Page 80 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

Lauren

Bree’s face turns kind of green. I show her to the bathroom knowing that if I were in one of those old V8 commercials I’d be slapping my forehead right now. Just five minutes ago I could have come clean. I could have told Bree the truth.Smack. I could have reached beneath the counter, pulled out her manuscript, and said,I’ve already read it and I can’t believe how good itis!Smack.If I were willing to be completely honest I could have even added,And I’m ashamed that I’mkind of conflicted about it.

My mother’s face and words fly by.“I always intended to tell you and your father about each other.”

I now know firsthand that any kind of admission sounds feeble if it comes too long after the fact.

Which means I need to just speak up and get the topic out in the open. I decide to do this as soon as she comes out of the bathroom, but when she heads back toward me I ask, “Are you good to walk in those shoes?”Smack!

“I think so. Where are we going?”

“Well, since we only have the day, I thought we’d have brunch at Tavern on the Green and then wander around the neighborhood.”

“TheTavern on the Green?”

“Yes. In all its farm-to-table, stunningly renovated Victorian Gothic glory.”

We head out into a truly beautiful May morning. The temperature is in the low seventies. The sky above is a pastel blue. The park is lush and green. Brightly colored blooms are everywhere. So are people bent on enjoying them.

At the restaurant we’re shown to a table on the bricked patio that is virtually in the park. I order mimosas to sip while we peruse the menu. I hope they’ll help me find the backbone required to “do the right thing” and to maybe ease the anxious look in Bree’s eyes.

At the waiter’s suggestion we start with an appetizer of Maple Brown Sugar Bacon. It takes the whole mimosa and several slices of bacon each for the mixture of sugar and alcohol to begin to relax us.

“I think they should rename this ‘ambrosia of the gods,’” I say around a mouthful of bacon. “Why didn’t someone invent this sooner?”

“Because those of us with a sweet tooth and an inefficient metabolism would gain so much weight we’d be waddling.” Bree waves a piece as she replies. “You could probably eat it all day and still fit into those skinny jeans of yours that I used to covet.”

We order a second round of mimosas and sip them with Eggs Benedict Florentine (so that we can say we had spinach) and Brioche French Toast (because once you awaken your sweet tooth resistance is futile).

“I’m afraid to think about how many calories I’m consuming,” Bree says.

“Then don’t.” I hold up my mimosa to hers. “Let’s make this a designated calorie-free day.”

She smiles, taking in the setting, the food on our plates, the patio filled with equally fizzy smiles and low conversation. The occasional celebrity gets seated or strolls by and no one makes a fuss. “This really is the life, isn’t it?”

“It has its moments.” My smile tightens as I think what ittook to get here. When I look up, Bree’s eyes are on my face. A strange, almost reluctant expression spreads across hers.

“I’ve been thinking about how far you’ve come since you first arrived in New York alone. And I... I just want to tell you how sorry I am that I left you in that situation. At this point I’m not even sure why I backed out. I know I was afraid. I know I had no real belief in myself or my writing ability.” A shadow passes over her face and is followed by an intentional straightening of her shoulders that she’s been making since she entered my apartment. “I wanted to be safe and loved.” She takes another sip of her mimosa. “I don’t even know whether Clay ever really loved me. Or if anyone could have ever given me as much love as I needed.”

Her words are as unexpected as they are comforting. Her apology is a balm that flows over the hard knot of loss and hurt and anger I’ve clung to all these years. “I know Clay loves you.” I picture him with the box holding Bree’s manuscript and vow to make sure she knows that he was directly responsible for me reading it. “He just doesn’t seem to be all that good at forsaking all others.”

“Yeah.”

“But you did get Rafe and Lily out of it.”

Bree smiles and it’s not the resolute one she appeared with today. “I wouldn’t trade being their mother for anything.” She looks at me. “I know for a fact that your mother feels the same. How many times has she told you that?”

That number is beyond counting. My mother’s is the first voice I remember. The one I hear inside my head. The positive one that tells me I can do or be anything I choose. That voice didn’t laugh when I decided as a child that I would be a bestselling author. It didn’t chide me or try to keep me from going to New York on my own, though she must have been worried. It never pushed me to do anything but be myself and follow my dreams.

My mother has been a one-woman cheering section myentire life, and I have been torturing her for more than a month now. I haven’t even attempted to hear her out or to get over my hurt and anger. I’ve just rained it down all over her.

“Are you all right?”

“Hmmm?” I look up. “Yes. Sorry. Just thinking.”

And not just about my mother.

I set down my glass, fold my hands on the table, and look directly at Bree. My fear and hesitation are gone. I know deep inside that it doesn’t matter what words I choose. Or—hopefully—how long it’s taken me to find them. If our reality—our status quo—is about to shift, then so be it.

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