The Wedding War

by Talley, Liz

  “My mother stepped out. It’s been a rather, um, emotional night. I can—”

  “I’ll look in the chapel,” Joseph interrupted, passing the doctor.

  Tennyson’s friend didn’t look like anyone Melanie would expect her former friend to be seeing. She was certain the guy’s barber worked at Cheapcuts, he had no clue what Dolce & Gabbana was, and didn’t know what a Lamborghini felt like beneath his really nice rump. Tennyson had always dated and wed men who were of a certain type, or so she’d heard through the grapevine. Joseph was a guy-next-door type who could probably fix a leak and change the filter in a lawn mower. He was exactly what Tennyson needed—a bit of grounding. And it didn’t hurt that he was incredibly easy on the eyes.

  “Would you like to sit?” Dr. Williams asked, gesturing to the chair beside Tennyson.

  Melanie didn’t want to sit. She wanted to run. Just leave and go as far as she could manage. On foot. In a car. On a plane.

  She didn’t want to be there without Kit. Without any member of her family.

  It was hugely ironic that the only person sitting with her when she got the second worst news of her life was the person who she’d spent so much time hating for being part of her woes. But even so, something about Tennyson being there felt right. Like she needed someone in her corner, and her former friend might be that perfect person. Which sort of blew her mind.

  Tennyson took her hand as if demonstrating that very point.

  Melanie looked down at their linked hands. She’d painted her own nails a ladylike pink, and her manicurist had filed them short. She’d worn the plain gold band that Kit had given her on her wedding day to the bridal shower, leaving the big diamond in the safe almost to emphasize how sensible she was compared to Tennyson, whose nails were long and French tipped. Tennyson wore several rings, all of them big jewels with winking diamonds. At her thin wrist, a diamond tennis bracelet sparkled in the horrid fluorescent light.

  So very different from one another.

  “Mel,” Tennyson said, her voice soft.

  Melanie looked at her friend. Tennyson’s blue-green eyes sparkled with tears, and her lips were bare for once. She hadn’t seen Tennyson without makeup since they were preteens, and honestly, the woman didn’t look bad without her war paint. In fact, she looked softer, more approachable, more the girl she’d once been. How could this Tennyson be the same one who did such a horrible thing?

  Melanie sank onto the hard cushion of the waiting room chair.

  The doctor hooked a chair with his foot and pulled it to him. He sat, knees spread, elbows sitting atop, face earnest . . . and sad.

  Joseph appeared in the doorway, shook his head, and then shrugged before inching back to the wall, where he stood as if he were guarding the doorway.

  Her mother was MIA.

  “I don’t believe my mother will be joining us for this conversation, Dr. Williams. Just go ahead and tell me,” Melanie managed around a tongue that suddenly felt too big for her mouth. Her heart knocked against her ribs, a steady, hard thump that sounded in her ears. She was nearly certain a hooded executioner had poked a hook through her stomach and now scrambled her insides like a skillet of eggs.

  Dr. Williams nodded. Gravely. “Your sister’s heart was pretty weak, and her organs had long since been compromised.”

  Was. Had.

  Tennyson hadn’t let go of her hand, and now Melanie clutched it like she was dangling over a cliff and that was her only hope to survive.

  “Mrs. Layton, I’m sorry to say your sister wasn’t able to survive the cardiac arrest. We tried all we could to give her a chance, but nevertheless, she succumbed.”

  He made it sound almost pretty. Succumbed didn’t sound as bad as bit the dust or turned up her toes or just plain ol’ died. It sounded like a good alternative to fighting. Much easier.

  “I’m very sorry.” His expression was genuine, and she could see that he was sorry.

  And like that, even though she knew what he’d been going to tell her, the bottom of her world dropped out, and she fell.

  Tears slid down her cheeks. She had no way to stop them. In a small voice, she said, “Thank you for trying to save her.”

  He reached out and took her other hand in his big, warm, soft hands and rubbed it. A kind gesture that only served to break her heart more. But sitting right beside her heartbreak, awaiting its turn, was anger. Deep, disturbing, crackling anger.

  Because she sat here as Hillary’s only family.

  Their bitch of a mother had walked away because of Tennyson. And, yeah, she understood why. Tennyson had outed her dad in front of everyone, but Tennyson hadn’t been the one to do the porn movie. Anne had pretended that night away and never let them speak of it. She’d made Albert lie to the hospital board, she’d suppressed every truth, all so everyone would think that none of the Brevards made mistakes. And it hadn’t stopped with her father.

  She’d done the same with Hillary, helping her sister hide her sickness, never allowing Hillary to talk about her disease, never letting her have power over the bulimia and anorexia. Hillary agreed to therapy, but their mother never wanted it spoken of, like her sister was an embarrassment and her illness wasn’t a result of the incessant pressure put upon her to be perfect. No one could know that Anne was letting her oldest daughter kill herself. They also couldn’t know what a screwup Melanie could be. Her mother felt obligated to keep a close watch on her every move, scrutinizing every dress, every action, every mistake, as if Melanie was her last hope to prove the Brevards were above everyone else.

  So, yeah, something seethed inside her.

  Not to mention, Kit was still at the beach with Charlotte.

  And her kids were probably stopping for effing Starbucks before coming to the hospital.

  And here she sat, hearing about her sister’s death with Tennyson and a man she didn’t know. How wrong was that? How had she deserved to be the one to bear all the initial heartbreak?

  Melanie pulled her hands away from both Tennyson and Dr. Williams. She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled noisily. She stood. “Okay, I’m fine. What do I need to do next?”

  The doctor hadn’t expected her to rebound so quickly. He blinked. “Uh, I will, uh, talk to—”

  “Mel,” Tennyson interrupted, rising beside her and demanding her attention. Of course. That’s what Tennyson had always done best, right? But when she looked at her old friend, Melanie softened. Tears streamed down Tennyson’s cheeks, and her nose was ruby red. She looked unsteady and not like a woman who stormed mile-high walls without a blink. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Melanie swiped at her damp face as if she could erase any evidence of her weakness. “Sure. I’m fine. I just need to make some calls.” To prove it, Melanie stalked toward the window that gave her a view of inky darkness and a mostly empty parking lot.

  She spoke to her lonely reflection. “I guess I need to call Hillary’s ex-husband, Kyle. Though I don’t know why. He’s a proven asshole. Then I need to call Osborn Funeral Home and see about arrangements. Is there a death certificate? I think someone has to sign that, right? I can do it. Since I’m obviously the only person here.”

  On the edge. She was right on the edge of tipping over into madness. Into something she couldn’t stop. Into a rage. A hissy fit. A place she didn’t want to touch, like floating above in the water, refusing to feel a muddy lake bottom. She couldn’t let her toes sink into the muck. She had to stay afloat, treading the water, shoving all the feelings aside, because if she let herself go there, she’d be stuck.

  “Uh, I can check on that for you, Mrs. Layton.”

  Melanie watched in the reflection as Dr. Williams rose and looked at Tennyson as if she might tell him what to do. Surely, this doctor had seen every reaction there was to grief? Or maybe he didn’t know what to do with a dysfunctional, repressed forty-six-year-old woman whose only defense was to be efficient and refuse to crumble? Maybe they hadn’t taught him that in medical school.

  Tennyson
ran a finger under her eyelashes and sniffed. “I’ll stay here with her.”

  He nodded. “Again, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Layton.”

  Melanie gave a nod. “Thank you. I’m sorry, too. Very, very sorry.”

  He walked out, and for a moment Tennyson stood, staring at her back as she looked out the window.

  Finally, Melanie turned around. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can go, you know. I’ve got everything here under control.”

  Tennyson gave her a soft smile. “I’m sure you think you do.”

  “No. I do. I’ve been through much worse. When Daddy shot himself, I had to deal with all that. Horrible business. Replacing carpet, dealing with the coroner’s office, and an ensuing investigation. This will be a piece of cake. I mean, yeah, they both killed themselves, but this will be easier, don’t you think? So, by all means, take your cute guy and go on home.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think I will.”

  “He’s really good looking, by the way,” Melanie said.

  “Yeah, he is. But I’m not concerned about him. He’s a tough guy and used to waiting.” So Tennyson was staying because of her. She probably thought Melanie was going to lose her shit or something. Didn’t she know that Melanie didn’t have that luxury? A ladylike tear or two? Yes. Breaking down? Not acceptable.

  Tennyson stepped toward her and just stood there. Like she didn’t know what to do.

  “Suit yourself,” Melanie said, pulling her phone out and calling her mother. The phone rang. And rang. And went to voice mail. When she clicked end, she saw that Emma had indeed gone to Starbucks and wanted to know if she wanted a skinny vanilla latte. She typed no thanks and put the phone into her pocket. “You don’t want Starbucks, do you? Because Emma is there now.”

  “No.”

  Melanie could feel something inside her rising like magma. Was that what that red stuff was called? Yeah, it became lava when it erupted. She felt like melted rock churned in her gut, threatening to gush forth and spew everywhere. She sucked in a breath. And another. And one more for good measure. Push it all down, Melanie. Don’t let it up. “I’m good. I’m good.”

  Tennyson narrowed her eyes. “Come on.”

  “What?”

  “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Melanie pulled away and looked around the waiting room, remembering she was still in a public space. The mother and son huddling in the corner stared at her with abject sorrow on their faces. They knew the score—doctors went in and out of this horrible room all day and night, consulting families, holding fate in their hands. If she were a betting woman, she’d wager these two had seen a few “we’re so sorry for your loss” faces before. Something about those two watching her, the coffee stain in the shape of an amoeba on the green floor, and the horrible landscapes on the wall beside plants that looked like many of the patients beyond the double doors—barely hanging in there—made her livid. Made her feel like someone needed to wipe everything away. Just toss out the worn furniture, tear out the plants, throw the ugly paintings across the room. Just destroy it all. She thought about being the one who did that. The image of her stomping around and Godzillaing everything in her path made her giggle. She used the toe of her tasteful sandal to tap the stain. “What do you think this shape looks like?”

  Tennyson looked down. “I don’t know. Jesus?”

  Melanie started laughing harder. “You don’t know what Jesus looks like.”

  “And you do?” Tennyson asked, arching an eyebrow. Wow. Her brows were pretty. Who had pretty eyebrows, anyway?

  “I’m closer to God than you are.”

  “Because you go to church? Okay. Whatever.” But Tennyson smiled through her tears. Then she moved closer to her. “You want a smoke?”

  “Here?” Melanie looked at the NO SMOKING sign by the open double doors leading to the hallway. She absolutely wanted a cigarette. Like, desperately.

  “No. Back at my place.” She moved closer and lowered her voice. “I have a few joints.”

  “Tennyson,” Melanie said, knowing her eyes were about to pop.

  “Don’t tell the cop. I actually got Marc to get them. I was going to take them to Hillary. Weed makes you crazy hungry, and I thought . . . you know.” Tennyson looked totally earnest.

  “You were going to take Hillary marijuana?” she whispered.

  Tennyson shrugged.

  Melanie started laughing. “You’re crazy. I mean, truly bonkers, but I sort of love that about you. I’m not sure I know anyone who would procure illegal drugs to give my sister but you.”

  “So? You wanna?”

  “I can’t leave. My sister just died. I have to—”

  Tennyson held up a hand. “Whoa, hey, this is exactly the best time to do this. Like, I think Hillary would approve. I think she’d tell everyone waiting on you to do everything responsible, dutiful, tactful, and appropriate to fuck off.”

  “Hillary would never say fuck.”

  Tennyson rolled her eyes. “She’d hold up her three fingers and say read between the lines.”

  Exactly.

  Melanie stood for a moment, glancing around at the nearly empty space around them. At the handsome police officer leaning against the wall in the hallway. Then she looked back at Tennyson, who wore the same kind of T-shirt dress she’d always loved in high school. And Tretorns. She didn’t know they still made those. This woman didn’t look like the Tennyson with the Birkin purse who had sashayed back into her life and busted it open. This woman looked like the friend she’d once loved like a sister.

  Her sister.

  Hilly was dead.

  “Let’s go,” Melanie said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It had been a long time since Tennyson had smoked a joint.

  She forgot how weird marijuana made her feel. Like her skin was slippy and she could meld herself into the couch and live there forever. It also made her want cereal. Not the fiber kind, either. The big honeycomb ones filled with sugar that her mother used to buy her as a prize at the grocery store. She hadn’t had a big bowl of that particular sin in many years.

  “We should order some cereal,” Tennyson said, taking another hit and passing it to Melanie, who wore an old T-shirt of Andrew’s and a pair of workout pants. Melanie’s dress sat folded neatly over her evening handbag, which sat on the Eames chair in the corner.

  Melanie took a toke, fanning the air. “I don’t think you can order cereal like you can order pizza.”

  “So why is that not a thing?”

  Melanie shrugged. “Are you that high?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, maybe? It’s been a while since I’ve done drugs,” Tennyson said.

  Melanie sat up and looked at her, wide eyed. “Have you done other drugs? Like real drugs?”

  Tennyson made a face. “I did a lot of things I don’t want to talk about.”

  “Why not?”

  Because she was ashamed of much of what she’d done. Not ridiculously ashamed like Melanie’s father had obviously been, but ashamed enough to not want to admit to doing lines of coke in a club bathroom, a threesome with a B-list actor and his girlfriend, or the one summer she became a dominatrix so she could pay rent. Her memory was scarred by that particular summer, which had concluded with the affair with Rolfe. Seeing those two lines on a pregnancy test for the second time in her life had been enough to bring her crashing back to reality. She’d just turned twenty-three years old and knew that she had to get her shit together if she were going to be a mom.

  At first, she hadn’t been sure if she could actually raise a child. Her world was unstable. Rolfe had refused to leave his wife and had gotten heavily into the drug scene. Tennyson had not been able to afford to stay in school, even with the dominatrix stint, and had taken a job as a singing waitress at a Times Square tourist spot. She had no real prospects with her career and was days away from packing it in and moving back to Shreveport. At that point, she hadn’t known what she was going to do about the p
regnancy. And then she’d received the wedding invitation.

  In some ways, her horrible actions on Melanie’s wedding night had driven her into the marriage with Stephen. She’d been so ashamed of herself for having gotten drunk while she was pregnant and then doing what she’d done, that it had made saying yes to Stephen and falling into a version of a life she had never wanted attractive. She’d be doing something good—giving Stephen the chance to be a father and husband. She told herself she wouldn’t miss her old life with auditions, postshow drinks with the cast, or the search for true love. Kit now belonged to Melanie, so that chapter was closed, Rolfe had bailed, and her bank account was nonexistent.

  So she said yes.

  Suddenly, she had a housekeeper, a limitless credit card, and a husband who didn’t love her. And though Stephen was the kindest of men, who loved Andrew wholly and unconditionally, the man was gay and wasn’t going to love her as a husband should. But he’d showed her what it was to be respected and to enjoy a certain lifestyle. Stephen had taught her how to be an adult, make sacrifices, and enjoy the best life had to offer. She’d never had reason to do drugs again. She’d been hooked on Chanel, private jets, and her son’s drooling smile.

  In the end, she’d had zero regrets about marrying Stephen Abernathy.

  “I may have done a few drugs back in college,” she said, rising from the sofa. “I definitely have the munchies, though. Let’s see if I have something to snack on that isn’t diet or healthy.”

  Melanie stubbed out the joint in the makeshift ashtray—an empty rinsed-out container for caviar the caterers had left—and followed her to the kitchen. “I never smoked weed before. It’s very smelly.”