Page 33 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“Such as it is.” I slam the car door and follow her into the tiny pharmacy that has somehow survived the onslaught of chains and superstores.

“Why, Lauren, how great to see you.” Mrs. Endicott, a jovial woman who’s had a cloud of white hair for as long as I can remember and merry blue eyes that sparkle with mischief, greets us from behind the counter and congratulates me on my engagement. Her husband, who died shortly after I moved to New York, had a white beard and a belly that jiggled when he laughed. When I was little I used to imagine that Mr. and Mrs. Endicott were Mr. and Mrs. Claus in disguise and that maybe he delivered gifts from here in the Outer Banks instead of the North Pole because it was closer even though I never saw a sign of an elf or a reindeer or even a sleigh.

“Thank you. It’s nice to be back.”

“You need to come home more often. Right, Brianna?”

“Um-hmmm,” Bree says with a polite smile that is decidedly noncommittal. As I pay for the Aleve and hand sanitizer, both of which I saw this morning in my mother’s medicine cabinet, I warn myself that however far I wander down memory lane it doesn’t eliminate the distance between Bree and me.

At the dry cleaner’s Mrs. Humphrey congratulates me on my engagement, gives Bree a hug, then hands over an ancient wool blanket that’s been wrapped in plastic for storage until next winter. It’s clear there was no hurry in retrieving it.

Back outside I wait while Bree puts the blanket and other unnecessary items in her car. I shift from foot to foot as I stare into the display window of the Attic Addict.

Some of my favorite clothes came from this consignment store. I played dress-up here as a child while my mother cleaned it. Adele Martin, a round, fleshy woman who had a big-city past she often alluded to but never really talked about, owned the store. She referred to herself as a “chocoholic” before the word existed and would slip me Snickers and Milky Way bars and set aside outfits she thought would look good on me as soon as they came in. I loved tottering around in high heels and making up stories to go along with the more exotic articles of clothing somuch that it took me a long time to realize that my mother was trading her cleaning services for used clothing because we couldn’t even afford the basics at Davis’s Everything to Wear. Later Bree and I shopped here together for prom dresses and funky scarves and accessories. Adele claimed to know the history behind each article of clothing, but Bree and I entertained ourselves creating our own.

Bree steps up beside me and I see her reflection join mine in the store window—me tall and angular, her short and curvy. For a moment I see the two of us as we once were. Let myself remember how we could lie on our beds or on the living room floor reading for hours in total silence or talk nonstop for what felt like days at a time. How as teenagers we called each otherbitchand it was a term of endearment.

“Do you remember the stories we used to make up about the clothes we tried on and who they used to belong to?” she asks.

“Are you kidding? I still have that trench coat that once belonged to Mata Hari. And the rhinestone necklace that we were certain had been designed by Paloma Picasso.”

“Adele’s funeral was so beautiful,” she says quietly, staring straight ahead. “Mount Olivet Church was packed. Everyone wore bright colors and some piece of clothing or jewelry that she’d chosen for them. Afterward, at the reception, there were tables and tables of chocolate desserts—all of them made by hand. Kendra brought her beignets with chocolate pot de crème, and I ate so many I thought I’d get sick.”

We both stare at our reflections and, I think, our past. The musky scent of Evening in Paris that clung to Adele and her clothes teases at my memory. I banish a dull ache of loss as we walk into Paramount Office Supply, where we pick up—I kid you not—an individual block of sticky notes. This is when I remind myself that I could have been out showing Spencer around or walking with him on the beach. Hell, I could already be trying on THE DRESS.

My grumble is automatic but I hear my mother’s plea for us to mend fences, and I keep the grumble mostly under my breath as I follow Bree to the bookstore. A bell jangles as she pushes open the door to Title Waves.

For a brief second I take in the store, the tables that display bestsellers (including my own) along with local guidebooks and tomes on Outer Banks history. The floor-to-ceiling shelves. The whimsical artwork. I haven’t been in for a while and either she’s remodeled or I’ve forgotten (or possibly blocked) how warm and cozy it is. The store has flooded more than once—you can’t be this close to the bay and not deal with the threat—but as far as I know this store is not going anywhere.

Then there are shouts of “Congratulations! You did it! Woo-hoo!!” And a group of women pop out from behind the walls that separate this side of the store from the side that houses the extensive children’s section and register area.

I run into Bree’s back with an “oof.” When I detach myself and look over her shoulder, I see the women who are whistling and applauding. All of them rush forward. Digital flashes go off, and I close my mouth because I can feel it gaping. I take a step back from the onslaught and only then do I notice that it’s Bree, not me, that they’re rushing toward, Bree that each of them hugs.

Mrs. McKinnon steps from behind the desk and sails toward us. I was slightly in awe of her as a child and not only because she rapped my knuckles more than once when I grabbed more than my share of snack at Sunday school. As she puts her arms around Bree and crushes her to her breast, I vaguely remember my mother telling me that she’d recently lost her husband to whom she’d been married since God was a boy. It’s clear that she’s the one who organized the surprise celebration. I can’t remember the last time anyone made a big deal about my finishing a novel—that’s just part of what’s expected—let alone threw a party.

“We are all so proud of you!” Mrs. McKinnon tells Bree.“We knew you could do it and none of us can wait to read your novel once it’s published.”

I clamp my lips closed even more tightly as another flash goes off and only just manage to stop myself from snorting at their assumption that just because someone finishes a manuscript a publisher will want to buy it. I wonder uncharitably how anything written over such a long period of time can be at all cohesive. But then Bree glances over her shoulder at me, and I realize she knows what I’m thinking. Or at least knows very well that things don’t work that way. As they shower her with obvious love and affection and—yes—admiration—I remind myself that I once greatly admired her and her writing talent, too. The only time Bree ever stuck her head in the sand was when it came to Clay.

I’m reintroduced to a woman named Leslie Parent, a tall, pixie-haired woman in her fifties who is the founding member of the B’s, which is apparently short for “books, broads, and booze.”

They all smile at me and offer congratulations on my engagement, but their real enthusiasm is showered on Brianna. It’s obvious how much she means to them, how highly they think of her. I feel an unexpected tug of envy for the community she’s built, the friends surrounding her. But this time instead of allowing the envy to reignite the flame of hurt and anger I’ve been stoking all these years, I feel a wave of longing for the friendship we once shared.

“May I get a photograph of the two of you?” Mrs. McKinnon asks. “And then one of the whole group right over there next to the sign? We could include it in the book club newsletter for those who couldn’t be here today.”

“Of course,” Bree says as we’re herded into position, though I sense she’s more interested in pleasing Mrs. McKinnon and the assembled book club members than in having a picture that documents my presence.

Nonetheless I give my best smile for the camera and tilt myhead to its most flattering angle as Bree and I slip our arms gingerly around each other’s backs, a move that once would have been instinctual and welcome. I keep smiling as everyone piles in around us and Leslie, who lays claim to the longest arms, attempts to include the entire group in her selfie.

As we’re led to the celebratory punch and cookies, I try to shake off the sense of loss and regret swirling inside me. I know I need to replace it with something positive. Something concrete. Like the fact that I didn’t even have to ask Leslie to send me a copy of the photo or tell Bree about the fifteenth-anniversary edition ofSandcastleSunrise.

As I drink a glass of punch and answer questions about the “exciting” life of a bestselling author, I realize that although I’m not about to say so, I’m not entirely angry at my mother for sending Bree and me together on her made-up errands.

Seventeen

Kendra

The Sandcastle

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