

  “If he finds out we’re sisters.”

  There was something about Emma’s tone—an offhand affectation that she always adopted when she was attempting to be sly—that caught my attention.

  “If? Wait—are you saying you want me to pretend that I’m not related to you?”

  “No, no, of course not!” Emma said in a way that made it perfectly clear this was exactly what she’d been contemplating. “I just wanted to find out what you thought I should do. But never mind.” She scrambled to change the subject, although unfortunately not away from the wedding altogether. “Oh! I know what else I wanted to tell you. I had an amazing idea: I want to have a huge fireworks display at the reception! Doesn’t that sound incredible? Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes did it at their wedding, and it was supposed to have been fabulous. But as it turns out, we need, like, ten different kinds of permits and a professional pyrotechnic. I found a guy, and he said he’s going to need a deposit of five thousand as soon as possible.”

  “Emma, I’ve already told you. I’d be happy to pay for your wedding extravaganza, but I’m not going behind Dad’s back. You need to work this out with him first,” I said in my sternest teacher’s voice.

  This, of course, set Emma off on a hissing rant about how unfair and unreasonable Dad was being. I didn’t disagree with her—I couldn’t figure out why Dad was being so insistent that he pay for the wedding. He seemed to think that letting me pay for it would be taking advantage of me. But what was the point of having all this money if I couldn’t help out my family with these sorts of unwieldy expenses?

  By the time I finally got Emma off the phone, I thought that if I ever heard the word wedding again it would be too soon. Likewise, fondant frosting, platinum eternity band, and darling little sterling-silver picture frames to hand out as favors. As it was, my headache had returned, so I went off in search of the aspirin bottle and forgot to unplug the phone.

  When it rang, I ignored it, assuming it was either yet another reporter or Emma calling back to torture me with more wedding talk. Maybe she now wanted to give each guest a live peacock to take home as a wedding favor. Or maybe she wanted to arrive at the wedding ceremony in a gilded horse-drawn carriage.

  But it wasn’t Emma. The voice on my answering machine was lower and huskier than my sister’s:

  “Hey, Lulu, it’s Hayden. Are you there? Or are you too busy seducing hot young boys to answer your phone? I just saw a story about you on Fox fucking News, and I damned near had a stroke. Pick up the phone right this minute and tell me what in the name of holy fuck is going on.”

  Eight

  HAYDEN BLAIR WAS MY SECOND-OLDEST FRIEND. WE met our freshman year at Bates. She lived in the dorm room next to mine, and the first time I saw her she was sitting in the common room, her bare feet tucked up underneath her, while she watched a Real World marathon on MTV. I liked her instantly. She had sleek dark hair that fell halfway down her back, chic bangs, and wore dark-red lipstick without looking ridiculous. Her family was insanely rich, although for as long as I’d known her, Hayden had distanced herself from the silver-spoon lifestyle. She never hung out with the trust-fund brats at Bates, bought most of her clothes at thrift stores—although somehow still managed to look incredibly glamorous in everything she wore—and whenever the subject of her family’s money came up, Hayden shrugged it off.

  “Old money,” she’d say, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s not like my parents earned it.”

  Hayden was the third of three daughters and not on great terms with the rest of her family.

  “I’m my parents’ Great Disappointment,” Hayden had confided to me that night, the first of many late nights we would spend sprawled out on the indestructible dorm couches. “My oldest sister, Evelyn, went to Wharton for her MBA, and Jezzy is going to law school next year after she graduates from fucking Harvard. I’m the only one who didn’t go Ivy. My parents are still pissed about it.”

  “Bates is a good school,” I said, feeling stung.

  Hayden looked at me pityingly. “Yeah, well, it’s not Harvard. And that’s all my parents care about. I haven’t broken it to them yet that I’m going to major in drama.”

  “Are you an actress?” I asked, impressed.

  “Not yet,” Hayden said, a small smile playing at her lips. “But I will be.”

  Neither of us was all that into the party scene at school—I was too shy, Hayden, a wild child who’d started clubbing at the age of thirteen, was too jaded—and so when the other girls on our floor left in a pack for the latest off-campus party, smelling of shampoo and floral perfume and wearing body-suits and skintight jeans tucked into cowboy boots, Hayden and I would watch old movies and talk late into the night. Overnight, it seemed, we became the closest of friends.

  “I’ve never really been friends with a girl before,” Hayden had told me during one of our late night chatfests. “Girls don’t usually like me.”

  I could see why some women would find Hayden threa
tening. With her strong features—the fierce tilt of her green eyes, the too-long nose, the almost masculine cut of her jaw—Hayden wasn’t classically beautiful. But she was certainly very arresting; I got used to eyes following us when we went to dinner at the dining hall or walked across campus to class together. Men were particularly fascinated with her. It wasn’t at all unusual for guys she didn’t know to walk right up to Hayden and boldly ask her out. She never seemed surprised by the attention or even all that interested. She’d just smile and thank them politely but say no, she wasn’t interested in dating anyone right now.

  “Why aren’t you interested in dating?” I asked her once.

  I certainly was. Unfortunately, no one—neither random guys we met walking across campus nor anyone else—asked me out. The closest I’d gotten to a date was at the freshman mixer I’d attended on the first night at school, when a guy named Adam had staggered up to me and slurred that I was the most beautiful girl at the party. I knew that this declaration had probably been largely influenced by the amount of beer he’d downed at happy hour prior to coming to the mixer, but even so, I’d half-wondered if Adam and I might end up together. It would be a great story to tell our kids someday.

  I met your mom on our very first night at college. She was so beautiful, she took my breath away. I just knew this was the woman I was meant to marry, he’d say, wrapping an affectionate arm around my waist and leaning down to kiss me on the cheek, while our children groaned at how sappy their parents were.

  Taken with this image of domestic perfection, I’d let Adam walk me back to my dorm, where we engaged in a protracted kiss-and-grope session just outside the front door to Smith Hall. This included—at his insistence—an over-the-pants hand job, which was unfortunately witnessed by several of my new dormmates upon their return from the mixer and earned me the reputation of Dorm Slut on our very first night at school. I wrote down my phone number for Adam; he promised to call but never did. And for the next four years, whenever I saw Adam on campus—which happened with annoying frequency—he’d turn bright red and look away, making me feel as worthless and discarded as a used condom.