Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

“He is my best friend,” Chaz says. “I’ve known him since he was fourteen years old. I probably know him better than he knows himself. That’s what makes me unequivocally qualified to say that he’s got no business asking anybody to marry him right now, let alone you.”

“What do you mean, let alone me?” I can feel tears brimming along the edges of my eyelashes. “What’s so wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Lizzie,” Chaz says in a gentler voice. “It’s just that you know what you want, and Luke doesn’t. You’re a star. And Luke’s not the kind of guy who’s going to hitch his wagon to a star. He still thinks he’s the star. And you can’t have two stars in one relationship. Somebody has to be willing to be the wagon… at least some of the time.”

“That’s not true,” I say, wiping my eyes with the back of one of my wrists. “Luke’s a star. He’s going to be a doctor. He’s going to save children’s lives one day.”

Chaz raises his gaze to the ceiling.

“The day Luke de Villiers ever actually becomes a doctor,” he says solemnly, “is the day I switch to light beer. For good.”

I glare at him. “Get out,” I say, pointing at the door. “I mean it. Just get out.”

Chaz stands up—then instantly looks as if he regrets it. Nevertheless, when he regains his balance, he says, with as much dignity as he can seem to muster, “You know what? Gladly.” He stalks out of the bedroom and into the living room, finding his coat on the floor where he’d dropped it the night before. He scoops it up—holding his head a bit woozily—then heads for the door.

“You’re making a big mistake, Lizzie,” he turns to say when he gets there… looking a little surprised when he finds me right behind him.

“No,” I shoot back, pressing my index finger against his sternum. “You are. Your best friend is getting married. You should be happy for him. And for me. Just because things didn’t work out for you and Shari—”

“Shari?” Chaz shakes his head in bewilderment. “This has nothing to do with Shari. It has to do with you and me.”

“You and me?” I let out a stunned bark of laughter. “There is no you and me.”

“That’s what you think,” Chaz says, tugging on his coat. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to wait around until you figure out that isn’t true.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’m not asking you to, am I?”

“No.” Chaz is smiling… but not like he’s happy. “But you would if you had the slightest idea what was good for you.”

And with that, he yanks open the door and storms through it, slamming it closed behind him with enough force to cause the windowpanes to rattle.

And then he’s gone.

Once the kidnapped “bride” and her groom had safely escaped the wrath of her relatives, frantically searching for her around the outskirts of the village from which she’d been snatched, they’d lay low for a while, to avoid retaliation from her family (or any possible husbands already in existence).

This was also the period during which the “groom” exerted his dominance over his new captive, stamping out any desire she might have to escape or murder him in his sleep (a not uncommon practice in early “marriages” of this sort where the bride wasn’t as happy with the situation as a groom might hope her to be).

This “laying low” period could be considered the ancient predecessor to the honeymoon. Only it probably took place in a cave, not at a Sandals resort. And there definitely wasn’t room service.

Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster

Never try a new beauty product—or, God forbid, get a facial—on the day of or the days leading up to your wedding. The last thing you need is a breakout or rash! Stick to your normal routine, and you’ll glow like the angel you are.

LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS^™

I blink. I have to admit: this was not the reaction I’d expected from the first person I’d told about my engagement to Luke. I’d expected Chaz to have some concerns, sure. I mean, it’s true that Luke and I have been having some problems up until recently. As recently as half an hour ago, as a matter of fact.

But all those problems are over now. Because Luke asked me to marry him. That was the only major obstacle standing in the way of our being together—that he couldn’t see me in his future.

But all that’s changed now. He’s asked me to marry him! I’m going to be a bride! Lizzie Nichols, a bride, at last!

And okay. It’s a little weird that every time I think about that, I feel like I want to throw up.

But that’s just all the excitement from having gotten engaged before I’ve had any breakfast. I’ve always suspected I’m a little hypoglycemic. Just like Nicole Richie.

And anyway, it’s all Chaz’s fault. Why, instead of being happy for me, had he had to throw that absurd little hissy fit, almost as if… well, almost as if he’d been jealous?

Except that that’s not possible. Because Chaz doesn’t like me that way. We’re just friends. I mean, sure, we’d messed around a little last night.

And, I’ll admit, it had been… well, nice.

Really nice, actually.

But we’d both been a little tipsy. Drunk, even. It hadn’t meant anything. It was like I’d said: still smarting over our respective breakups, we’d sought solace in each other’s arms.

But that doesn’t mean there was anything more going on.

Does it?

Well, I’m not going to waste any more time worrying about it. Luke is going to be here any minute. I have to get myself cleaned up before he arrives. It’s bad enough he proposed—and I accepted—while I still had morning breath. I am not going to start my first day as a newly engaged person wearing the same underwear I’ve had on since yesterday.

By the time the downstairs buzzer goes off, I’m as sweet smelling and coiffed as I’ve ever been in my life—thanks to the world’s fastest shower, a quick change into a stunning 1950s Lorrie Deb pink chiffon party dress (perfect for the newly engaged, soon-to-be-certified professional wedding gown restorer), and a couple layers of undereye concealer—and ready to let in the man to whom I’ve just pledged my troth.

I feel lighter than air as I make my way down the twin flights of steps to the building’s front door (I have to get that buzzer fixed first thing when places open up again tomorrow morning).

“Whoa,” Luke says after I fling open the heavy metal door. “You look—”

“Like a bride-to-be?” I ask, holding out the three layers—one chiffon, one net, and one nylon—of my full skirt and giving him a playful curtsy.

“I was going to say hot,” Luke says. He triumphantly holds up a Starbucks bag… and a six-pack of Diet Coke for me. “Look what I scored. I only had to walk eleven blocks to find a place that was open on New Year’s Day.”

“Oh, Luke! You remembered!”

Except, of course, it was Chaz who told Luke how much I love Diet Coke in the first place. That’s the only reason Luke bought it for me that day in the village back in France last summer. Because Chaz told him that Diet Coke was the way to my heart.

But that doesn’t mean I’m in love with Chaz, does it?

Of course not! How could I think anything so silly?

My eyes fill with tears. Really, Luke’s the most thoughtful fiancé in the whole world. Also the handsomest, standing there in his Hugo Boss overcoat, with his long dark eyelashes curling so perfectly… and without the help of a Shu Uemura eyelash curler, even. He’d looked so cute when he’d been kneeling there in that exact spot in the slush a half hour ago, so hopeful and nervous. How could I have said anything but yes when he’d proposed?

Not that saying anything but yes had even occurred to me. Well, except for a few seconds, maybe. To punish him for that whole “I don’t know if I see you in my future” thing.

“I just want to let you know that when I look into my future, I see nothing but you.” That’s what Chaz had whispered in my ear at some point during the wedding last night.

Then he’d whispered, “And you’re not even wearing Spanx.”

I shake my head. Why do I keep thinking about Chaz? He wears University of Michigan baseball caps nearly all the time.

In public.

Luke’s face falls. “What?” he asks. “What’d I do? You don’t drink Diet Coke anymore. Is that it? I can get something else. What do you want? Diet Dr Pepper?”

“No!” I try to laugh breezily. Oh God. What’s wrong with me? “Of course I still drink Diet Coke. I’m sorry. Wow, it’s really cold out here. Come in.” I move out of the doorway so he can do just that.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Luke gives me one of those grins that still cause my insides to go weak. He stops in the doorway just long enough to brush my cheek with his lips, letting them linger for a moment in my hair.

“It’s good to be home,” he murmurs before moving past me. “Which is wherever you are. I know that now.”

Oh! How sweet!

And how could Chaz ever accuse Luke of not knowing what he wants? He knows exactly what he wants. Me!

It just took him a little while to realize it. He needed a gentle nudge. In the form of my breaking up with him and moving out of the apartment we were sharing.

“So this is the new place, huh?” Luke is looking around at the somewhat dingy and exceptionally narrow hallway.

“It gets better,” I say.

“No,” Luke says, his tone apologetic. “I like it. It has character.”