Authors: Rainbow Rowell
Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary, #Adult, #Humor, #Chick-Lit
Attachments (24 page)
CHAPTER 74
I’M STILL HER
cute guy
, Lincoln thought, as he drove home.
He went to the gym early the next day and ran until his knees started to buckle.
I’m still hers.
“
LINCOLN
!
DUDE
!
YOU’RE
alive!”
“Justin, hey.”
“Sorry to call you at work, but I’ve been calling your house so much, your mom probably thinks I’m trying to get into her pants. I feel like I haven’t seen you since the sixth grade.”
“Yeah,” Lincoln said, “I haven’t been …” He wasn’t avoiding Justin. He was avoiding Sacajawea.
“Do you remember how big you were in the sixth grade? You were ‘My Motherfucking Bodyguard.’ Look, you’re going out tonight. With me and Dena.”
“I have to work tonight.”
“We’ll wait up. We don’t turn into pumpkins at midnight. I don’t have to work tomorrow. Dena does, but she can get by on less than eight hours …
Aw, you can, too,”
Justin said. Dena must be right there.
“You don’t need eight straight to suck spit out of people’s mouths …I meant with a vacuum …
Hey, Lincoln, we’ll see you at the Village Inn, all right? I’ll see if I can get our usual table.”
“Yeah, all right. I can get there by one.”
“One it is.”
JUSTIN AND DENA
were just getting their orders when Lincoln got there. They’d already ordered him his French silk.
“That pie is on me,” Justin said, “and so is the next piece. We’re celebrating.”
“What’s the occasion?” Lincoln asked.
“Show him, honey,” Justin said.
Dena held up a hand with a ring the size of her knuckle. There must be money in hospital marketing.
“It’s beautiful,” Lincoln said. “Congratulations.” He leaned over to clap Justin on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”
“I’m as happy as a pig in shit,” Justin said, “and part of that is thanks to you.”
“No.”
“Yeah. You were my wingman, first of all, and then you knocked some sense into me when I nearly let this beautiful woman slip out of my hands. Don’t you remember? You called me on all my bullshit about not wanting to settle down?”
“You would have figured it out on your own,” Lincoln said, “you were in love.”
“Maybe so,” Justin said, “but I still want to thank you, and I …Dena and I would like to ask you to be in our wedding.”
“Really?”
“Really. Would you be a groomsman?”
“Sure,” Lincoln said, surprised. And touched. “Sure, I’d love to.”
“Well, all right,” Justin said. He took a big bite of mashed potatoes. “All right! I haven’t even told you the best part. Guess who’s playing at our reception?” He didn’t wait for Lincoln to guess. “Sacajawea!”
“That’s the best part?” Dena asked.
“That’s the best part besides the marriage part,” Justin said.
“Sacajawea … ,” Lincoln said.
“Damn straight. I got in touch with them through the manager at the Ranch Bowl and talked to the lead singer. He said they’d play a fucking bar mitzvah if we could cover their fee.”
“It’s going to cost more than the open bar,” Dena said.
“It’s going to be awesome,” Justin said.
They told him more about the wedding. It was going to be a big wedding party. Dena had lots of sorority sisters. Lincoln could see how Justin might need to dig pretty deep to round up enough groomsmen.
“When’s the big day?” Lincoln asked.
“October seventh.”
“We’re shopping for a house now,” Justin said.
“We’re shopping for a barbecue,” Dena said.
“A grill,” Justin said, “and I don’t see why that’s such a big deal. I need to know what the grill looks like before we find the house, so I can picture it on the deck. I don’t want to move into a house and find out six months down the line that the fucking grill won’t fit. Why would you want to start our life together making compromises?”
Dena rolled her eyes and signaled to the waitress for another Diet Coke.
“We’ll have you over for steak, Lincoln,” Dena said.
“Fuck that,” Justin said. “I’m calling you when we move. Dena’s got a leather sectional that’s going to take three grown men and a rhinoceros.”
Lincoln figured he was the rhinoceros.
“It’s not that big,” Dena said.
“I’d be happy to help,” Lincoln said. “Really. Congratulations. Both of you.”
HE SPENT THE
next three nights at his apartment. He bought a mattress and a box spring and a lamp. He bought a toothbrush cup and a soap dish and soap that smelled like vetiver. He stood for twenty minutes in the bedding aisle at Target, trying to choose a manly sheet set, then picked the ones with a violet pattern, because he liked violets and who else was ever going to see his sheets, anyway?
CHAPTER 75
From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder
To: Beth Fremont
Sent: Wed, 02/16/2000 10:00 AM
Subject: Greetings from the most self-centered person in the world.
I realized last night, as I was lying awake telling myself what a despicable person I am, that I really
am
a despicable person. I’m at the very least a terrible friend. In all these weeks, I haven’t stepped outside of my wretched self even once to ask you about Kiley’s wedding. I am so sorry.
So please, tell me. How was the wedding?
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Remember when my midwife told me to talk to the baby, that it could feel my emotions and intent? And I said that was crazy, and you said you thought there was probably something to it?
Well, I agree with you now. There was something to it.
The baby could feel what I wanted. I was sending out maternal vibes through my umbilical cord or whatever. And for the first six or seven weeks, the message I was sending was, “Go away.” Go away, go away, go away. And it did.
You can disagree with me all you want and tell me that it isn’t my fault, that these things just happen. But I know that underneath your loving reassurances, you know better than anyone how negative I was, how anxious and angry and mean. I know that it made you uncomfortable.
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CHAPTER 76
From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder
To: Beth Fremont
Sent: Wed, 02/16/2000 3:15 PM
Subject: Anyway …
How was the wedding?
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CHAPTER 77
From: Beth Fremont
To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder
Sent: Wed, 02/16/2000 4:33 PM
Subject: To have and to hold.
All right, I actually typed this out in a News document and saved it on the system so that I wouldn’t lose it and have to start over. Make sure it doesn’t get filed for the bulldog edition, okay?
Now, you’re sure you’re ready for this? It’s a really long story.
And you’re sure you aren’t still mad at me? Do you want to talk more about the baby? Because the wedding will hold. (It’s not exactly breaking news at this point.)
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The wedding itself was perfectly lovely.
As expected, I looked fairly monstrous in my bridesmaid dress. But I seemed to be the only one who noticed, and even I was sick of hearing me complain about it, so I put on my brave face. Which turned out to be far more attractive than the faces most of the other bridesmaids put on. They all wanted “smoky eyes”—“you know, like Helen Hunt at the Oscars.” I’m pretty sure that my sister Gwen and I are the only ones who won’t look like domestic abuse victims in the wedding pictures.
The ceremony had its moving moments, but it was so god-awfully long—a full Mass, like I said—that it was hard for me to concentrate on anything but trying not to lock my knees so that I wouldn’t pass out. (That happened at my cousin’s wedding. One of the groomsmen fell into a chair and cut his ear. He bled all over his rental tux.) I thought that if I fainted into the tiny little Tri-Delt behind me, I might crush her.
Chris was a total trouper. He sat with my parents during the ceremony, and afterward, he met every single member of my extended family. He was so charming, I started calling him Stepford Chris.
And when it was time to take the big family picture with all of the spouses and grandkids, Kiley insisted that Chris be included. She didn’t even give him a chance to protest. “You’ve been around longer than any of these husbands,” she said.
Dinner was delicious—the old Italian ladies from my parents’ church made baked mostaccioli and Italian sausage with red peppers. My sister was so afraid of staining her dress that she wouldn’t eat anything but garlic bread. (Did I eat her pasta? Why, yes, I did.)
Kiley and Brian were adorable dancing to Louis Armstrong. She looked gorgeous. I had to dance with one of the Sigma Chis during the wedding party dance—the theme from
Titanic
—and he was totally looking down my dress, which was mostly gross, but a little bit flattering. Apparently, I’ve still got it.
As soon as my official duties as bridesmaid were done, I put on my cardigan and felt a million times better. I was in a fantastic mood, actually, relieved that the hard parts were over and truly excited to spend the rest of the evening with Chris. I felt as madly in love with him as I’d ever been.
First of all, he looked dangerously handsome. He was wearing the charcoal jacket that I bought him with a floppy, blue satin bow tie-ish thing he’d found somewhere. It made him look like he should be writing French poetry. (Expressly to seduce virgins.) My mom asked him if he was wearing a scarf.
And second, I knew that he was being so engaging only because he loved me. As a favor to me. I felt like his good behavior was overwhelming proof that he cared. I shouldn’t need proof, but proof can be very reassuring.
During dinner, Chris went outside to smoke and get away from my family, and when I found him outside the back door, he acted as happy to see me as I was to see him. “Are you mine now?” he asked. He told me I looked beautiful. He kissed me. He told me to take off the cardigan. “Let’s go home,” he said.
I told him that I couldn’t go, that I’d promised my sister that I would dance. She didn’t want one of those receptions where only toddlers dance, so all the bridesmaids swore to stay on the floor at least until the Chicken Dance.
“Then I guess we’ll dance,” he said, and he took one last drag of his cigarette. He has this way of tilting his head down and looking up at me as he inhales; I get why 12-year-olds think it’s cool to smoke.
So we went back into the reception and danced to every song. Sort of danced. It was mostly holding each other and swaying and Eskimo kissing.
Remember when I was obsessed with that little Lithuanian restaurant downtown? And it was only ever open when the grumpy old woman who ran it felt like opening? I’d stop by every day for a week with no luck. And then, when I’d pretty much given up on ever tasting Napoleonas torte again, I’d drive by and see the open sign in the window.
Well, being with Chris is like trying to date that restaurant. I never know when he’s going to be there and how open he’ll be to me. Almost never is he
all
there, all in. Almost never do I get the Chris that I got the night of Kiley’s wedding—open sign, cold cucumber soup, rouladen, poppy seed kolaches.
I found myself thinking that this is how I would want to dance at my own wedding. (Minus all the Dixie Chicks and Alan Jackson songs.) The kind of dancing that’s more like touching to music. That’s more like closing your eyes and trying to think how you would tell someone that you loved him if you didn’t have words or sex.
Chris had one arm around my waist, and he was winding his fingers in my hair. He kissed my forehead, smiling. He looked at me, straight into me, and I felt like I was in love with the sun.
And then—it will be impossible for you not to laugh at me now—the deejay played the song “Rocky Mountain High.”
I fucking love “Rocky Mountain High.” I don’t much care for eagles or lakes or Colorado. But “Rocky Mountain High” is what euphoria sounds like. When you hear John Denver sing, “He was born in the summer of his 27th year …” how can you not feel your heart open to the cosmos?
So “Rocky Mountain High” came on, and I started kissing Chris like I couldn’t wait to get to the chorus, all adoration and vulnerability and “I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky.” And Chris kissed me right back. And when he pulled away—about the time that the songwriter is admitting to a life that’s full of wonder, but a heart that still knows fear—Chris said, “Beth, I love you. I love you more than I ever meant to. More than I ever say.”
And I started to tell him that I loved him, too, but he stopped me, kissed me and said, “Wait, I’m not done. This is important.”
Will you think I’m foolish if I tell you that I thought he might be getting ready to propose? I wasn’t sure of it. I probably would have bet against it. But if he were ever going to propose to me, there could never have been a more likely—a more perfect—moment.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I love you so much that I can’t stand it. Sometimes, I just don’t have the energy for it, to have something this big coming out of me. And I can’t stop it or turn it down. Sometimes, I get tired just knowing that I’m going to see you.”
I wasn’t ready to let go of my reverie. I was thinking, “
Good
tired, right?”
“I’ll always love you,” he said, “but I need you to know that I am never going to marry you.”
I must have looked like I wasn’t getting it because he repeated himself. Emphatically. “Beth. I am never going to marry you.” He was still looking at me with soft, loving eyes. If you were watching us from a few feet away, and you saw his face, you might think that he
did
just propose to me.
What I found myself thinking, at least immediately, was that there was a certain violence to putting it the way he did. That
he
wasn’t going to marry
me
. Couldn’t he have said that
we
were never going to get married? Couldn’t he have implied that it would be a shared decision? Wouldn’t that have been a bit more polite?
And then he tried to kiss me, to continue our kiss actually, with all the love and passion and John Denver that we were sharing before his pronouncement. But I felt like there was more to talk about. So I pulled back and said, “Do you mean that you’ll never get married? Or that you’ll never marry me?”
He thought about it. “Both,” he said, stroking my hair, “but mostly the latter.”
“Mostly that you won’t marry
me
.”
He nodded. “But not because I don’t love you. I do love you. I love you too much. You’re too much.”
I pushed away from him then, and started to walk in a weird circle around the dance floor. I kind of wandered through the dancers and eventually out the front door. I walked around the parking lot for a minute before I realized that I didn’t know where Chris had parked and that he still had my keys. (If I were the sort of person for whom falling in love meant eventually getting married, I would let my bridesmaids wear dresses with pockets.) I looked back and there he was, standing in the VFW doorway. “Don’t do this,” he shouted.
“I’m not doing this,” I said. “You are.” And then I decided I would be damned to hell if I took one step toward him. So I told him to throw me my keys. He wouldn’t, he said he was going to drive me home. And I was like, “Don’t come near me. Throw me my keys.”
“I knew you wouldn’t get this,” he said. “I knew you’d take it wrong.”
How was I supposed to take it?
He said I was supposed to see the
truth
. “That I love you enough to be honest with you.”
“But not enough to marry me,” I said.
“Too much to marry you.”
Even in the state I was in, I managed to roll my eyes at that.
“I wasn’t built for this,” he yelled. “Look at me. You know it’s true.” And for the first time, maybe ever, he didn’t sound cool. He sounded a little panicked. And a little angry. “I don’t want to love someone so much that they take up all my head, all my space. If I knew I was going to feel this way about you, I would have left a long time ago, while I still could.”
I kept yelling at him to throw me my keys. I think I called him “a great horrible bastard.” Like I was swearing in a second language. He threw me the keys, and they hit the car behind me like a baseball. “Don’t come home,” I said. “I don’t want to see you.”
“I have to come home,” he said. “I need my guitar.”
Have you ever seen
The Goodbye Girl
? Don’t watch it if you still want to enjoy romantic comedies. It makes every movie ever made starring Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock lash itself in shame. Also, don’t watch
The Goodbye Girl
if it would trouble you to find Richard Dreyfuss wildly attractive for the rest of your life, even when you see him in
What About Bob?
or
Mr. Holland’s Opus.
In
The Goodbye Girl
, at the very wonderful end, this character (Marsha Mason, looking like a bruised pixie) who has given up on true love after being abandoned by a string of loser actors, realizes that the Richard Dreyfuss character really is going to come back to her like he promised he would
because he left his guitar in their apartment
. That’s how she knows that he really, truly loves her.
When Chris brought up his guitar, that’s when I knew he really, truly didn’t love me. That’s when I lived that Marsha Mason scene in reverse.
I got in my car and drove until I thought he couldn’t catch up with me on foot, even though I didn’t really expect him to try. Then I pulled into an Arby’s parking lot and attempted to cry, but I was still too dumbfounded. I was still stuck in that split second after you get punched in the gut, when you don’t have enough breath to say, “Holy crap, that hurt.” I felt tired, overwhelmingly tired, and like I couldn’t go home; I was pretty sure Chris would be there. And everyone who would let me spend the night was still at the wedding. So, I checked into the Holiday Inn across from the Arby’s and watched free HBO until I fell asleep.
I slept until checkout time and left that Satanic dress in the room. (I had gym clothes in the car.) Then I went back to my apartment.
Chris was there, of course, making tea. He’d just taken a shower. His hair was still damp and curly, and his T-shirt was lying over a chair. I swear he’s three miles long from the bottom of his throat to the top button of his jeans. He said he’d been worried about me.
“I didn’t want to see you,” I said.
“Didn’t?” he said, pouring hot water into two mugs.
“Don’t.”
“Beth …” His cool was back. He looked at me like he thought looking at me would be enough. “You can’t walk away from what’s between us. I’ve tried …We’re a spell,” he said. “We’re magic.”
I told him that I didn’t want magic, that I wanted someone who wouldn’t leave me if he could. Who wouldn’t feel like being committed to me was such a burden.
“I’m committed,” Chris said. “I’ve never cheated on you.”
Which wasn’t even what I meant. “You said you get tired when you look at me,” I said.
“I said that sometimes it’s too much.”
“Well, I want someone who doesn’t think so. I want someone whose heart is big enough to hold me.”
“You want someone whose love will fit around your finger.”
“You should write that down,” I said. “It sounds like a song lyric.”
It was a cold thing to say, but I was losing my nerve. I was looking around the kitchen, looking at him, thinking that it was a nice life, really. Thinking that it was absurd for me to break up with him for saying something out loud that, deep down, I already knew. Thinking how warm and loving he would be, what a wonderful day we could still have, if I could just let this go.
“I want you to leave,” I said.
“Where am I going to go?”
“I can’t let that be my problem.”
“You can’t? You’re
unable
to care about me?”
“You can stay with Stef. Or your parents.”
“This is my home, too.”
“Then I’ll go,” I said. “You’ll have to sign a new lease.” That was a lousy thing to say. I know he can’t afford the rent by himself.
“Beth, come on. Stop doing this. Look at me.”
“I can’t look at you anymore.”
We argued for a while longer before he agreed to leave. I left then, so that he could pack. I went over to my parents’ house.