Page 83 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“There may be statutes against that,” she says even though she’s smiling, too. “Try not to look too happy. Everyone will know you’re from out of town.”

Thirty-six

Lauren

We’ve both got a good buzz on as I lead her through the park to Strawberry Fields, the first stop on what was originally conceived as a look-at-everything-you’ve-been-missing tour but that I’m now envisioning as a sincere attempt to share not only my favorite places, but my life.

We stand in front of a simple round black-and-white mosaic with the wordIMAGINEset in its center. Fresh flowers left by fans are strewn across it and a hush hangs over the space and not just because it’s a designated quiet zone, which seems an oddly hopeless request here in New York.

I point up through the trees to the Dakota, where John Lennon and Yoko Ono lived, and where he was shot, then to my building a few blocks away from it.

“I come here all the time. Sometimes I sit for hours just staring at that one word. It’s like a command, you know?”

The ringtone on my cell phone breaks the silence. Surprised to see Spencer’s photo on my screen, I answer.

“How are things going?” he asks.

“Good. Great, really.” I glance over at Bree.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I just got a text from Daria, Brett’s friend at Kleinfeld’s.”

“Oh.”

“She had a last-minute cancellation and has a two-and-a-half-hour window open if you can make it.”

“Oh, but...” I look down at my jeans and sneakers. My hair’s pulled back into a ponytail and I don’t remember putting on much more than mascara and lipstick. “I’m not really dressed for it.”

“Well, since you were going to fly in there under the radar, maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

“Right. I was just going to walk Bree through the park and the neighborhood...”

“Call me crazy, but I was thinking this might be a bit of divine intervention. Unless you think she’d hate having to go with you to try on wedding gowns?”

I glance at Bree, who has already confessed her love of the show. I reach for her hand and practically yank her out of the park. “Tell Daria we’re on our way.”

?“Don’t let me forget to take plenty of pictures at Kleinfeld’s to text to Lily,” Bree says as we pile into a taxi. “There’s no way she’ll ignore those.”

“What’s going on?”

“Lily blames both of us for Clay’s behavior. She’s gotten so touchy. Like a tinder keg waiting to go off. I’m not sure what will happen if things don’t work out with Clay.” She sighs. “She’s not responding to my texts, and I’ve tried to call her, too, but she won’t pick up.”

I flush at the similarity of Lily’s and my reaction to our mothers. Only I’m not sixteen. “Have you talked to Clay?”

“We’ve texted. He claims everything’s fine. But he always says that. And I’m afraid it’s just because he’s not paying attention.”

“Well, you’ll be home tomorrow. Hopefully, you can sort it all out then.”

When there’s no response, I look up. Bree’s staring down at her hands. I fill the silence with, “Title Waves seems to be doing well—that’s not easy in today’s world. And clearly all of your customers worship you.” I flash back to their excitement over Bree’s accomplishment. They’ve always believed in her and her writing talent while I required proof.

“There are a lot more people who worshipyou,” Bree points out in a tone surprisingly lacking in envy.

“Less than there used to be. And mostly from afar.”

“Spencer looks pretty up close and personal to me,” she says.

“That’s true.”

“And he’s clearly in love with you.”

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