Page 66 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

If we have our wedding here, it will be a large, elegant, formal affair—the antitheses of the small, intimate, beach wedding I always imagined. The Harrisons’ guest list will overflow with family, longtime friends, and business associates. Mine will be embarrassingly small. And might not even include my mother.

Today we visited four venues, three caterers, and two florists and I have the aching feet and throbbing head to prove it.

The ride back to the Upper West Side in afternoon traffic is long and slow. I’m only dimly aware of arriving at Celeste, which is one of our favorite Upper West Side restaurants, and barely taste the spaghetti with clams that Spencer orders for me.

Back at my building I stifle a yawn as Tom the doorman greets us. Today would have been exhausting even if I were sleeping well at night, which I’m not. I feel as if I’m slogging through molasses.

“You were pretty quiet at dinner,” Spencer says as we ride up in the elevator.

“Was I?” I try, but fail, to hold back another yawn.

In my apartment I drop my purse on the foyer table, toe off my shoes, and head for the living room. “Would you like a drink?”

“You sit. I’ll pour.” He moves to the drinks cart and I change course for the couch.

“I’m worried about you,” he says as he sets our drinks on the coffee table, right next to Bree’s manuscript, which I pass countless times each day and which I try not to notice.

“In what way?” Another yawn. I eye the drink but can’t decide whether I want it. I do not look at the manuscript.

“Seriously?” He sits down beside me and slides his arm around my shoulders. I lean my head against his reassuringwarmth. “It’s been over two weeks since we got back and I can see that you’re still upset. I wish you’d let me help.”

“It’s not a question of helping,” I say on another yawn. “Your existence helps. I just need to get through this. In my own way.”

He sips his drink and I don’t have to see his face to know that he’s not really buying this.

“I did invite my... Jake... to visit.”

“That’s great.” He takes a long sip of his drink. “But what about your mother?”

I reach for my drink even though I don’t really want it. I don’t want to have this conversation, either. But I can tell by the set of the shoulder I’m leaning on that he’s not going to let this go. “What about her?”

“She’s begged for your forgiveness. She’s left a million messages. She’s done everything but show up on your doorstep. You love each other.” He pauses while I toss down half the drink. “Don’t love and forgiveness go hand in hand?”

I continue to drink as if this cocktail glass or the whiskey in it could prevent me from understanding where this conversation is going.

“I mean, we’re getting married. One or both of us are bound to make mistakes along the way.”

I close my eyes. I’m too tired for this. “Not telling me about my father was not a ‘mistake.’ It was a choice. A lie.”

“My point is that I don’t believe forgiveness is determined by the size of the offense, but by your commitment to and love for the other person. I hate to think that if I upset or disappoint you you’ll jettison me from your life without even talking it through and trying to understand.”

“That’s not fair.” I sit up, forgoing the comfort of his shoulder. But I don’t have the strength to argue or defend my position. If, in fact, I have one.

“No.” His voice goes quiet. “It isn’t.” He finishes his drinkand sets down the glass. “I can see how tired you are, so I think I’ll go back to my place tonight. Try to get some rest.”

The door closes behind him and I stare at it and wonder, what if Spencer were the one who lied? Would I give him the benefit of the doubt? Could I find a way to forgive him?

I lock the door and turn out the lights. As I wash up and change into my pajamas I think about the years lost with my father. About the grandparents I never knew. Am I actually planning to cut my mother out of my life forever?

The bedroom curtain flutters in the breeze and I move to the window and press my forehead against the double pane of glass. Traffic still moves along Central Park West. People stroll down 74th. They aren’t kidding when they say this is the city that never sleeps.

I walk to the bed and slip between the sheets then stare up into the shadowed ceiling.

What if my mother gives up before I’m ready to forgive her? What if she decides not to keep trying to salvage our relationship?

Could I really live my life without my mother in it? And what kind of life would that be?

Thirty

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