Page 12 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“Oh no. That’s not what she thought.” I sit up, eager now to tell him the good news. “She never thought that. I’d never let that happen.”

“No?” His tone says he doesn’t believe me. And so do his eyes. And who can blame him?

“No, of course not because...” I stop when I come to my senses and realize that what I did tell her was in many ways worse than the truth.

“Because what?” His eyes narrow.

I swallow and it takes everything I have not to drop my eyes or leap up from the table so that I can run and hide. “Because...” I swallow again. “She doesn’t think you abandoned her. She thinks you’re dead.”

Seven

Bree

Manteo

I’d like to pretend that turning forty hasn’t thrown me. That I’ve successfully treated it like any other birthday. That I’m not upset that Lauren is getting married or jealous that she’s not only having the career I once dreamed of but is now venturing into the territory I staked out for myself.

I’ve been snippy and out of sorts since the big four-oh! and the engagement news has only made it worse. Not that anyone seems to have noticed. Clay and Lily are busy with their own lives and don’t really notice what I’m up to unless I force them to. Rafe, who’s in his junior year at Carolina, communicates primarily by text and most of his communication revolves around asking for extra spending money or complaining about a professor, or his part-time job, or whatever else is on his mind in that moment. I am the recipient of his thoughts and emotions; something I treasure as a mother even as I’ve come to believe that no news really is good news. And, of course, it rarely occurs to him to ask about me in any way. To my children I’m simply She Who Is Always There. And given hownot“there” my parents were, I’m proud of the fact that my children never had reason to doubt their parents’ love or affection.

But the truth is I could be out burgling houses or doing some other shocking thing that no one would ever expect of me, and no one would believe it even if they stumbled across me wearing a stocking over my head and climbing into someone’s window.

I walk to the front of Title Waves and prop open the door to let in the fresh air and sunshine, bothered by the fact that they’re right. I never do anything unexpected. Or wicked. Or unacceptable. I am a people-pleaser. Knowing that you’re this way because your parents virtually abandoned you doesn’t help you stop bending over backward to satisfy others. Or encourage you to go on a local crime spree. (Not that you could get away with anything here, where the population is still shy of 1,500 and everyone would recognize you during your B and E despite a mask, a hood, or any other disguise you might come up with.)

When the members of the Classics Book Club arrive at noon sharp, we settle at the round table in the front window and spread our Regency era–themed potluck meal across its scarred maple top. We kicked off our reading of Jane Austen’s classics five months ago with a special screening ofThe Jane Austen Book Clubat the Pioneer, which has the distinction of being the longest-running family-owned movie theater in the country.

Today we’re discussingPersuasion, the last novel Austen completed before she died. In my opinion it’s the most beautiful of her works even though it’s not the witty drawing room comedy of manners she was known for. A number of the club members have followed recipes fromCooking with Jane AustenandDinner with Mr. Darcy, cookbooks that I ordered to complement the reading.

Mrs. McKinnon has brought a “pigeon” pie, the center of the crust decorated with slash marks meant to look like pigeons’ feet. We also have cold meats and cheeses as well as biscuits and jam, which we wash down with a modern version of elder wineas we talk. For dessert we enjoy the same plum cake that was served at Mrs. Weston’s wedding inEmma, and a lemon cake, because it was Mr. Darcy’s favorite.

The food is delicious and the discussion lively. We linger until the members with young children have to head out for after-school activities. Mrs. McKinnon, who also belongs to the three other book clubs I host at the store, including the somewhat rowdier B’s, short for “books, broads, and booze,” stays to help me clean up.

“Did you finish?” Mrs. McKinnon isn’t the first person who’s asked whether I’d typedThe Endbefore my fortieth, and I give her the same answer I’ve given everyone. “Almost. But I decided that after all the time it’s taken me, I don’t want to rush the ending.”

“Of course, dear. I understand completely.” Her smile is kind, but I can see that she doesn’t understand at all. Even I am not sure how it’s taken me a decade and a half to write this book.

“I imagine it will be difficult to let go of it once it’s done.”

This observation strikes home like an arrow to the heart. Am I afraid of finishing? Is it that and not my family, or my business, or the other demands on my time that have stretched it out all these years? Do I have a fear of failure? Or is it a fear of success? Or am I just afraid of competing with Lauren? If no one ever seesHeart of Gold, I can tell myself it’s the best thing ever written. Once someone else reads it I may have to accept that it’s not.

“It will be odd, that’s for sure.” I hug her good-bye and am still thinking about her question and my lack of a definitive answer as I settle at the front desk and open my laptop. I’ve written the “black moment” when everything falls apart and it seems as if there’s no hope, and rewritten it more times than I can count. All I have to do now is craft a satisfying resolution for my characters that demonstrates how much they’ve grown andchanged. In my experience characters that stay the same are never really interesting. Neither are people.

I skim through the last chapter I finished, trying not to think about how little I’ve changed over the years. How much my life stays the same. It takes a few minutes before I manage to shake these thoughts off and sink into the story. I feel welcomed by old familiar friends—friends I’ve tortured and forced into situations they were ill equipped for—and whom I now have to bring out the other side.

Just when I’m about to give up, I see the way I can bring the threads together. I feel a small thrill of anticipation as I lower my fingers to the keyboard, and I barely breathe as they begin to move of their own accord. I’m typing dialogue without conscious thought as if my characters are living the scene and I’m just trying to capture it. I am sucked into the story. I occupy their heads. After all these years I know them in ways I may never know myself.

My shoulders unclench and so does my jaw. Everything, including the store, disappears. Although I’m following their lead, I feel powerful. I have control over everything. Who lives and who dies. Who is beautiful and who is loved and cherished. Who discovers they’re so much more than they realized. Who discovers they’re less.

Whitney is direct and sassy and asking for what she wants. Making it clear that she doesn’tneedHeath even though she loves him. Demanding that Heath live up to his promises.

As the scene plays out, I lose myself in the culmination of their journeys. But then, after two full pages of witty, yet heartfelt, dialogue my fingers falter. If I finish their story Heath and Whitney won’t need me anymore. And I’ll have nowhere to disappear to. My eyes close as I try to push myself to continue.

Which is when I hear footsteps and a clearly masculine clearing of the throat. “Excuse me.”

I look up and see a nice-looking stranger somewhere in his early to mid sixties.

His eyes are brown. There’s something in the way he holds his body and cocks his head that seems familiar, but he’s definitely not a local. “Do you have any books by Lauren James?”

I do sell Lauren’s books. In fact, I sell a ton of them since she’s a native and occasionally uses the Outer Banks for her settings. I always smile when someone asks about her, though most people who’ve been here long enough know not to ask.

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