Page 70 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“Oh. Right.” I attempt to gather my wits but my brain isbusy reliving the kiss. Imagining another. “Yes. Let’s. Um. You do that.” I clear my throat. “And I’ll...” I can’t seem to remember what else needs to be done. Or why. I tear my eyes away from his. There’s a large, empty bowl on the counter. “And I’ll... I’ll start the salad.”

The first glass of wine is consumed. A second follows.

Meal preparation passes in a genial haze. I’m vaguely aware of throwing a cloth over the table on the back deck, of placing the vase of sunflowers in its center, of carrying steaks and a basket of veggies out to the grill. But mostly I’m aware of Jake.

His voice is deep and fluid, a masculine melody that rises and falls over the lazy swish of the ocean. The breeze stirs the sea oats on the surrounding dunes, tickles nearby palms, and skims across my bare arms and cheeks. The salty scent of the sea teases my nostrils.

I ask about his sons. About his parents’ house in Richmond that he tells me was left to him and that his younger son and his new wife might move into. He asks about Aunt Velda. About my baking. About how I ended up here. What made me stay.

We do not bring up my tattered relationship with Lauren or what can or should be done about it. I realize that it’s not just our child that binds us together but the very real pull of attraction.

It could be the wine or the way the last vestiges of the day disappear in a shimmer of pink and gold that makes the evening so comfortable yet so intimate. I don’t know why I feel the way I do and in truth I don’t care. I just want to enjoy every second of this moment, this meal, this evening.

And so the steak is more tender than any I’ve ever tasted, the vegetables fresher, the salad crisper. It may be the best meal I’ve ever had. The best evening.

We open a second bottle of red and stare up at the stars that blanket the night sky.

If this were actually a date it would be the best one I’ve ever been on.

Lauren

New York City

I’m sitting at my desk staring at the blinking cursor. Its thumbs are in its ears and it’s waggling its fingers at me jeering, “Nah nah nah nah nah.” Because I’ve been sitting here a very long time and have nothing to show for it but a blank screen.

I love being a writer and am beyond grateful to get to create characters and tell stories for a living, but I have some experience with procrastination. All authors do. Some of us expend a lot of energy attempting to stamp out even the tiniest ember of it. Others fan its flames.

When the going gets tough—which often happens when attempting to create relatable characters within a believable universe which must be sustained for one hundred thousand–plus words, even the toughest among us escape to things that are more attractive than writing. Things like doing laundry. Scrubbing toilets. Plucking eyebrows. Having oral surgery.

Normally, I manage to resist the urge to procrastinate. I’ve written through fear, poverty, blizzards, power outages, and breakups. I have always understood that the most valuable thing I can do is write more pages, add another novel to my body of work.

In a desperate attempt to “see a winning outcome” I close my eyes and try to visualize anything and everything that might help; my fingers skipping across the keyboard; that magical moment when the story comes together; the completed book onbookstore shelves. Nothing works. I’m blocked in a way I have never allowed and refused to acknowledge. I, who have laughed at the very idea of writer’s block, cannot force myself to put a single word on this screen.

Like a sailboat lacking wind my brain is becalmed. I am wallowing in a trough of unproductivity. I cannot finish the novel I have to deliver.

If there were a Procrastination Olympics—and it occurs to me that perhaps this is the perfect time to stop what I’m not doing to plan one—I’d be the gold medalist in every event.

When my cell phone rings, I glance down with gratitude for the distraction. I flinch at the Outer Banks area code until I confirm the number is not my mother’s. “Hello?”

“Hi.” It’s Bree on the other end. “Is that you, Lauren? I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”

“It’s me.” For a second I worry that she’s calling to ask if I’ve read her manuscript. Then I remember she doesn’t know I have it. “How are you?”

Her sigh is long. “I’ve been better. You?”

“Ditto.”

There’s a silence as we both register that we’ve told the other the truth.

“I’ve given Clay an ultimatum. If he cheats again I file for divorce.” Bree’s words come out in a rush.

“Oh.” I try to switch gears and gather my thoughts. I think about the bitchy blonde. Clay’s infidelity. But I also remember how he placed Brianna’s manuscript in Spencer’s hands. The manuscript I have been unable to even look at let alone read. When you’re dead in the water, the last thing you want to see is evidence that someone else has managed to catch even a puff of wind.

“What happened?”

“I finally came to my senses.” She falls silent and I try to think what should happen next.

“Is there something I can do?”

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