Page 46 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“No, actually, I don’t.” I look at the boat, the water. Even the sky is preferable to meeting his eyes and engaging in this conversation.

“Okay, let me rephrase that. You really should talk to your mother. You need to hash this out. Both of you will feel better.”

“She doesn’t deserve to feel better.”

“Lauren. Even really good people make mistakes.”

I look up from the great blue heron that’s perched on the distant shore and feel the anger wash over me again, an emotional tsunami. “A mistake is forgetting to pay a utility bill. Or accidentally calling someone by the wrong name.” I take a breath, trying not to take my hurt and anger out on him. But it’s not like I’m in control of my emotions. Between my lost mother and my found father I’m a mess. “Telling your daughter that her father is dead and letting her believe that she has no family, is not amistake.”

“It was wrong. But people often do the wrong things for the right reasons.”

“You need to get your homilies straight. And the fact that she claims she was only thinking of me and Jake and his family doesn’t make it true.”

“But you can’t know that unless you at least hear her out. Surely you don’t want to go back to New York without talking to her. You owe her that, don’t you?”

I’m on my feet now. “You don’t know what you’re saying or asking.” My voice rises and so do the tears. “What if your mother had done this to you? Could you really go about your business as if she’d only made a silly mistake?”

“No, of course not. That’s not what I’m saying. I just...” He reaches for me but I shrug him off. Something I’ve never done before.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now. I can’t.” And I really don’t want to cry in public, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to help it.

“Tell me what you want, Lauren. Tell me what Icando. Because I sure as hell don’t seem to know what I am and am not allowed to say.”

“Is that right?” I’m beyond anger now, and I can tell the tears are at most a couple of seconds away. For some reason my greatest concern is not the man in front of me—on whom I’m clearly taking out all my anger and hostility—but making my escape before I break down completely. “Tell you what. I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.”

And then I’m striding away from him as fast as I can with no idea at all where I’m going.

Twenty-two

Bree

Monday-morning breakfast is cereal and defrosted and reheated blueberry muffins that I’m hoping Lauren won’t recognize as Kendra’s. Clay devours two muffins and downs a cup of coffee while scrolling through his cell phone. Lily’s still upstairs. Normally I’d be yelling for her to hurry—not that this ever works, it’s just that you have todosomething—but Rafe’s bedroom door is still closed and Lauren and Spencer haven’t shown themselves yet. It’s possible they could still be sleeping.

I buzz around the kitchen like a bumblebee unable to find a flower, somehow needing to be in motion even if I’m not accomplishing anything. The whole world feels oddly upside down since Kendra’s confession. Technically it has nothing to do with me. I’m not the injured party, but I can’t quite come to grips with the fact that the woman I’ve revered and looked up to as a role model has apparently created a backstory that bears little resemblance to reality. Add to that the fact that my ex-best friend with whom I’ve communicated only on the most superficial level for the last two decades is sleeping in Rafe’s bedroom with her fiancé. And, then there’s the fact that the completion of my novel—something that has taken me more than a third of my life—feels almost insignificant in comparison to Kendra’s bombshell and Lauren’s reaction to it.

“Morning, sweetie.” My smile for Lily when she finally enters the kitchen is automatic. The one that acknowledges having conceived, carried, and delivered this person into the world. Even when I’m truly angry at her behavior that smile—and the squeeze of my heart that accompanies it—is Pavlovian.

“Mmmph.” Lily’s blond hair falls across one eye and cascades over her shoulders in a way that looks natural but that I know took her a good thirty minutes. Her makeup is expertly applied and she’s wearing her new jeans with the knees torn out and a sleeveless crop top that just barely reaches the top of her jeans. She has her father’s height and slim build as well as his almost-aqua-blue eyes and the white-blond hair he had before it started to darken. She looks like she belongs on the cover of some teen fashion magazine. Which both amazes and frightens me because sometimes beauty opens so many doors there’s no need to develop other attributes.

She reaches for a muffin as she plops down at her place, but I know she won’t take more than a bite or two. I place a banana beside her plate and slide a glass of milk in front of it, because that’s what mothers are supposed to do. Her eyes remain on her phone and the texts that are already dinging in. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to peel the banana for her or wave the muffin under her nose.

“You ready?” Clay wakes up bright eyed and bushy tailed no matter how late he goes to sleep and regardless of how hard he might have partied the night before; a trait I used to envy but now find extremely unfair and annoying. I mean, shouldn’t a person pay some price for excessive behavior?

There’s a creak of movement upstairs and Lily glances up from her phone. She’s been following Lauren around like a puppy and peppering both her and Spencer with questions about NewYork publishing and theater like some poor castaway on a deserted island who suddenly glimpses a rescue ship.

“If you’re not going to eat, let’s go.” Clay’s scraping back his chair and taking a last swig of coffee. “I need to get up to Corolla by nine.”

Lily sighs the beleaguered sigh she normally aims at me.

“Or you can walk.” He shrugs, making it clear he’s not going to ask again.

Manteo High School is, in fact, an easy walk from our house, though not necessarily in the platform sandals Lily’s wearing. She stands and gathers her books.

I peck each of them on the cheek and tell them to have a good day.

“Will you ask her for me?” Lily glances upward once more as if I might not know whom she’s talking about. “Mrs. Parsons is really excited about having aNew York Timesbestselling writer come talk to our class.”

I sigh. My daughter is even more excited about being the person who knows theNew York Timesbestselling author personally. “You should ask her yourself. But honestly this isn’t the best time. There’s a lot going on.” Talk about your understatement. “And they’re only here a few more days. Maybe on their next visit.” I don’t let myself wonder if there will be a next visit. Or if Lauren would actually leave without even speaking to Kendra.

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