Page 86 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“Yeah, it’s pretty great.”

“I only had the vaguest idea of what I gave up by not coming to New York with you like we planned,” she says softly. “And once I’d made the decision I guess I didn’t want to know.”

“Sometimes evasion and denial are our best defenses,” I say, thinking about my reaction to my mother and my initialreluctance to acknowledge Bree’s talent and hard work. “Let’s go home and chill. If we get hungry later we can order in.”

Back at my place we settle on the couch. My limbs are loose. My jaw aches pleasantly and I realize we’ve been talking and laughing for the better part of a day, which is something you can’t do with everyone.

Later I order a pizza from Patsy’s and it doesn’t occur to me to ask what Bree wants on it. We ate our first slices of pepperoni with extra cheese and sausage when we were about six years old and it remained our favorite through college.

When our pizza arrives, we carry it and a bottle of wine to the living room and set them on the coffee table. We continue to talk while I pour wine in glasses and she puts pizza slices on paper plates.

I’m struck by how good I feel. How great it is not to weigh each word or worry that what I’ve said has been taken the wrong way. Twenty years without your best friend is like a life sentence. I need this to be more than a temporary reprieve.

When Bree pauses in her story about something one of the B’s said at a recent book club meeting I say, “I’m so sorry, Bree. Sorry for holding a grudge for so long, for treating you as ‘less than’ and for forgetting—or possibly blocking—how talented a writer you are.”

When she doesn’t speak I continue, “I hate that we’ve lost all these years, and I especially hate that I hesitated for even a minute to tell you how great your novel is.”

Her smile takes up most of her face as I continue, “Despite the fact that we had to settle for real pizza instead of the ice cream version, this has been one of the best days I’ve had since I came to New York. And that includes the red-letter days when I signed my first publishing contract, hit theNew York Timesbestseller list, and slept with Spencer; an unforgettable experience in its own right that possibly deserves its own holiday.”

Bree’s smile grows even larger. In her eyes I see the same relief I feel. “I’m so glad we had this day together. I can’t tell you how great it is not to have to pretend I haven’t missed you. To finally be able to be honest with each other,” she says just as I’m wondering how on earth I lived without her all this time.

Then we both start crying. I’m dimly aware that my tears are falling on the pizza and that this will make the crust soggy. I couldn’t care less. It’s so odd to smile and sob at the same time. To be so sad and perfectly happy in the same instant.

If there’s such a thing as a monkey’s wedding of the heart, this is it.

Thirty-seven

Lauren

I don’t normally drink to excess, but I can tell when I open my eyes early Sunday morning that I have a hangover and that it’s going to be memorable.

Bree and I sat up way too late drinking wine and laughing and finally catching up without all the filters and censors in place. I lost count of the number of times she replayed my video praisingHeart of Gold. But if you could wear a groove in a cell phone hers would have a big one.

The sky is that deep, ugly gray that tells you it means business. Rain spatters the windows. What little light makes it through the windows is half-hearted, as if the sun, too, has been drinking and just can’t give its all. I pull on my robe. As I tiptoe past the open door of my office I see Bree snoring lightly on the sofa bed. She’s curled into a fetal position, wrapped around her manuscript.

Even before I put on the coffee, I down three Tylenol with two full glasses of water—something I wish I’d remembered to do last night. The rain intensifies as I make the first pot of coffee, and I promise myself that the minute Bree leaves for the airport—something I’m no longer looking forward to—I’m climbing right back into bed.

Breakfast sandwiches have been ordered and I’m ready for a second cup of coffee when Bree appears at the top of the stairs.Her eyes are at half-mast. Her hair is a rat’s nest and she winces at each step as she makes her way slowly down the stairs.

“Here.” I shake two Tylenol into her hand and pour her a glass of water. “Drink all of it.”

“Thanks.” It’s half whisper and half groan.

“Go sit.” I motion to the living room. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

There’s another groan of thanks as I join her on the sofa and hand over a steaming mug. She lowers her face over it and inhales. Then she rubs her neck and does a slow neck roll to work out the kinks.

“I’ve never actually seen someone sleep with a manuscript before,” I say when she seems a little more awake.

“Yeah. I don’t recommend it.” She does another slow neck roll. “But I couldn’t seem to let go of it.” A small smile plays on her lips. “I watched your video the second I woke up. I was afraid I only dreamed you telling me it was wonderful.”

“No.” I meet her gaze. “Not a dream.”

“So I promise this will be the last time I ask. But I just need to double-confirm everything in the light or”—she nods to the window—“not so light of day. I want to be sure you weren’t just trying to make me feel better.”

“This is me you’re talking to,” I reply. “Gentle is not my default setting.”

She nods. A fresh smile flickers. “So just to recap. You think that with some work it will sell?”

---