Page 65 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“Oh, umm, yeah. I gave them a bit of a preseason discount and they extended.”

He finally seems to register the silence that follows and looks up. “How are things at the store?”

This is his default question whenever he’s unsure of what I may or may not have been talking about. Not waiting for an answer he reaches for another piece of bread. A text dings in and his gaze strays back to his phone.

“Great,” I say with my eyes on the bald spot again. “There was a small fire in the back storage area, but Mrs. McKinnon threw herself on top of the cartons of books and smothered it with her body.”

“Hmmm,” he says without looking up. “Interesting.” A small smile plays on his lips and I wonder if it’s Carla Andrews, whose smug sister we ran into in the bathroom at Blue Point, that he’s texting.

Once again I think about the fact that Lily knows. That she believes that my lack of action means that I condone it. Or, more accurately, that I’m too big a coward to address it. If Lily knows so does Rafe. Yet I continue to spin out the story, to feint and jab at his inattention, rather than raise the real issue. “Thankfully, Mrs. McKinnon’s burns weren’t too severe and her heart attack was minor. I kept her alive until the paramedics got there by performing CPR and a song or two from the musicalCats.”

“That’s nice,” he says as he fires off another text. His head jerks up when he registers what I said. “Sorry. I just had to organize a, um, something.” He waits for me to give him some shit for not paying attention. Or for texting at the table, which I’ve begged him not to do and which is, let’s face it, incredibly insulting. But what is that compared to his cheating?

As he lowers his head again it’s impossible to ignore how little we have left to say to each other. When Lily’s here our conversation is targeted at and through her. When we’re alone we talk about things that need to be taken care of. Errands, Lily’s schedule, house repairs, car maintenance, the detritus of everyday life.

“I’ve got a showing up in Duck and then I need to stop by the new house in Corolla to fix a leaky faucet. I may just stay out there and have a beer with Stan.”

He deposits his plate in the sink then goes up to change. When he comes back downstairs freshly showered and shaved, the cologne I bought him for his birthday wafts off him. (Yes, that’s the kind of thought that goes into our gifts to each other now. And no I don’t believe he put it on for Stan.) “I’m not sure how late I’ll be.” He pecks me on the cheek. “Don’t wait up.”

After he leaves the house is even quieter. The normally reassuring tick of my grandmother’s grandfather clock is low and steady, but tonight instead of filling the silence it counts it out and amplifies it.

I turn off the kitchen light and head upstairs, where I pause to peer into Lily’s room. Some mothers would be irritated by the habitually unmade bed, the half-opened drawers, the clothes and shoes strewn across the floor. To me it’s confirmation that she’s secure enough not to constantly strive to please or pursue perfection.Secure enough to call me on my cowardice.

In two years when Lily goes off to college this room will be unbearably neat. And I will be left alone with my inattentive, often absent husband.

Normally I brush this and other troubling thoughts aside. Over the last twenty years, I’ve sidestepped even the most insistent aha! moments by convincing myself that it would be wrong to take my children’s father away from them. That keeping my family intact is more important than being loved and respected the way I deserve. The way we all deserve.

All this time I’ve told myself I’ve been hiding their father’s affairs from the children in an effort to save our marriagefor them.That the most important thing was keeping our family intactfor them. But theyknow. Which brings me to the question of whom I’m actually protecting. And what kind of an example I’ve set for my children. Why am I still bowing to the emperor when our children already know that he’s not wearing clothes?

I slump against the wall, no longer able to hold back the tidal wave of truth that washes over me. I have accepted the love Clay feels for me as if it were some great gift, because when your parents don’t love you, you know deep down it can only be because you’re unlovable.

My breathing is harsh and labored. My heart constricts in shame. I’ve settled because I assumed I had to. I have expected far too little and accepted even less. Worst of all, I’ve become pathetic in my children’s eyes. I’ve let fear and insecurity rule my life. Allowed them to color every decision. Made me think andactsmall. And I am tired to death of it.

Slowly, I straighten. My mind begins to clear. A window that I nailed shut springs open. Light streams in.

I am not a poor, unloved girl anymore. And I don’t have to be an unappreciated and disrespected wife; that’s not the way to be a good mother. And no way to teach my children about love and relationships. Nor do I need to wait for Lauren to repair our friendship. Or be afraid to enter the publishing arena I ceded to her just because she got there first.

My breathing becomes more even, the thud of my heart softens, its beating slows.

The time has come to live up to who I am and not down to who I was. I have friends. A business. Children who love me. A manuscript I’ve poured my heart into. What happens next is up to me.

Turning, I stride to the stairs, sprint up to my office, and sit down at my computer, where the cover letters to all five agentswait in draft mode. I double-check that each is addressed to the correct person at the correct e-mail address and that the synopsis and chapters are attached. Then with a resolve that shocks and thrills me I hit send on each e-mail. There is no turning back. That thrills me, too.

When the fear of rejection begins to bubble up I quash it. If these five agents don’t want me, I’ll try five more, then five more after that. And ifHeart of Golddoesn’t sell, I’ll write something that will. Then I register for a fiction writing conference in New York I’ve dreamed of going to even though I have to pay a late-registration fee.

I leave my office with a new clarity of purpose. A certainty that is greater than I’ve ever known. I deserve whatever success and happiness I can find or create.

I’m downstairs in a heartbeat. I pour myself a glass of wine and get my thoughts in order. Aha moment, my foot. It’s time for a come-to-Jesus meeting.

I carry my glass into the living room and settle on the couch to wait for my husband to come home.

Lauren

New York City

Any suspicion I had that Spencer’s suggestion that we plan a New York wedding was only a ploy to get me to make up with my mother has been laid to rest. Because despite the ploy’s failure, the wedding planning continues.

The notes he first showed me over Thai takeout are now neatly assembled in a shared computer file filled with vendor links. There are electronic folders filled with notes, the beginnings of a guest list he, his mother, and I are supposed to be putting together. Because how can you know what size venue,how much food, even how many flower arrangements if you don’t have a sense of how many guests you might be expecting or what size the wedding party might be?

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