Page 10 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

I was surprised to discover I had a knack for cooking and especially for baking. That it was relaxing in its way, and that it could help supplement the odd jobs I ended up working to keep a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and clothes on ourbacks. I’m still not Julia Child or even Mrs. Fields, but cooking has been an important addition to my skill set.

While I pull out the mixing bowls and preheat the oven, I’m still thinking about Lauren. When I start letting myself imagine her wedding day, I realize that I have no idea if they already have a date in mind or whether they might consider having it here. There was something in her voice last night that told me to tread lightly and not to ask too many questions. Like why she’s never even hinted that a proposal might be imminent.

I know that Lauren can more than take care of herself, so there’d be no reason other than love for her to get married. I’m not one of those mothers who’s stewed and fretted that her daughter was still single, but now that it’s happening, I realize just how glad I am that she’ll have someone to share her life with. Isn’t that what every mother wants for her child?

I close my eyes and stop stirring the batter. I have always chosen to believe that my mother loved me. But she never could stand up to my father even when I knew she wanted to. She could hardly stand up to life at all. Her abdication, her inability to cope, made me stronger. It made me vow to always be there to protect my child. No matter what the threat. To give my love and approval without rules and strings and hoops that had to be jumped through to receive it.

I manage to pull my thoughts back just before they plummet into the abyss of anger and regret that always accompanies memories of my parents and the ridiculously impulsive acts that set me on a path I never saw coming.

I’m debating whether to have a third cup of coffee or get dressed when I hear a car pull into the drive. Bree was just here last night and my friends know I spend most mornings baking and delivering, so I peek out the front window to see if it’s a lost tourist or maybe the new baking pans I ordered from Amazon.

The car is low and sporty and too expensive for an Amazondelivery. The man who unfolds from the driver’s seat is tall and overdressed. No doubt some tourist who hasn’t figured out which way the mileposts run. Or thinks the Sandcastle is one of the Unpainted Aristocracy built by early-summer families that front the dunes a little farther south. Though the Sandcastle is newer than those, it’s obviously not one of the brightly colored and oversized beach rentals that now fill every inch of what were once long stretches of sand and scrub. Maybe given the way he’s eyeing my house, he’s a Realtor looking to snap up yet another original beach box house from someone who can’t afford to hang on to it.

I begin to turn away with the intention of ignoring him if he knocks when I notice something familiar about the set of his shoulders, the way he moves. He glances at the steep wooden staircase that leads up to the front porch and I see his face. My stomach drops. My heart pounds painfully, and I wonder for one of those heartbeats if it’s possible to summon someone simply by dreaming or thinking about them. But if that were true he would have been here years ago.

I step back from the window so I can’t be seen, but I can’t stop looking at him. His dark hair is threaded with silver and there’s not as much of it as there used to be. But he’s still tall. And he’s still absurdly handsome. His taste in clothes has definitely improved.

The last time I saw him he was wearing an ill-chosen powder-blue tuxedo. And I was wearing THE DRESS.

Six

I’m frozen in place, my feet glued to the wood floor, as he walks up the steps to the front porch. The windows are open so I hear the echo of each footfall. He hesitates before he raps on the front door and I squeeze back against the curtain, unsure what to do. Run very quietly for the bedroom and simply wait until he gives up and goes away? Or open the door and brazen it out? I do neither.

I’ve imagined seeing Jake a million times in the last four decades, but in each imagining I was completely prepared. And I was definitely never wearing a stained chenille bathrobe. Or cowering behind curtains.

My mind is a hamster on a wheel, round and round, getting nowhere. I’m a teenager again. I can practically feel pimples popping out all over my face. I wouldn’t be surprised if I touched my mouth and discovered I was wearing braces.

He’s the first man I ever loved. The first man I slept with. The man I meant to and should have married. And, let us not forget, the father of my child.

I decide to go into my bedroom and put on clothes. And maybe a little makeup. If he’s still here when I get back I’ll open the door.

I turn to tiptoe from the window and the floorboard squeaks. Afraid to move, I hear him walk from the door over to the front window. I will myself to disappear. Or shrink. Or anythingbesides what I’m doing, which is quivering like a trapped animal in plain view.

“Kendra?” He speaks quietly but the sound of his voice slices through me. In that instant I remember how it sounded when he first told me that he loved me. How it quivered when he asked me to marry him. The wry little observations that he’d whisper in my ear when we were in a group of people.

I tell myself I can still go straight to the bedroom, close the door behind me, and pretend I didn’t hear him. That I can hide as long as I need to. What’s another couple minutes after all this time? It’s not like he’s going to break the door down or anything. If he’d ever really wanted to find me he could have done it a long time ago.

He raps on the window. “Kendra? Is that you?”

I consider the distance to my bedroom. It’s not far but he’ll be watching me run away. Which is no doubt how he remembers me. Only last time I was dragging a train behind me. A train that kept getting caught on the pews.

I straighten, set my shoulders, and raise my chin. Grateful that there’s no mirror in the living room, I turn. And see him step from the window and move back to the front door.

There’s no help for it. The time I’ve both wished for and dreaded has finally come. I tell myself it’s a relief. But I’m too nervous to believe it. I feel like a clown who’s been juggling balls for so long that he has no idea what to do when they fall on the floor and go skittering across it.

I move to the door. Run my sweaty palms down the sides of my robe and wish I didn’t have to do this in my pajamas. Armor would be good. Or at least a little emotional Kevlar. I take a last deep breath, open the door, and stick my head out. Do I have toothpaste on my chin? Is my hair standing straight up? I honestly can’t remember.

“Itisyou.” It’s a statement and a question.

I nod. It’s all I can manage. I have no words. I just keeplooking into his eyes, studying his face, mapping every line—the small web of them around his eyes. The brackets on either side of his mouth. I note that his chin is still square and his jaw is firm. His cheeks are slightly ruddy. And his eyes—they’re still a whiskey-colored brown. But the warmth and twinkle of good humor that I remember is absent. He may be strong and sure on the outside, but his eyes tell a different story.

“May I come in?”

I step back in answer though I’m still debating whether to turn and run. He steps inside and glances around the room with its faded woven Native American rug, the sparse garage-sale furnishings, the wall of bookcases bulging with books and seashells and decades of found objects that share shelf space with framed photos of sunrises over the ocean and sunsets over the sound. Scenes I keep shooting in hopes of one day doing them justice.

He’s zeroing in on baby photos of Lauren and his eyebrows knit. I honestly can’t think what to say or do next. The oven timer goes off and I motion him toward the kitchen, where I pick up the oven mitts, pull the muffin trays out of the oven, and set them on the racks to cool.

“You bake.” Once again a statement and a question.

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