Valerie peeks her head into my room while the kids are at music and catches me humming to myself. HUMMING TO MYSELF.
“Are you…” She pauses at the threshold.
“Sick? Dying? I know, right? No! I’m just basking in the glow of—” I reel it in and remember Saturday. Sunday. Eek. Tone it down, freak. “How have you been?” I try to recover.
“Fine.” She seems unaffected by the saccharine oozing from my pores. “But I can’t drive Quinn home after the fitting and everything tonight. Can you take her?”
“She’s been getting rides to work? How come you guys…of course I can take her. No pr—”
But before I can even finish my sentence, Valerie is gone. And in her wake, I feel a whoosh of cold air as the door shuts.
* * *
At rehearsal, things are too hectic among the kids to allow for much awkwardness between Nick and me. Although he’s sweet with the kids and he sends me a smile early on, he spends most of the time backstage, nailing things, as evidenced by the very loud banging occurring every few seconds and rattling my brain. But I’m thankful he’s back there doing it and not out here working up some sort of sweat that would render me incapable of fulfilling my directorial responsibilities.
Yeah, that’s it.
When we get to the dress shop, formfitting lace clings to Quinn’s curves and drapes at her tiny feet. The dress is not white this time; it’s an ethereal silvery sheen that’s luminous in the fluorescent lights. It drips down into a beautiful mermaid-style bottom, the back of which flows into a glittery sea of a train.
My throat tightens at the sight of her. She’s stunning.
After the proper squealing and eye wiping, Val and I each take one of Quinn’s hands and help her step up on the block in front of the wall o’ mirrors so the seamstress can teach us how to bustle the dress.
Once we’ve got the hang of it and she’s all pinned and adjusted, it’s our turn to try on our bridesmaid gowns—hot pink, tea-length little numbers. Very busty, very Quinn. I’m thankful I don’t look straight-up hag in it, and luckily, none of us will require major alterations before the big day.
By the time we’re at dinner and we’re each a few sips into our respective wine choices, things feel back to normal. The stick up Valerie’s ass seems halfway out and Quinn’s not evading my stare anymore. I almost mention it—Hey! Glad to see we’ve all recovered from the weekend—but something holds me back. I never can leave well enough alone and it always backfires, so I decide to shut my trap this time.
Everyone’s in such good spirits (#nopunintended) that I catch them up on my coupla dates with James. Val’s all girly claps and Quinn’s all pokes and prods with her freshly painted claws. It’s a wonder I don’t have more bruises on a daily basis, really.
“Have you asked him to the wedding?” Val wants to know. She beams brighter than she did on the mechanical bull the other night, so I know she’s legit excited.
“This weekend,” I say. “But I have a pretty good feeling about it.” And I can’t help the woo-girl glee that’s slipped its way into my whole existence. Gag, I know. “So what’s left for us to do?” I ask.
“Not much, really,” says Quinn, back to being enamored with her phone. “Writing out the place cards, really, if that’s something you’re able to help with. But no big deal.”
“I’d love to.” I even surprise myself in saying it. “Tonight?”
Quinn’s mouth hangs open. “Well, sure, if you want to. Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
She yanks back. “Wow, this James must have a magic wand because I don’t even know who you are right now.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about his magic wand,” I say, palm to sternum, feigning a How Dare You? look.
“So are you ready to admit we were right about this? About love?” Valerie asks, and I cut my stare her way.
“Not yet—are you nuts? But from what I’ve seen so far, this James seems promising, sure.”
“Very diplomatic.” She gives me an eye roll.
“That’s me. Miss Diplomacy!”
We spend a very comfortable, very regular evening, but on the way to Quinn’s apartment, she gets quiet and tense.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, taking the turns like a Formula One racer.
When she says nothing in response, that itchy feeling under my skin acts up again, so I continue. “Where have you been this week? Have you been avoiding me?”
She takes a few paranoia-inducing seconds, breathes deep, and then she deadpans, “Does it always have to be all about you?” But she doesn’t laugh or even smile afterward, and I get the feeling it is all about me.
“What’s going on, Q?”
As if the silence isn’t bad enough, she bursts into tears.
“It’s Phil.” She’s gone ultrasonic. “He’s just—super not enthused about the weekend. I told him everything, and—”
“Everything?”
She snaps her head toward me. “Yes, everything, Rae.” Like I’m some moron.
But she’s used my name, so I know this is serious.
She continues in a huff and wipes her eyes on a crumbly tissue she’s discovered in the depths of her Michael Kors purse. “You, of all people, ought to know how important honesty is in a relationship. In a marriage.”
“Whoa, whoa.” Like she’s a horse. I take one palm off the steering wheel and hold it out in front of me.
“I’m just saying.” She softens. “He’s pissed about the car and that’s why he’s been driving mine this week—”
“Like a punishment?” I scoff. I can’t help it. “What are you? A child?”
“I insisted.” She drags out the last word and then lets out an audible exhale like I’m the most ridiculous person in the world.
“I thought you said the other day that this wasn’t my fault—which it wasn’t, by the way. Other than us being parked at the wrong place at the wrong time, how am I involved in this? You’re getting married. We’ve been friends for years. So we went on a bachelorette weekend. I looked out for you guys and kept us safe. And regardless. We are grown-ass women. I didn’t force anybody to do anything they didn’t want to do. I didn’t leave anybody behind.” I think of Valerie’s little romp, and my stomach gurgles.
Still—I shake it off—not my fault.
I jerk into her driveway and throw the car into park, my blood threatening to burst its way through my skin.
“I know,” she coos. “But Phil kind of blames you—”
“For what? Am I the mastermind behind the fucking car-theft ring that stole his precious Porsche?”
“Of course not. No.” She presses her fingers to both temples and starts to rock back and forth like I’ve broken her brain. “I can’t—”
“You can’t what?” My tone, expectant.
“I don’t know,” she says, still avoiding my gaze.
“Have you even defended me at all?”
“Well, no, but—”
The admission all but knocks the wind out of me. My mouth is hanging open like even my jaw muscles have given up, and it takes seconds—minutes?—to recover. I have to control my breathing.
Steady. Don’t say anything you’re going to regret.
But then the words shove their way out without filter, without shame, without any way to save face—or friendship. Her betrayal by mere reticence is far too much for me to deal with.
“All we’ve been through, Quinn. Everything. And this?” My demeanor is one of pure defeat.
There’s an ear-piercing silence—an almost…hum—that washes over the front seat while we just sit there. Letting it happen.
And then: “He’s my husband.”
I snort. “Not yet, he’s not. And besides”—I stare straight at her—“I’m your friend. Since forever. How many guys have we been through? Boyfriends, fiancés, husbands. How many jerks?”
“Phil is not a jerk.”
“Fine. I’m not saying he is. But just because you’re
marrying him doesn’t mean he knows you better than I do. It doesn’t mean everything he freaking says is right. And it doesn’t mean everything I do is wrong. Right?”
She doesn’t answer. Her bottom lip quivers a bit as she holds it shut.
“Right?” I repeat, but she’s gone. She opens the door, slams it, and she’s nearly inside before I can even ask What about the place cards?
* * *
Chapter 17
Friday is still tense and awkward during our first-grade team meeting since the first-grade team consists of just Quinn, Val, and me. It’s clear to me the two of them have had a conversation about last night, and I’m just #overit. So I shrug my way through their ideas, offer no opinions, and I try to avoid eye contact with both of them as much as possible.
When my phone buzzes with a text, I’m all too happy to check it, and it’s Sarah.
You’re welcome is all she says, and suddenly I realize why, when I see Nick traipsing across the courtyard, brown leather satchel across those fine, broad shoulders.
Quinn shakes her head.
“What?” I blurt.
It’s the first time I’ve spoken directly to her all day.
“Nothing. I just…can’t believe we’ve got some stripper working here with kids. That’s all.”
Valerie laughs a bit unnaturally—a bit like a crazy person—and her face turns the color of my raspberry iced tea.
“He’s not—” But I clamp my mouth shut. No point in continuing to argue with the Almighty Quinn who’s always right, even when she’s wrong.
“What?”
Her stare all but burns my skin, and I look down at my plan book. I definitely didn’t want to get into this today.
“Nothing. It’s just—you don’t know him, is all,” I say to the calendar section.
“And you do, is that it? Is that why you took us to that place? Because you knew he’d be there?”
“Are we still on this?” I slam my hands to the table a tad harder than I meant to. “No. God—I was just saying. You don’t know why he—”
“I don’t care why,” she barks. “Just because you have a thing for him doesn’t absolve him from anything, nor does it make him a good person.”
Valerie chuckles.
“Oh, you’re gonna weigh in on this, Val?” I stand. My chair scrapes across the linoleum with a cringe-worthy grate, and her gaze snaps back to the table, her giggles instantly squelched.
“I’m sure she’s just laughing at the irony,” Quinn keeps on.
“What irony?” My tone says I dare you.
“Just that if you have a thing for him, then it probably actually means he’s not a good person.”
Well, I mean, I did dare her…
I start tossing my pen, my legal pad, my phone into my bag. “I don’t know what I did to deserve any of this, but fuck you. Fuck you, Quinn. And Val”—I catch her gaze—“you should know better.”
And I storm out.
When lunchtime rolls around, I eat in my room, door closed, shades drawn. No Sarah means I’m officially out of friends at work, and I don’t want to risk running into Nick on this particular afternoon since he’s Sarah’s replacement. No way.
I’m halfway through the macaroni salad when my phone buzzes. It’s Nick anyway, like he goddamn knows.
Nick: Are you avoiding me?
The accusation—him calling me on it—sends a buzz through me. I stare at the message, a shot right to my already heavy heart.
So he noticed. Dammit.
What’s the breeziest way for me to fix this?
Me: Oh, gosh, no! I’ve just been super busy! You know how it is…
Blasé. Brilliant.
I brace myself for some kind of pithy response; but after a few minutes of silence, I breathe easy and decide I got away with it.
Excellent lie, Rae.
#nofollowupneeded
* * *
After I’ve got the kids busy with their literature circles, I take the argument out on my keyboard, my fingers tap, tap, tapping away at my poor laptop, which is an innocent bystander in all this. But I knock out a solid six hundred words before it’s time to go on to social studies, and my manuscript has this angsty vibe I’m sure any literary agent will be dying to sign.
Right.
While the writing gets some of it out, when I get to James’s place in the evening, I’m about a sneeze away from slitting my own wrists. But he’s so sweet and so thoughtful—he’s got everything taken care of for this meal we’re cooking together tonight—We’re cooking a meal together—that I just about cry. The chicken is thawed and cubed, the stoplight peppers (red, yellow, and green) are washed and waiting for my nimble fingers to slice the hell out of them, the water is a-boiling, and the brown rice is sitting out and already measured.
Still, I can’t really take pleasure in any of it.
“What’s wrong?” He lifts my chin with a finger.
“Girl drama,” I respond, not able to meet his eye. My vision blurs over, and I don’t want him to see me cry. Not this soon. Not like this.
Ew—emotion!
But he just lays a soft kiss on me and it makes me forget for a second. He scoops me in for a long hug that not only cracks my back but also squeezes some of the tension out of my torso.
“That’s the worst kind of drama,” he says. “But remember, your friend is getting married in two weeks. She’s probably stressed out. Not that I’m defending her. I’m on your side, of course.” He offers a smirk, and I kiss him again.
“Thank you” is all I say because it’s all I can say. I want to enjoy this evening with him and, dagnabbit, I will.
And before I can even ask, he’s opened a bottle of red and poured me a glass the size of my head like a goddamn wine angel.
“Where have you been all my life?” I snort and ease back the oaky wine. Curl up in its full body, like a recliner.
Not only is the company divine, the stir-fry is heavenly. And that’s only in part because it’s the only thing I can make so I’ve learned to make it well. Baby corns add just the right oomph; water chestnuts give it an authentic feel. I’m three merlots in, and I’m nailing this whole domestic thing—as far as James can probably tell, anyway. For all he knows, I can make our smart and attractive children ravioli and brownies and quiches from scratch.
Poor James, I think as I empty the rest of the bottle into my wineglass. I’d better ask him to be my date to the wedding before he discovers the truth.
He’s washing the dishes in the sink, and I get behind him. Attach myself to his thick, delicious middle.
“What are you doing?” He chuckles and rinses off the cutting board. Places it in the soapy water and gives me a peck on the top of my head as he maneuvers his way around me.
“Speaking of the wedding…” I’ve detached myself from James now, and I’m walking two fingers around the counter like they’re a tiny little soldier standing guard of this conversation.
“Were we?” He grins, and I playfully frown.
“Earlier, yes. Well, so—I know it’s not even been a week, but do you think maybe—”
He does an about-face, his light eyes full of what looks like hope. “I’d love to,” he blurts.
I pull back. “Love to what?”
“Be your date, if that’s what you’re asking. I assume that’s what you’re asking, right?”
And all I can do is beam up at him. This guy knows me. He’s not afraid to be vulnerable. To be real. Not afraid to speak his mind, and in turn, it makes me feel good about speaking mine.
“So that’s a yes?” I walk my fingers up his biceps now. I mean, at least I think it’s cute.
And he lifts me up onto the kitchen island. Pulls me to him.
“Yes.” And he covers me in kisses that leave me weak, so thank God I’m sitting on a counter and not, like, standing, or I’d be on the floor by now.
* * *
The next morning, I’m up and at ’em bright and early, putting the finishing t
ouches on a love scene I’ve been having trouble with for weeks. But this sudden bout of good fortune from the Spark gods seems to be doing me some good. I’m able to write happy things without feeling sad about it because it’s reminiscent of a happy memory from something that ended in a soul-scathing sort of way.
So it’s nice.
Thanks, James. Thanks, Spark. Thanks, Valerie and Quinn.
Valerie and Quinn.
The thought of arguing with my two best friends levels me, and James was right. Quinn’s in the middle of wedding preparations. I’d probably be somewhat on the tense side were I about to get married again. Hell, I had a panic attack at the last ceremony I even went to, so she’s got to be terrified, the poor thing. What if it doesn’t work out again? What if she’s making another huge mistake?
So I take to my phone and decide to send a peace offering. I can swallow my pride on this one. Lord knows I’ve done it before. And hopefully they’ll both return the favor when I need them to do so some time in the future.
I load up the group text.
Me: Asked and answered…
After a few moments of anxiety—will they respond?—Quinn comes through.
Quinn: And?
I send back the thumbs-up emoji, and Val is back to gushing about love.
We haven’t addressed our blowup, but we’ve been friends since high school. #bygones In no time, we’re all systems go with the wedding and the planning, and I’m filling them in on last night with all the fervor of a tween at a One Direction concert. I’m aware that this doesn’t seem like me, that all this Happiness, all this Excitement, would ordinarily be vomit inducing.
But maybe I really have been the problem.
Maybe I should continue doing the opposite of what I’ve trained myself to do and I’ll feel the opposite of how I inevitably feel every time.
I’ve already started, in that I bought into this Spark thing at all—albeit on a mission to prove my friends wrong, but still. Look at me now.
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