Page 55 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

Spencer takes my hand in his. “It’s good to see you smiling.”

I smile again, because I can see how much it pleases him. And because I am inebriated.

“Maybe we should hire someone to drive us in the rental car to the airport,” I suggest as I hold out my empty wineglass for another refill.

“Why would we do that?” he asks.

“So I can keep drinking until I get back to my real life.”

He leans forward to whisper in my ear. “Thisisyour real life,Lauren. And whether or not you like it right now, Kendra is still your real mother.”

“No.” I shake my head and let go of his hand. “No she’s not. Not anymore.”

I feel Bree’s eyes on my face and turn my head, reaching for a piece of bread and buttering it before she can say anything. Afterward I alternately drink and pull the bread into pieces that I can’t imagine swallowing. The alcohol helps, but it’s a fine line between comfortably cushioned and a head that’s spinning. I’m not sure I’ll know when to stop.

I glance up and see Clay blanch. I glance around, afraid he might have spotted Kendra, but there’s no sign of her. When I look again Clay’s face appears perfectly normal.

“Wow.” I put down my fork and knife. “I am stuffed. I don’t think I can eat another bite.”

Spencer, who knows how little I’ve eaten, doesn’t comment.

“What? No room for dessert?” Jake asks.

“You, who can eat multiple ice cream sundaes in one sitting? I can’t believe it. I have always envied your metabolism.” Bree blushes. I know she has to have envied my career, too. If I’m honest, and it’s hard to lie even to yourself when you’ve had this much to drink, there’ve been times I’ve enjoyed that envy. We look at each other.

She has bemoaned her curves since we first sprouted breasts and had to start wearing bras, something my mother took us both shopping for. It has apparently never occurred to her that people who are built like a stalk of wheat might trade some of their metabolism for a little of what she’d like to get rid of.

I raise my chin. Like I said, I am nothing if not competitive. “I might be able to find some room for a little something.”

“You must have gotten my sweet tooth,” Jake says. “I’ve eaten way more than my share of the triple-chocolate cake at the Dogwood.” My father smiles. If he doesn’t realize that’s one of my mother’s best-known confections, I’m not going to tell him.And if he does?I reach for my wineglass to drain the last of it, then hold it up to Spencer for a refill.

“You might want to slow down just a little.” He keeps his voice low, but I am way beyond caution. When you’re rushing headlong toward oblivion it’s hard to keep track of each step. We order warm Southern pecan pie, a white chocolate torte, and a piece of key lime pie to share.

Even though my stomach is roiling and my head feels oddly light and fluffy, I don’t share my Jack (as in Jack Daniels) and Coke float. I feel numb but not in a particularly good way.

“Will you excuse me?” Bree stands and sets her napkin on the table. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

“I’ll come with you.” It’s an automatic response that brings me to my feet. How many times did we share a trip to the bathroom in high school and college?

It takes serious concentration to reach the restroom without weaving or stumbling. On occasion I’ve been jealous of a man’s ability to simply unzip and do his business so quickly, but as I lower myself to the toilet seat I’m glad we do this sitting down and that I don’t have to hurry back to the table. I’m not at all sure how long I’ve been in the stall when I realize I’m finished and have lost track of where Bree might be in the process. I sway slightly as I stand and zip my pants then fumble with the door lock. I don’t see her as I walk carefully to the counter to wash my hands. I do see a much taller blonde at the sink. She appears to be watching me in the mirror. It takes me a minute to assess the face. It’s not the blonde I saw Clay with in their house, but I can tell they’re related. She has the same cheap dye job. Same features. Same build. Same sneer.

I stare back. I’m perfectly ready to give someone some shit. It might even release some of the pressure that feels like a geyser bubbling inside me. But even as I turn on the faucet I know that the best outcome for Bree, who is just now coming out of her stall, is no outcome at all.

Bree barely glances at the woman as she washes her hands next to me. She does a very thorough job of it, studying her hands the entire time.

This really irritates the other woman, who huffs, looks down her narrow nose at Bree, then says, “Some people should pay a little more attention to their husbands if they don’t want to lose them.”

Bree doesn’t even look up. She is focused on her hands as if they’re the only things in her world that matter.

“Did you hear me?” the tall blonde says in a tone of voice that normally accompanies a finger poke.

I’m actually holding my breath trying to figure out how to insert myself between them or, failing that, kick-start my brain so that I can mediate the situation and get rid of the problem. I’m still trying to get my thoughts in order when Bree calmly looks up from her hands as if she just now noticed the other woman. “Kind of hard not to.” She turns off the faucet and waves her hand to activate the paper towel. “Is there anyone in your family who can keep their hands to themselves or their mouth shut when they don’t?”

I close my mouth, impressed.

The blonde has no comeback. Finally, she says, “Huh! Some people aren’t as smart as they think they are.”

“And some people just aren’t smart, period.” Bree dries her hands thoroughly, but not desperately, then drops the used paper towel in the trash. “And that goes for youandyour sister.”

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