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  I was pretty far gone when there was a knock at my window. Your Cute Guy. He was still standing there. He seemed embarrassed by the whole situation, almost physically pained to have to deal with me. He said, “I feel like I should call your husband,” all firm and determined. (I was just a little bit hurt that he assumed I had a husband. It was kind of like being called “madame” when you still feel like a “mademoiselle.”)

  I kept saying that I would be fine, and then he said, “If somebody that I cared about was crying alone in a parking lot this late at night, I would want somebody to call me.”

  That’s just what he said. Isn’t that nice?

  I told him that he was right, that I wasn’t fine, but that I would be, and I promised to go home. For a minute, it seemed like he wasn’t going to let me leave, like he was just going to keep standing there with his hand on my window. Which would have made sense—my eyes were swollen to slits, and I probably seemed like I was ready to drive off a cliff.

  But he nodded his head, handed me his McDonald’s bag (?) and walked away.

  I did leave then. I went home and ate his two cheeseburgers (extra pickles) while I was waiting for Mitch, who, I should note, was actually relieved to see me crying. I think he was beginning to think I was either inhumanly cold or silently imploding.

  I pretty much cried all night. I looked so puffy and splotchy when I came in to work this morning that I told Danielle I’d had an allergic reaction to shellfish.

  <> You should have stayed home.

  <> I don’t want anyone to start wondering why I’ve been taking so many sick days.

  <> If they knew, they’d gladly give you some time off.

  <> I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. Actually, that’s not true, I feel like the entire world should feel sorry for me. I’m pathetic and I’m miserable. But I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me if it means they have to think about my uterus.

  <> Do you feel better today? Relieved to have let some of it out?

  <> I don’t know. I still don’t want to talk about it.

  <> But we can talk about My Cute Guy, right?

  <> Ad nauseam.

  <> I can’t believe you met him. I’ve been following him around for months without making more than passing eye contact, and you actually met him. And you didn’t just meet. You had a meet-cute. Is it warped for me to be jealous of you right now?

  <> What’s a meet-cute?

  <> It’s the moment in a movie when the romantic leads meet. They never just meet normally. It’s never like, “Harry, meet Sally. Sally, this is Harry.” They always meet in a cute way, like, “Hey, you just got chocolate in my peanut butter!” / “What are you talking about? You just got peanut butter in my chocolate!”

  Having a handsome man rescue you (crying in the rain in the parking lot), change your tire, and share his French fries, that’s very meet-cute.

  Damn it, I was supposed to have the meet-cute.

  <> Your meet-cute would have gone like this, “Hey, you got chocolate in my peanut butter!” / “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.”

  Also, I feel like I should point out that it was freezing rain. Freezing rain isn’t cute.

  <> You still got to see him with wet hair …

  So, break it down for me, what was your lasting impression of him? It seems like you thought he was weird.

  <> I wouldn’t say weird. I would say awkward, kind of shy. He seemed really uncomfortable—like only his chivalry and common decency were keeping him from walking away.

  <> So, awkward, chivalrous, decent …

  <> And very nice. It was a kind thing to stop and to stay until I pulled myself together. A lot of guys would have kept walking or, at best, called 911.

  <> Awkward, chivalrous, decent, kind …

  <> And really, really cute. You weren’t exaggerating. Not Sears-model cute. More of an old-fashioned cute. And he got cuter, the more I looked at him. He’s built like a tank. I half expected him to lift my car with his hands.

  <> Built like a tank, dressed like he just won the science fair. How cute is that guy.

  <> Very cute.

  <> So, I’m totally going to start parking in the gravel lot. You know that, right?

  <> Don’t. That parking lot is spooky. Stick with the break room.

  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 weddi
ng. 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?

  <> Why are you lying awake, thinking that you’re a terrible person?

  <> To keep my mind occupied when I can’t sleep. Some people count sheep. I self-loathe.

  <> I can see why you might have trouble sleeping right now, but I can’t see why you would be hating yourself.

  <> You can’t? Really?

  <> No. What happened was terrible, but you’re not terrible.

  <> What happened happened because I’m terrible. How was the wedding?

  <> No, it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Do you really believe that bad things happen to people because they deserve it?

  <> In general, no. In this case, yes.

  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.

  <> I agree that you were conflicted and unhappy, but lots of unhappy people have children. You can’t turn off a pregnancy with negative thinking.

  <> Not just negative. Corrosive.

  <> But you got through that. You accepted being pregnant. You more than accepted it, you were happy about it.

  <> Ironic, huh? (Is that ironic or is it just sad? I get confused sometimes.)

  <> Please don’t. Don’t oversimplify everything you’ve been through like that. You had to feel those awful feelings. You had to face them down—confront your bitterness and pessimism—and decide that you didn’t want to be that way anymore.

  <> Just in time to be horrifically disappointed. That’s what I get.

  <> If you’re determined to see what happened as some sort of universal justice, consider that the lesson here might not be to retreat into cynicism, even if that’s where you feel most comfortable. Maybe the lesson is, rise up.

  <> Well, that seems a bit harsh.

  <> I thought you wanted me to be honest.

  <> If that’s how you are when you’re honest, I think I’d rather you stick to the usual sentiments, stuff I can file under “Encouragement,” “Cope,” or “Sorry something died inside of you.” I don’t really need “Snap out of it.”

  <> That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.

  <> How is that not what you meant? That’s what you said.

  <> Then I shouldn’t have said it.

  CHAPTER 76

  From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

  To: Beth Fremont

  Sent: Wed, 02/16/2000 3:15 PM

  Subject: Anyway …

  How was the wedding?

  <> Does this mean you’ve forgiven me for being insensitive?

  <> To be perfectly honest, no. I might not completely forgive you until one of us is on her deathbed. (I can’t help it, I’m fond of a grudge.) But until I make another friend, I can’t afford to be angry with you.

  <> I really am sorry. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me about what happened.

  <> Please. Who else am I going to talk to? Tell me about the wedding.

  <> All right. But I warn you, it’s a pretty long story. It might take me longer to tell you about the wedding than it did to actually attend the wedding, Catholic Mass included. Give me a few weeks to type it out.

  <> I’ll give you a few hours. I suppose I can find something to edit while I’m waiting.

  <> Are you sure we’re cool? Because I can apologize some more. I give great penance.

  <> Just tell me about the wedding.

  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.)

  <> Yes, I’m ready, and no, I’m not mad. Now, out with it!

  <> Okay, well, here goes …

  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 co
ncentrate 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.