Page 73 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“Didn’t you just have dinner there the other night?”

“Mrs. Barrett says she’s glad to have me anytime.” She glares down her nose at me before once again looking pointedly away.

“Lily, honey, please. Why don’t you sit down and have some...”

A horn beeps out in the drive. “That’s Dana. We have spirit club meetings before school all week and she’s driving.” Lily gathers her books and walks toward the door. “So Dad won’t have to worry about driving me while you’re gone.” She calls this last tidbit over her shoulder just before the door closes behindher. I move to the window and watch her climb into Dana’s bright-red Hyundai and speed away.

I head back to the coffeemaker as if another shot of caffeine will somehow make things better or at least clearer. I feel guilty about how much I’m looking forward to leaving for New York tomorrow, but it’s not just Lily who’s acting out. Sharing a house with someone you’ve threatened to divorce is no picnic.

If Clay’s working on his relationship with Lily I’ve seen no signs of it. I can only hope he’ll spend the time I’m in New York trying to reach out and reassure her.

I spend the next fifteen minutes sipping coffee and mentally planning what to pack. I rouse my phone to check e-mail yet again to see if there’s a response to any of my submissions. I wish I knew for sure that no news was good news.

I look up at the sound of footsteps. Clay appears in the kitchen with the semi-scowl he now saves for me. It says everything is my fault. That I should have known better and other things I don’t want to see.

As he has each morning since I issued my ultimatum, he huffs in surprise when he discovers that there’s no coffee brewing or breakfast cooking. That surprise turns to irritation as he makes his own coffee and rummages in the pantry for something to eat.

I am a peacekeeper by nature and necessity. I have to fight off the reflexive urges to apologize, accept the blame for his bad mood, or attempt to make him feel better. Every instinct shouts at me to once again sweep our problems under the rug and pretend the lump isn’t there.

But I fear any sign that can be interpreted as weakness will make him think he doesn’t have to take my ultimatum to change his behavior seriously.

He stuffs a Pop-Tart into the toaster so hard the pastry breaks, and I briefly consider pointing out that his bad moodshould be aimed at himself and not at me. Instead, I avert my eyes as he eats the half of the pastry that survived and downs his coffee. I’m too tired from pretending to be strong when I’m not to remind him of all the reasons we’re no longer living life as usual.

I’m not only exhausted, I’m afraid. Afraid of what I’ve set in motion. Afraid of how the kids will react to our divorce if I have to file. Afraid of how I’d handle life alone. Afraid of how big a failure I’ll be if the book I’ve spent a decade and a half on never gets published.

If there’s anything I’m not afraid of at this moment, it’s only because I haven’t thought of it yet.

Each day it gets a little harder to remember how strong I felt when I finally told Clay I’m not prepared to put up with his transgressions. I’ve come to understand that my declaration was not an end but only the first small step in what could be a long and arduous journey to the improved relationship I hope for. Or the final death spiral of the relationship I’ve been clinging to and the world as we all know it.

A shudder passes through me. And I pray that I won’t have to follow through on my threat. That Clay will finally understand how much he stands to lose and how much we have to offer each other.

“Where’s Lily? Why isn’t she ready to go?” he asks when the Pop-Tart is gone, the coffee finished.

“Dana picked her up. She’ll be riding to school with her all week for early meetings.”

He’s barely looked at me since he came into the kitchen. Now I move to stand in front of him so he has to. “She’s upset, Clay. She knows something’s changed. You’re going to have to be careful with her while I’m gone. Pay attention. Stay on top of things. Something in her behavior feels... off.”

“I don’t understand how you can leave after you started all this.” He says this as if I’m the one who misbehaved and didn’tbother to hide it. As if the idea of a divorce came out of nowhere. Without waiting for an answer he turns and leaves. Outside he practically vaults into his truck. The engine roars to life.

I stand where I am, staring out the window as the truck disappears in a spray of stones and fumes. For a long time I do nothing but breathe. In and out as deeply and slowly as I can until my heart stops racing and the oxygen reaches my brain.

Finally, I get myself under control, but I have no idea what should happen next.

I glance up at the kitchen clock. For a moment I think it’s broken. How else could it move so slowly? I’ve covered a lot of mental and emotional ground but it’s too early to go to the store, and I need to talk to someone.

I consider calling my mother-in-law but I doubt Clay’s planning to tell her what’s going on with us or know how she’ll respond if we end up divorced. As much as she’s always treated me like a daughter, I’m not her flesh and blood and I don’t know how she’d feel about me if her son and I were no longer married.

I could call Kendra, but I’m reluctant to lean on her right now. And I don’t want to rub in the fact that I’m going to see Lauren when Lauren still won’t speak to her. If I’m allowed to add one more fear to an already long list, it’s that I’m afraid if I get in the middle of what’s going on between them, I’ll give up the chance of having a relationship with either.

I sit down at the kitchen table. I need to talk to someone. Someone who already knows what’s happened. Who knows the players and will understand what I’m going through. I wouldn’t mind it if that someone knew something about publishing and could provide valuable insights into the internal workings of a literary agent’s mind.

There’s only one person who qualifies. Before I can think better of it, I call Lauren.

For a moment we’re too stunned to speak. Or at least I assume that’s why we’re not speaking.

“Bree?” she finally asks. “Is that you? Or is this an obscene phone call?”

“Are those my only choices?”

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