Page 59 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“And give up before I ever started?” My eyes narrow, mostly, I think, so that I won’t cry. I’ll be sobbing all over her if I’m not careful. “The fact that you even ask that question shows how different we really are.” I can’t seem to stop there, either. “I cried for days. And every night I sat awake with a baseball bat in my hand and a whistle on a string around my neck, even though I wasn’t sure anyone would come if I blew it.”

I shudder out a breath. There’s a reason I never talk about this. “Finally, after I started waiting tables, I met another waitress who was looking to rent out the sofa in her sixth-floor walk-up, and I grabbed it. It took me almost a full year to earn enough to get a room at the Webster. It was only after I moved in there that I put the bat under the bed, the whistle on the nightstand, and actually slept for a whole night.”

Her mouth trembles as if she’s the one who might cry. Horror and pity are etched on her face.

I shrug and pour myself a second cup of coffee as if I haven’t just intentionally scalded her with all the ugly truths that I’ve never shared with anyone, including Spencer.

“I survived. It’s all just backstory now.” I say this with pride. To not only survive whatever New York City throws at you, but to succeed, is a point of honor. Still, dredging up these memories is painful. I feel small and mean for throwing them at Brianna, but I refuse to show it. “Thanks again for putting us up.”

“Oh, Lauren. I’m so sorry. Please...”

Her sympathy comes close to undoing me. Still holding back tears, I turn and carry my coffee upstairs to shower and dress. By the time Spencer gets back from his run and does the same, Bree is gone.

Our bags are in the rental car and we’re ready to leave when Clay’s truck pulls into the drive. I wonder uncharitably if he thinks we’re gone and he’s got somebody with him, but it’s not even ten. That’s too early for a nooner, right?

He climbs out and retrieves a large white Kinko’s box from the seat.

I feel a flush of remorse for how badly I treated Bree this morning. It’s all I can do not to read him the riot act about his cheating. How’s that for displacement? “Thanks for having us.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Spencer steps forward and claps him on the back. “We really appreciate you taking us in.”

“No problem.” He doesn’t bring up the wedding or ask when we’ll be coming back, for which I’m grateful. I pull the car keys out of my pocket.

“Do you have room for this?” He holds up the box.

“You want me to take your printing to New York?”

He smiles sheepishly. “No, I want you to take Bree’s manuscript with you so you can read it.”

“Why?” I ask even as I think of all the crap I threw at her this morning. How unfair it was of me to take everything out on her.

“Because you were once her best friend and you’re aNew York Timesbestselling author, so your opinion and your contacts could be important.”

I start to shake my head but he just keeps talking. “Look, Lauren. I’m not always the best husband in the world. But she’s been working on this for fifteen years. I’d think you could take a couple of hours to read it and give her some feedback. For old times’ sake.”

I sigh. “I can pretty much promise you she doesn’t really want to hear the truth. No aspiring writer does.”

“Of course, she does,” Clay says. “And maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to assume it won’t be good.”

He smiles and I have a flash of the boy he used to be. The people we all were. “You know no one prints out a manuscript anymore.”

“I’ll UPS it to you if you like. Or fly up and hand-deliver it if you promise to read it,” he says. “Iama shit sometimes. But Bree’s not. And she’ll never come out and ask you.”

I think of all that Bree and I were to each other. Now that my relationship with my mother is broken, Bree may be my last link with home.

Before I can find my voice, Spencer takes the box out of Clay’s hands. “I know Lauren’s suitcase is full, but I’ve got room.”

And so we drive away. Me, my fiancé, and my ex–best friend’s manuscript.

Twenty-seven

Lauren

New York City

Just being back in New York is a relief of sorts. Spencer is busy trying to catch up after the time away and although I’m careful to appear disappointed, I’m relieved by that, too. With so many raw nerve ends vibrating and conflicting emotions still coursing through me, I can barely think, let alone write. For a few days I just lie in bed and lick my wounds. When I can’t lie in bed any longer, I put on baggy clothes and dark sunglasses and walk in the park.

When I get home I listen to messages. There’s one from my mother that I delete mid-apology. The next is a reminder about a dental cleaning. The last is from Danielle, my publicist at Trove. I haven’t responded to her since I got back, so I force myself to listen. Her message comes out in a rush: “Oh my God! Those social media posts were pure genius. Funny yet dramatic! They show an entirely different side of you.” There’s a brief pause for breath. “And I absolutely love the shot from Title Waves. The store is adorable. And the book club looks so...real.

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