Page 5 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

Still, he’s given me Rafe and Lily, my two greatest accomplishments. Both of us love them more than anything. But it’s gotten harder for me to pretend Clay doesn’t have “fidelity issues.” Manteo is way too small for secrets.

The phone rings and I know it will be Kendra calling to wish me a happy birthday. Just like I know she’ll serve all of my favorite foods for dinner tonight and that she’ll lead the singing when she brings out the cake she will have baked from scratch. Even though it will have only one name on it.

Kendra Jameson is the mother we all wish for, but rarely get. Some people are born that way. Others are born to hunt for fossils and dig up civilizations. I would never have known how to be a mother if I hadn’t learned by watching my grandmother and Kendra, who never let her widowhood or lack of family stop her from always putting her daughter first.

I love Rafe and Lily. It’s been a joy and a privilege to be their mother. It’s the one thing I’ve excelled at. I would slit my wrists before I let them down. Or disrupted our family. Or took their father away from them.

Three

Lauren

D-day

New York City

Being forty sucks even more than I thought it would. And it turns out I am just the woman to embrace its suckiness. I drank too much at The Plaza then passed out fully clothed on my bed only to wake at twoA.M.and every hour after that, my sense of apocalyptic dread growing with each bathroom run.

As I lie in bed hungover, my makeup caked all over my face, my bedding a testament to the tossing and turning I’ve done, it occurs to me that the dip in my career increased the suckiness of today’s milestone. (Yes,suckinessis a word, a noun in fact, and is defined in multiple dictionaries as “the state or condition of being sucky.” Feel free to use it in your next Scrabble game or Words with Friends.)

The phone rings and I pick it up reluctantly. My mother’s cheerful voice on the other end hurts almost as much as the sunshine slanting through the blinds. “Happy birthday!” she says with what I know is a huge smile. “I feel like it was only yesterday that I held you in my arms for the first time. Just wanted to wish you a great day and tell you how much I love you and how proud of you I am.”

“Thanks.” Her words don’t exactly make me glad to be forty, but my mother’s love and praise have always helped slay the dragons of doubt and insecurity. When I was little I used to beg for details of the day I was born and of my father who died while she was pregnant with me, and about how she left her aunt Velda’s, who was her only living relative, and brought me to the Outer Banks when I wasn’t even a week old. All she ever really told me was what a wonderful man my father was, how much he would have loved me. Then she’d sniff back tears and get this funny look on her face and I would know that the topic was painful and that I needed to drop it. The picture of her in THE DRESS standing next to him in church on their wedding day is still my most prized possession. Along with the photos of the grandparents I never met. My mother’s cheerful perseverance in the face of adversity was my greatest inspiration. At least after I began to get over the fact that I seemed to be the only child I knew who had only one parent. It wasn’t until I became best friends with Bree that I understood that having one mother who loved you more than anything in the world was better than having two parents who did not.

“So what are you doing tonight to celebrate?” my mother asks.

“Spencer’s taking me out to dinner. He refuses to tell me where we’re going, but I have my suspicions.”

“That’s so sweet,” she says, and I hear a slight tremor in her voice. My mother has dated some over the years, but nothing that ever really lasted. “You have to give a man points for understanding the importance of a dramatic gesture.”

“Mom, heisin the theater. Dramatic gestures are part of his DNA.” But I smile when I say it. My first of the day.

“Point taken. But even if he comes by it naturally you still need to enjoy and appreciate it.” There’s a beat of silence as if she’s considering her next words, but she says only, “Bring him down here soon. I’d like to meet him.”

I try to envision Spencer in a place where the sidewalks rollup at nine or don’t even exist at all. Where you can’t get food delivered at any hour of the day or night. Can’t wander into an all-night deli or restaurant. Can’t get a good bagel. A place where the only live theater is the longest runningThe Lost Colonyon Roanoke Island and there are only two movie theaters within the hundred-plus-mile stretch of barrier islands.

“You could come up here to meet him, you know. We could see some shows, do a little shopping. I have tons of frequent-flier miles you can use.” I don’t add that I won’t have to see Bree that way. And I definitely don’t ask what Mom’s doing tonight, because I know she’s already cooking for what used to be our joint birthday dinner like she does every year. As if Bree were actually her daughter. And Bree’s children her grandchildren.

“We’ll see,” my mother hedges. “But it’s been way too long since you’ve been down. I don’t want you to forget your roots. Or shake off all that sand in your shoes.”

I don’t say no but I don’t say yes, either. This is not the day to argue.

“Well, enjoy the day and your birthday dinner, sweetheart. We’ll be thinking of you and sending love.” My mother makes the exaggerated kissing sound that ends all of our phone calls. “And when you blow out your candles don’t forget to make a wish.”

?Later that day, way before there are candles, I wish I hadn’t wasted so much of my birthday nursing a hangover and trying not to worry about my career. It took a lot of the fun out of the bouquet of flowers and balloons Spencer sent, and made me eat more of the tower of chocolates that came with them than I meant to. I heard from a few friends and saw the thousands of happy birthdays posted by readers on my author Facebook page. Presumably from those who haven’t yet disappeared or defected.

Despite the beautiful March day going on outside mywindow I don’t leave the apartment. In fact, I barely leave my bed until it’s time to shower. The makeup artist I use for special appearances and occasions arrives at seven—now that I’m forty I’m going to need a lot more help not looking it. Barry, my longtime hairdresser/stylist/friend arrives at eight to fuss and cluck over me.

He twists my shoulder-length hair into a messy knot at the base of my neck and pulls out tendrils to arrange around my face, giving me a casual-yet-elegant look that I have never achieved on my own. Then he helps me into a very simple black sheath that turns my lanky body into something far more feminine. Diamond studs, Christian Louboutin heels, and an evening clutch are my only accessories. It’s Barry who taught me that less is more, that designer fashions are designed for bodies like mine, and who finally convinced me that being tall is an advantage not a liability.

“Not bad,” he says as he brushes a small piece of lint from the three-quarter sleeve and straightens the dress’s boat neck slightly. From him this is high praise.

“Turn.” He motions with one finger and rewards me with an approving smile. “You are now fit to be seen and photographed.”

I face myself in the mirror and am relieved to see he’s right. Like most authors I’m an introvert at heart. I spend long periods of time alone in front of a computer, but I’ve learned how to handle myself in public, speak to book clubs, give keynotes, get interviewed, deliver sound bites. I can switch into bestselling-author mode when I need to but beingonisn’t my default setting. I have no desire to be the center of attention.

Barry escorts me downstairs and leads me to the black car Spencer has sent. “Nice touch. A modern version of the fairy-tale coach. Let’s hope it doesn’t turn into a pumpkin pulled by field mice at midnight,” Barry teases as a liveried driver opens the passenger door.

“I guess this will just have to do.” I sigh theatrically as Barrywraps me in a hug then watches the driver help me into the backseat. Barry leans in before the door closes and whispers, “I expect to hear details. Not from the bedroom necessarily. Though some of us do like to live vicariously. That man of yours is quite hot.”

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