Page 8 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“Ohh, a museum would be cool. I went to a wedding at the Guggenheim that was absolutely gorgeous.”

“Or what about the Park Avenue Armory or The Frick? They’re both so elegant.”

I can’t really keep track of who says what. All of Spencer’s friends are talented and driven and most of them have made it to the higher rungs of a ladder that’s ridiculously hard to climb. I like and respect them. Usually I enjoy them. But they’re still more his friends than mine.

I have a handful of longtime writer friends, but our friendship is a quieter thing and typically plays out online via group e-mails or texts or in an occasional phone call. We get together when one of us needs human contact. And to celebrate when something good happens or to support one another when news is bad. But losing Bree was so painful (kind of like having an arm ripped off) that I’ve been careful not to let myself get that close—or be that vulnerable—again.

So far tonight I haven’t had to say much, which suits me just fine. I really don’t have it in me to start contemplating logistics. It’s all I can do to beat down my discomfort at how important a topic our wedding plans have already become.

“Will the wedding be in New York?” A lighting director named Martin asks.

A shocked silence follows this question.

“Well, don’t people typically get married wherever the bride is from?” Denise often handles casting for the touring companies of Spencer’s plays.

“Where are you from again?” This comes from Spencer’s favored choreographer, Brett.

Puzzled looks follow. Despite the fact that Spencer is the only person at this table who was actually born and raised in Manhattan, those who have chosen to live here and in many cases fought hard to be able to afford to stay here, like to pretend their lives began only after they arrived.

“Lauren’s from the Outer Banks,” Spencer says. “Nags Head.” He pronounces the name of my hometown with relish.

“What a great name.”

“How cute! I love the sound of it.”

I try not to cringe as I tell them that some claim the name comes from locals tying lanterns to horses to try to lure ships onto the rocky shoals in order to scavenge the resulting shipwreck. The Outer Banks is composed of a long string of barrier islands that are bounded by the Atlantic Ocean on the east and the sounds that separate it from the North Carolina coast on the west. Its beauty is even more dramatic than the people assembled here. It’s majestic. Breathtaking. Its easternmost coast is referred to as the Graveyard of the Atlantic, for God’s sake. And while some parts of it have become a bit built up and bulge with tourists during high season,cuteis not a word I would ever apply to it. Nor would any Banker.

“You never told me what your mother said when you called her.” Spencer smiles comfortably. He’s planned and pulled off the proposal. All is right in his world.

I give myself a moment to finish my wine. Then I pat my lips dry with a napkin. Only then do I meet his eyes. Which look first horrified and then hurt. “Was she upset that I didn’t ask for her permission?”

The concern on his face is really kind of sweet. But I’m aforty-year-old woman who’s been on her own in New York for close to two decades. I can’t imagine why he’d ask my mother.

“No, of course not. She wouldn’t be expecting that. I mean, you two haven’t even met yet.”

He gets an odd look on his face and I hurry to rephrase. “In fact, when she called the other morning to wish me a happy birthday she told me I needed to bring you down to meet her.”

He goes very still and I realize my mistake. That call took place before his proposal.

“You mean you haven’t told her?”

“Well... no, not exactly.”

“Really? You got engaged to be married and you didn’t think that merited a phone call?” His tone turns cool but I can see the shocked surprise in his eyes. I know that Broadway Spencer has a thick skin—almost reptilian—you don’t make it in the entertainment fields if you’re too soft. And he tends to lead with his cocky, successful, privileged-yet-talented persona, but I have seen inside him to his very real flesh-and-blood self with complex thoughts and hurtable feelings. It’s clear I’ve hurt them now.

“It’s not that I haven’t wanted to tell her.” I’m scrambling now. “I’ve left her several messages, but I didn’t want to leave great news like this in a voice mail.” This is a lie but I put everything I have into selling it. “Maybe we can try and reach her together tonight when we get back to my place.” I offer a hopeful, half-pleading smile.

“Sure.” His eyes are plumbing mine. “That’s a good idea.” Then he matches my smile and puts his arm around my shoulders. But I can see that the damage has been done.

Five

Bree

The Sandcastle

I can tell as soon as Kendra picks up the phone that Lauren’s on the other end of the line. There’s something in Kendra’s voice that’s there only when she speaks to her daughter. It’s not that she gushes or overemphasizes or anything but there’s a subtle something extra there, a connection, an instinct, like that thing that lets an infant know to cling to or fall quiet for its mother. I get a special tone, too, but it’s slightly different in timbre. I’m aware of the widely differing vocal cues from long years of comparison. I hear what steals into my voice when I speak to Rafe and Lily; it’s there even when I’m frustrated or angry with them. My own mother has no tonal variation that I’ve ever been able to discern; she has one tone whether she’s speaking to me or a class or a group of possible sponsors.

Kendra doesn’t leave the kitchen where we’ve been drinking hot cocoa or make any attempt to exclude me—she hates the distance between Lauren and me and has made it clear to both of us that she’d like nothing more than to see us “kiss and make up.” So I not only hear the happiness in her voice and see it on her face, I also see the slight tension that settles on her shoulders as she listens. Something has taken her by surprise.

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