I Now Pronounce You Someone Else (7 page)

I hadn’t been home four minutes—air kiss,
missed you
,
missed you too
—before Mother said, “Don’t forget to write a thank-you note.”

I whipped a letter—signed, sealed, needed a stamp—out of my purse.

“Did it last night,” I announced.

“Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you,” Mother said, plucking the envelope from my hand and promptly putting a stamp on it. “Did you have a nice time?”

“I did,” I said, sliding onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar and flipping through my pile of mail.

“Uh-huh,” Mother said. She was doing something similar at her desk.

“We just swam in the Lake all day. Oh, and the fireworks were incredible. We watched them from Mr. Sondervan’s boat, and I think the show was longer there. Or maybe it just seemed longer since we took so much extra time getting to the boat and driving around in it.”

“Uh-huh,” Mother said again.

“Of course, one of the firework shells landed on Spence and blew him up, so that was bad, but no one else got hurt.”

“Uh-huh. Now…what? Oh, you.”

I smiled. Then I smiled again when I noticed one of the magazines in my pile of mail.
Cosmopolitan.
Addressed to me—Phoebe Lilywhite.

I handed it to Mother and said, “This isn’t mine,” then made my way upstairs.

I had so much to tell Kirsten.

She and I spent three and a half hours at the Java Bean talking.

It had been hard to leave Jared earlier that morning. We kissed in his car in my driveway for ten minutes at least, and just before we got out, he grabbed my shirt and pulled me close for one more. I could still smell his cologne on me.

“You said it, didn’t you?” Kirsten said to me. “You told him you love him.”

“I did, but listen.” I drew a deep, contented breath. “I do love him. It just—it just came out so easily.”

“Anything else come out easily?”

“No. And it isn’t going to. I made that clear.”

“Clearer than you did with Chad?”

“Yes. Why aren’t you happy for me?”

“I am,” she said, softening. “I really am, Pheebs. But I’m being your best friend here and just want to make sure you’re not rushing into anything. Don’t get me
wrong. Jared is fabulous, and I like him a lot. But you and I have talked about this. ‘I love you’ is something you can’t take back or change your mind about without, pretty much, your world and his falling apart.”

“I’m not going to take it back or change my mind,” I said. “I know that. That’s why I said it. He’s perfect. For me, anyway. And it’s not like he’s a kid, just looking to, you know—” I smiled. “—get into my pants, as my grandmother likes to tell me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I see.” She smiled back. “Are you going to see him tonight?” she asked.

“No. Mother wants me to have dinner with her and Whitt so that they can pretend to listen to my stories about the weekend, which Mother hasn’t heard and is already telling my grandparents about.” I changed my voice.
“‘She had a wonderful time and already wrote a thank-you note.’”
Back to mine. “That’s what I did all weekend. I wrote a thank-you note.”

“You look thinner.”

“Oh, geez. They’re meat eaters. All of them. They just kept grilling the stuff right and left.”

“Didn’t you tell them you’re not?”

“No. I totally forgot. I wasn’t thinking about food. All I could think about was three full days with Jared and his family.”

“You like them.”

“I love them. They’re so great. They’re like your family. Listen to this. They kiss each other good night. All of them. And they never hand anyone who doesn’t like ketchup the ketchup bottle.”

“No, but they’re serving you meat.”

I cringed. “I know, but that’s not their fault, and now I don’t know how to tell them.”

“Just tell them. Tell Jared. And do it before you go back to their house for dinner or you’re going to end up weighing nothing.”

I already felt like I did, in a good way, in that barely-anchored-to-the-ground way, but, yeah, I needed to say something.

Apparently, I also needed a cookie because Kirsten bought one for me—chocolate chip, the size of a plate—and ordered me to eat it. She had half while I told her some more about the weekend, especially the details of our first night there. When the story came to its effortless end, leaving me sitting there smiling abstractedly—and probably idiotically, but I didn’t care—Kirsten let me enjoy the memory a few seconds before teasing me with, “Done yet?”

“Done.”

“I have Chad news,” she said. “Guess who I saw him with at Reeds Lake last night?”

She meant at the fireworks.

“Who?”

She named one of the eight Idiots in Waiting.

“They’re going out?” I asked.

“They are more than going out,” she said. “You can tell by looking, and you can tell he’s dying to tell people. Probably told all his friends already. Oh, but it’s okay because they’re in a—” She made quote marks with her fingers. “—‘committed relationship.’”

We took a bet—loser bought winner three of these cookies—about how long it would be before Chad
broke up with this girl. I said three months. Kirsten said two.

“We should probably buy
her
the cookies,” I said.

“No, because then it sets a precedent, and we’ll have to do it for all eight of them, and that’s just a lot of cookies.”

“Did you go to the fireworks with Charlie?” I asked.

“Our families actually sat together.”

“How’d that go?”

“Fine. They seem to like each other. They’re still in that Super Polite Phase, though, since they don’t really know each other all that well.”

“There was none of that this weekend with Jared’s family and me. It was completely real.”

Kirsten nodded. “So you and Jared Sondervan,” she said, grinning at me as she popped a piece of cookie in her mouth. “I’m happy for you, Pheebs. I think he’s what you’ve been looking for. I think he’s really good for you.”

“I think he is,” I said.

I thought they all were.

Jared and I talked that night. We talked every night, right before falling asleep, and Jared always ended our conversations the same way.

“Dream of me,” he said.

Sometimes I did.

We saw each other on weekends, often returned to the beach for a Saturday, for a walk, for a quick kiss. We really disliked repulsive public displays of affection, those that involved saliva, so our kisses were sweet.

They were all sweet in so many ways.

He just tasted so good.

Sometimes, after work, late—he didn’t get off until seven or eight some nights—he’d stop by my house, and we’d take walks until well after dark. I’d fix him some kind of supper from leftovers or not. Something small.

He always called it “very good,” and always remembered to thank Mother for letting him raid our fridge.

Once he told her, “Bronwen’s such a good cook. I’m very impressed.”

And Mother laughed, “She certainly didn’t get it from me.”

The weekend with Peter and Jenna and the twins never materialized.

wish i could see you, but this weekend just isn’t good,
Peter wrote.

A couple times.

I don’t know what he did in Ann Arbor in the summer. I think he played a lot of golf. And got Jenna drunk, which, normally I’d say was a bad thing, but—you know—not in this case.

At Ottawa Beach, lying on our towels late one Saturday afternoon, I asked Jared about his ex-girlfriend, the one who had made him appear so sad and distant at Rose’s on our first date.

“You notice everything,” he said.

“I try,” I teased.

“No, you do,” he said. “One more thing I love about you.”

Her name was Trish, and they had been going out about five months, sleeping together for three, and Jared thought everything was fine.

“Better than fine,” he said. “I thought we were in the same place in the relationship. I mean, she said she was. Said she wanted exactly the same things I wanted,
and I’m thinking this is great. I love my family. I can’t wait to have my own. Start young, grow with them, bring them here every summer. The whole time I was with her, I’m thinking she’s the one because she said she wanted the same thing. And then, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I guess she changed her mind and forgot to tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

“She went home for Christmas and hooked up with her old boyfriend. I saw them going back and forth on Facebook, but it wasn’t anything romantic. Just a lot of messages. And then in January, back at school, she was different with me too. Kept putting me off. Got really distant. Wouldn’t talk to me about it. So finally, right around Valentine’s Day—that was fun—I dragged it out of her, and she told me she was conflicted and that she still had feelings for him, so we broke up. It was a pretty easy decision once I found out she slept with the guy.”

“Ah.”

“Needless to say, she and I did not—uh—stay friends. I don’t really think it’s possible when two people break up.”

“Yeah. I had a little problem with Chad with that. I thought we’d be able to.”

“This is just my particular theory, Bronwen, but you can’t go back to being just friends once you’ve been more than that. Just doesn’t work. Anyway, I wish Trish had been straight with me. Not that it would have been any easier, but I wouldn’t have been stressed out for a month and a half, making myself crazy wondering what was going on.”

“Hmm.”

“You know, I worry about that with you sometimes. In a different way.”

I sat up quickly. “What?”

He sat up too, smiled easily. “Not that you’re going to hook up with Chad,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“No, Bronwen, I worry that there are things you want to talk about that you don’t.” He took my hand. “You can talk to me about anything, you know.”

“We talk about everything,” I said.

Then I kissed him quickly and said, “Race you to the water,” and off we ran. He caught me easily and grabbed me around the waist and carried me into the Lake.

Back at the house, around six that night, Mother greeted Jared, who carried my beach gear in from his car, with, “Jared, how do you feel about salmon?”

“Warm and fuzzy,” he said.

“Warm—oh, you,” Mother said, tapping his shoulder. “Why don’t you two have dinner with us tonight? Friends just dropped off some salmon fillets. Caught fresh today, and it’s enough to feed an army.”

“Sure. Thanks. Bronwen?”

“Oh, it’s fine with Bronwen,” Mother said. “Few things make her happier than fish for dinner. Well, maybe pasta.”

“Really?” Jared asked. “And here I thought few things made her happier than me.”

Mother tapped his shoulder again. “I just mean in that whole vegetarian way of hers,” she said.

“The whole—I’m sorry—what?”

I cringed at the thought of where this conversation was headed and, okay,
barf
, at the memory of all the meat I’d nibbled at recently.

“Oh, you know. Since she doesn’t eat meat,” Mother said.

“She doesn’t eat meat,” Jared said. “Bronwen?” His mouth hung slightly open in a half smile. “You’re a vegetarian?”

“Semi,” I said. “I eat fish. I won’t eat anything that has legs or that I could pet.”

“Ah, Bronwen, that’s horrible,” Mother said.

“It’s disgusting, which is why I don’t eat meat.”

“For how long?” Jared asked.

“About four years,” I said.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“What was I going to say?”

“How about, ‘No, thank you. I don’t eat meat’?” he nearly laughed.

“What’s this?” Mother asked.

“Mrs. VanHorn, your daughter’s been…We’re a meat-eating family, and we’ve been serving it to Bronwen every time she’s had dinner with us. And she’s been eating it without a single complaint.”

Mother stared pressingly at me as she asked, “Really?”

I nodded.

“And you ate it?” she asked.

“I ate what I could,” I said. “I think I’m going to get mad cow disease now, and if I do—” I pointed at Jared. “—I’m never speaking to you again.”

“Well, then we’ll get it together,” he said, surprise still registering on his face.

“You ate it?” Mother asked a second time—speaking of surprised faces.

“She was very gracious,” Jared said and then to me added, “but you could have said no to it. No one would have been offended.”

“But it was on my plate,” I said, “and your mother had already bought it, and—”

“And that’s exactly what you were raised to do,” Mother said.

“I’m sorry to disagree with you, Mrs. VanHorn,” Jared said kindly, “but I think Bronwen should have said, ‘No, thank you.’ Mom probably would have made you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

Really? Surprised faces all around!

My mother cleared her throat at me, her tacit version of
Don’t you dare.

“I just—I didn’t want to be rude,” I said, to Mother’s apparent satisfaction.

“I know that, but I’m sure you wouldn’t have been in the way you said it. So, okay then. From now on, fish or pasta.”

“Or,” Mother added, “you could serve what you had planned. Just don’t plan on the entrée for Bronwen. She could eat around it.”

For a second, Jared stared at Mother, who busied
herself at the sink washing a large platter. Then he shot me a bemused half smile and said he was going to run home for a quick shower and would be back.

And as soon as he left, Mother said to me as I knew and even almost hoped she would, “Honey, you did the right thing. I’m so proud of you.”

I loved her predictability but really wished she’d just shock the hell out of me someday.

Late that night and long after a highly edible dinner, Jared and I stood by his car saying good night. He pressed me close to him, with his arms around my waist and me on my tiptoes. We kissed some and then he leaned back.

“You know I was serious about what I said on the beach today,” he said. “And this meat thing is a perfect example.”

“Well, then, you’ll be very happy to know my thoughts on cheesecake and ketchup as well.”

He sighed.

I didn’t like the sound of that particular sigh and dropped down flat-footed.

“I want to know more about why you didn’t say something,” he said, still with his arms around me. “I want to know about the things you never talk about.”

“Meat?” I teased. “It’s so gross. I’d really rather not.”

“Mm-hmm. It’s things like that, Bronwen.”

“Things like what?” I asked louder than I meant to, and he dropped his arms, and I stepped back.

“It’s like I get close to you, and you’re about to tell me something from way in here.” He laid a hand against my chest. “Which I want to hear. And I’m waiting for it
and wanting it. I know it’s there. I see it on your face. And you come back with a joke or something.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to explain why you’re getting so defensive.”

“I’m not—” I exhaled slowly, lowered my voice. “I’m not getting defensive. This is who I am, Jared.”

“I see more than this in you, and I don’t know why you won’t talk to me.”

“We talk about everything.”

“I don’t think we do. But you are very good at getting other people to talk about themselves.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad.” He took both my hands. “I’m not mad. I just don’t want to feel like there’s some part of you that I’m not allowed to know, and that’s how I’m starting to feel.”

“Jared, there’s nothing about me you’re not allowed to know. Ask me. Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you. But,” I said, “it’ll cost you the secret to the Roommate Questionnaire.”

He put his hands on my cheeks and said very seriously, “This is what I mean.”

Then he kissed me.

Said good night.

Drove away.

I stepped into the kitchen where I saw, across the way, Mother and Whitt tidying up the place, putting plates away, wiping off the counters, smiling, talking pleasantly. Everything, as always, looked perfect and spotless and in its place and gorgeous.

It was the picture—the gorgeous, perfect, maddening picture of never talking about our Real Selves. And this time, I was centered in the shot.

I grabbed my purse and called to them that I’d be back in a little while. And I took an old blanket from the chest in the mudroom with me on my way out.