Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

“Everyone knows who Ava Geck is,” Chaz bursts out.

“Who’s Ava Geck?” Luke asks again.

“She’s—” But suddenly I’m so tired I can’t even go on. I can’t take it, the voices of the announcers from the televisions and the screams of the fans and the clapping whenever someone’s team scores a basket—not to mention the drunk homeless guy I can see bobbing around outside the plate-glass window a few feet away, begging for change from anyone who passes by the place.

But what I really can’t take is the voice inside my head that’s returned. It’s a familiar voice. It ought to be. Because it’s the voice of the guy sitting directly across from me… the big, rumpled one in the University of Michigan baseball cap.

“Why, yes, Lizzie. I’m manically depressed because the girl I’ve finally realized I’ve always been in love with, and who I was beginning to think just might love me back, turned around and got herself engaged to my best friend, who, frankly, doesn’t deserve her.”

But simultaneously I hear that same voice saying, “You want a happy romantic relationship? Don’t ruin it by getting married. I know what I’m talking about.”

“You know what?” I say suddenly, my own voice tight with unshed emotion. “This has been fun. But I’m really tired. Do you guys mind if I call it a night? I have a big day tomorrow, and I think I’m gonna turn in early.”

“Oh, come on,” Luke says. “You just got here. Don’t go yet. The game just started.”

I look at Chaz. His face is impassive beneath the brim of his hat. But he’s looking right back at me.

“Yeah, Lizzie,” he says. “Don’t go yet. The game just started.”

It’s weird. But something in the way his gaze holds mine—not to mention his tone—tells me he isn’t talking about the game on TV.

Not at all.

“Okay, I’ll be seeing you guys later,” I say, my own voice pitched way too high, as I all but shove Luke out of the way in my haste to leave the booth.

“I’ll walk you home,” a confused Luke says, but I brush this offer aside with a quick kiss on his cheek and a whispered No, thanks, I’ll be fine, stay and have fun, then bolt for the door, where I stand gasping in the bitterly cold January air.

“Spare a quarter, miss?” the homeless drunk asks me, holding out a filthy, chipped coffee cup.

I don’t even answer him. That’s what a jaded New Yorker I’ve become. I never have a quarter to spare anymore. I need my quarters. I need all the quarters I can get. Do you have any idea how much it costs to do laundry around here?

“Fine,” the homeless guy says with a sniff. “Be that way, bitch.”

My eyes fill with tears. I’m not a bitch! I’m not! Any more than Ava Geck is a skanky crack whore. Any more than Chaz Pendergast is in love with me. Oh, why did he have to say that, anyway? Why does he have to be so mean? After having gotten those beautiful roses, I’d been completely ready to forgive him for all the nasty things he’d said yesterday morning… and then he’d had to go and say that.

… the girl I’ve finally realized I’ve always been in love with… who I was beginning to think just might love me back…

He’d only been teasing. He’s always teased me, the whole time I’ve known him.

So… why does it hurt so much this time?

“You want a happy romantic relationship? Don’t ruin it by getting married.”

But if you don’t get married… what’s the point?

The Elizabethan age brought us the flowering of poetry, literature, theater, and romance. So it’s no wonder we have Elizabethan England to thank for so many of our modern-day wedding traditions, including the exchange of rings, a more traditional (i.e., non-weapons-bearing) use of bridesmaids, the exchange of wedding vows, even bridal bouquets. Most upper-class marriages were still arranged during this time, often from birth. Only the lower classes had the luxury of being able to marry for love.

But if this hadn’t been the case, what else would William Shakespeare have had to write about?

Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

Your sister-in-law-to-be might have the cutest kids in the world—and she just very well may have a point: Maybe they should have a role in your wedding. But don’t let her browbeat you into sacrificing one of your bridesmaid, ring bearer, or flower girl positions for her kids. Don’t upset one of your friends or family members just to placate his sister. There are lots of other tasks her kids can perform throughout the ceremony, such as guest book holder, confetti or program passer-outer, or even adorable, if slightly height-challenged, usher. Use your imagination, and you’ll both be happy.

LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS^™

“Your friend Chaz sounds like a pig” is Monique’s observation when she and Tiffany overhear me relating the details about my evening to Gran (Mom, as usual, wasn’t available) while the three of us are having a quick, between-fittings lunch in the shop the next day.

“She’s right about that,” Gran, on my cell phone, agrees. “Whoever she is.”

“He’s not really,” I say, pausing with my Così tandoori chicken sandwich halfway to my lips. “I mean, under ordinary circumstances. That’s what’s so weird about this.”

“Well, that’s it, then,” Monique says firmly. She’s a beauty every bit as statuesque—and sure of herself—as Tiffany.

Unlike Tiffany, however, Monique has a British accent that makes her sound like a college professor every time she speaks.

A college professor who talks a lot about men being “wankers,” I mean.

“What’s it?” I ask.

Tiffany and Monique exchange glances. Tiffany nods.

“He’s in love with you, of course,” Monique says.

“You’ve never even met him,” I cry.

“I have,” Tiffany says, stuffing a wad of Jamaican jerk sandwich into her mouth. “And he totally is.”

“She’s right,” Gran says. “I’ve always thought that boy wanted to put a load of coal into your steam engine.”

I nearly spit out the bite of tandoori chicken I’d just taken.

“How can you say that?” I cry. “He’s Luke’s best friend! He’s my best friend’s ex-boyfriend!”

Tiffany looks at me blankly. “So?”

Monique is giving me the same blank stare. They must teach it at modeling school. “Yeah,” she says. “So?”

Gran sounds impatient. “Dr. Quinn comes on in ten minutes. How long is this going to take?”

“So… so…,” I say, for once in my life actually sputtering to find the right words. “So… Look. I’m sure men fall head over heels for you two all the time. I mean… look at you. But in real life—for real girls, like me, that is—that just doesn’t happen. Men don’t go around falling in love with me. And certainly not without encouragement.”

“Oh, and your letting him touch your titties in that taxi wasn’t encouragement?” Monique asks.

“You let him spend the night too,” Tiffany points out.

I put my finger over the mouthpiece of my cell. “Excuse me,” I say. “My grandmother is listening in on this.”

“Too late,” Gran says. “I already heard. This is even better than Dr. Quinn.”

“We were both drunk,” I insist in my own defense for what has to be the millionth time. I’m regretting ever having opened my mouth about any of this, a not unfamiliar sensation. I’m especially regretting not having hung up when Gran answered. “Look, forget I said anything. It was nothing.”

Why had I even said anything, especially to these girls? I wouldn’t have if I’d been able to discuss any of this with Shari. If I could just call Shari and go, Shari. This is what my fiancé’s best friend said to me. What do you think? none of this would be happening.

But I can’t do that. Because my fiancé’s best friend is her ex-boyfriend.

And I can’t talk about what happened with Chaz with Shari. Because it would all be too weird.

But Monique and Tiffany, it turns out, are not proving to be adequate Shari substitutes. Not at all.

“That last bit he said,” Monique says, “about the game just starting? That didn’t sound like nothing to me. Does it to you, Tiff?”

“No way, José,” Tiffany says. “I think he’s warm for our Miss Lizzie’s form.”

“Told you,” Gran sings.

“Oh my God, you guys.” I shake my head. “He is so not. And even if he is… it’s not going to go anywhere. He’s completely damaged from what happened with Shari. He says he—”

It’s at this moment—fortunately—that the door to the shop bursts open, and Ava Geck comes tumbling through it, her bodyguard and Chihuahua in tow. Ava has a wild look on her face, as if she’s being hunted. She’s wearing short-shorts over fishnet stockings, even though it’s approximately twelve degrees outside, and her lower jaw is moving rapidly… except that she’s not speaking.

Tiffany scowls down at the book in front of her. “What are you doing here, Ava?” she demands. “Your next appointment’s not for four weeks.”

“Sorry,” Ava says, still chewing. She collapses onto the chaise longue I insisted Madame Henri place in the far corner for nervous, waiting mothers, and peers out the plate-glass window in the front of the store, her body hidden from view by a display dummy dressed in a princess gown from the 1950s, complete with a voluminous, diamanté-dotted tulle skirt that takes up almost the entire display window. “We were in the neighborhood looking at condos and suddenly… paparazzi! Can we hide for a few minutes until they go away? I don’t have any eyeliner on.”