Page 22 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

New York City

We fly home tomorrow. My bag is packed and sitting on the ottoman in Spencer’s bedroom. The black-and-electric-blue Trina Turk pants outfit with its wide, elastic-waist pants and flowing top is carefully folded over the back of the matching club chair. A pair of black Jimmy Choo flats that I can wear with everything in my suitcase sits on the floor waiting to be stepped into.

Spencer is sound asleep beside me and when I asked him why he wasn’t packing earlier he told me that he’d have plenty of time in the morning. Even though we’re leaving for the airport at nineA.M.sharp.

Of course he fell asleep in seconds, because to him flying is like taking a bus or a train—just another form of transportation.

To me it’s a potential brush with death at thirty thousand feet. Which is why despite the two Tylenol PM I took an hour ago, I’m still staring up into the ceiling trying not to think about midair collisions, engines exploding, or plummeting to the ground in a ball of fire.

I do have a system for managing my fear. Typically I knockmyself out the night before—come on, Tylenol! Then I take a Xanax an hour before takeoff so that I can make myself get on the plane. Once on board I have exactly one drink as soon as possible. (I discovered the hard way on a cross-country trip that two drinks is one too many.) This drink prevents me from blubbering in fear and begging to be let off the plane. (Which I suspect would not play well on social media.)

As I wait for the Tylenol to kick in, I remind myself that the flight to Norfolk is relatively short and that, since it’s not yet tourist season, the drive down to Nags Head should be an easy one. There’s no reason there should be any real issues once we get home, either. My mother, who is the least judgmental person I know, is bound to love Spencer and I can’t imagine him not loving her back. And it’s not like he’s going to have to deal with some big family looking him over. Now that Great-aunt Velda is gone, I have only a couple of cousins and none of them lives in the Outer Banks.

I turn on my side and pull my pillow under my head. There’s Bree and Clay, of course, and their daughter, Lily. It might be a good idea to share a little more of our “backstory” with Spencer before we get there. But while I wish I didn’t have to go to Title Waves or even tell Bree about the anniversary edition, it’s not as if there’s anything she can do about it.

I draw in a deep breath and feel my eyelids growing heavy as I tell myself that there’s no point in worrying. A week hanging with my mom, showing Spencer around, and maybe looking at a few possible venues for the small, intimate wedding I’m hoping for should be fun. The Outer Banks are beautiful and the beach and the water surrounding it are guaranteed stress busters. After all, it’s not as if we have any big issues to resolve.

Bree

Manteo

It’s one in the morning when I suddenly realize that it’s over.Heart of Goldis finished. Afraid I might be hallucinating, I go back and reread the last pages of the manuscript. It’s possible that my lips move as I read—that’s how exhausted I am. But it seems I’ve tied things up satisfactorily. Everything makes sense. Whitney is satisfied, Heath not so much. There’s nothing else to say.

With trembling fingers I type the magic wordsThe Enda few lines below the final paragraph. I stare at those words on the page in the pool of light that spills from the desk lamp. A smile spreads across my face. It’s so large I can actually feel my skin stretching.

I retype the words again. This time all in caps.THE END.Then I go back and add an exclamation point because the occasion demands it.

“Oh my God!” I get up then sit back down. I scrub at my eyes. I am so exhausted I could crumple to the floor at any moment. Or I could go outside and run through the streets.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up as I imagine what the sight of me racing around in the rain in my ancient pajamas and ratty robe whooping and hollering might do to any neighbor who happened to be up. They might call the sheriff’s office. I could end up in jail for being dangerously and deliriously happy.

I don’t go anywhere. I just sit there grinning and laughing. Then I notice that I’m crying. I feel an odd sort of reverence almost like I did when Rafe and Lily were first placed in my arms. I wonder if the agony of the fifteen years I’ve spent on this manuscript will fade the way the remembered pain of childbirth did?

Next I whoop and circle-pump my arm because I’ve finallydone it. When Lauren gets here tomorrow—make that this afternoon—I will no longer be the loser still struggling to finish a single manuscript after a decade and a half. Whatever does or doesn’t happen next I have made it to the end.The End. THE END!

I whip open my office door. The house is dark and silent but there’s no way I’m going to be able to keep this to myself for six more hours. Maybe I should sneak into the bedrooms and adjust the alarms so that Clay and Lily wake up simultaneously and I can tell them.

I practically float down the stairs. As I pass Lily’s room I reject the idea of waking her. Lily doesn’t come back to consciousness easily or happily. When she was a baby I used to go to great lengths to keep her from falling asleep while we were running errands in the car—and what kind of mother would wake her child at oneA.M.?

The need to share and celebrate this moment pushes me down the hallway past the Jack and Jill bathroom and Rafe’s empty bedroom. More than anyone else, Clay knows how long and how hard I’ve worked on this book. He knows how much it means to me. And why.

Whatever we’ve been through, whatever vows he’s stretched or broken, he’s still my husband. On our wedding day we promised to love and honor each other. To be there for each other in sickness and in health. We’ve made it through his infidelities, which I’ve tried to file away out of sight under the labelBAD TIMES. But that vow included the good times, too. And for me this moment is as good as it gets.

When I reach the master suite I tiptoe directly to the bathroom, where I wash my face and brush my teeth. The whole time all I can think is how glad I am that I continued writing. That I persevered long after any sane person would have given up. It’s over. I’ve done it. I throw the ragged pajamas and robe I’ve been living in into the hamper and pull on a freshnightgown. I spritz on the perfume Clay bought me for my birthday and imagine him rousing and pulling me into bed beside him. I’m beyond grateful that I have him to celebrate this momentous occasion with.

The bedroom is dark and the blinds have been drawn. I don’t want to turn on a light so I feel my way to my side of the bed and slip under the covers. I’m so eager to reach him that I barely breathe as I slide gently across the mattress.

I’m already imagining how I’ll break the news when I realize that the mound I saw outlined in the dark is just the crumpled sheets and covers of an unmade bed. Clay’s pillow is cold. His side of the bed is empty and clearly un–slept in.

With the angry, pain-filled yelp of a dog that’s been unexpectedly kicked by its master, I throw off the covers. My feet hit the floor. I get out of bed and stalk to the window, telling myself that he could just be downstairs asleep on the couch in the TV room. Or in the kitchen getting a late-night snack. But my stomach is already queasy with knowledge as I open the blinds and look down onto the driveway.

If I were that dog I’d be howling. My Jeep Cherokee sits alone in the darkness. Clay’s truck isn’t here. If my husband is in bed right now, that bed belongs to someone else.

Twelve

Bree

If finishing my manuscript last night was the crest of a wave, this morning is the trough. With all the adrenaline rushing through me and lying in wait for Clay with accusations flitting through my head, I barely slept. Or so I think until I wake up to the sound of clanging pots and pans in the kitchen. I yank on my robe and go downstairs to find him making breakfast, which is something he’s only ever done as an unspoken act of atonement. Lily sits at the kitchen table, clutching a mug of cream that includes a dash of coffee. She’s still glassy eyed with sleep, and I’m glad I didn’t wake her last night.

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