what happened between us wasn’t exactly unresolved.
Not really.
Faced with the choice between Buckley and Jack, I chose Jack. Buckley handled it just fine, and went back to Sonja shortly afterward anyway.
In any case, that’s all ancient history. And I’m sure Jack will want Buckley to be in our wedding party, as long as he doesn’t find out that we kissed.
More about that later. Now is not the time to be dwelling on past loves. Not that Buckley was ever my “love…”
Oh, let’s drop it.
Next on the list is What. This one will have to wait for Jack, but I do make some notes. Afternoon or evening reception? Sit-down dinner or buffet? Black-tie optional or out of the question?
When? I can answer that right now: the third Saturday in October, if at all possible. I’ve had my heart set on an autumn wedding since before I ever laid eyes on Jack, so as far as I’m concerned, the timing is nonnegotiable, provided we can find a place. The last time I checked, Shorewood Country Club in my hometown was available that particular day, but that was a few months ago. I’m sure it’s since been booked.
Which leads me to…
Where? I write Brookside and underline it three times. Then, in case Jack wants to read my notes, I add an obligatory question mark. Then, to be fair, I put down NYC and, of course, follow it with a question mark. A few of them, actually, to reflect my imaginary doubts about that particular locale.
And now we’ve arrived at…
Why?
What the hell kind of question is that?
Since I’m asking myself, I guess I can’t complain.
Okay, so why are Jack and I getting married?
The answer is obvious: because we love each other. Because we want to spend the rest of our lives together.
Nothing else really matters, I remind myself with a guilty glance at the pad in my hand.
Not who, what, when or where.
Nothing but the why.
The phone rings as I’m contemplating that profoundness.
I grab it, and it’s Kate, of course.
“Where have you been?” I ask, glancing at the clock.
Good thing I wasn’t bleeding to death and calling on her to save my life.
Not that I ever would, because she’s not good with blood, or heroics. She’s the kind of person who runs screaming from the room if there’s an insect, loud noise or the slightest hint of gore….
Which makes childbirth an interesting prospect for Kate, to say the least.
“I was throwing up, Tracey.” She always pronounces my name “Trice-ee.” Today, her Alabama accent is laced with misery.
“For an entire half hour?”
“Pretty much. I can’t do this.”
“You can’t do what?”
“Be pregnant.”
“I hate to tell you this, Kate…but it’s kind of too late to change your mind.”
She’s silent.
Ominously so.
“Kate, you’re not considering—”
“No!” she says indignantly. “Of course not. I didn’t say I’m not going to do this, I just said that I can’t,” she says as if that makes the slightest bit of sense.
“Sure you can.”
“I really don’t think so. It’s horrible. All of it. My boobs are huge…”
No, my boobs are huge. They’ve always been huge, regardless of my weight fluctuations. I inherited my grandmother’s famous Bullet Boobs, and I shudder to imagine what will happen to them when I find myself pregnant someday. They’ll be instantly transformed into dangerous Missile Boobs, I’m sure.
Kate’s boobs, however, went from twin chest freckles to twin mosquito bites, if that. I know, because she insisted on showing me her new “cleavage” when we were having our final bridesmaid-gown fitting for Raphael’s wedding.
“I hate feeling sick all the time, too,” she grouses on. “And I hate getting so big and fat—”
Mind you, as of Friday night, she was still zipping her size zero jeans, and you could have stuck the Manhattan White Pages between her belly button and the snap.
“Plus, I’m so tired all I want to do is sleep.”
I should probably point out that the last issue isn’t necessarily a huge problem since all she has to do, really, is sleep. She’s a stay-at-home wife thanks to her family’s money and Billy’s Wall Street salary with staggering bonuses. She has always spent a lot of time sleeping.
“I know how hard this is for you, Kate.”
I say that because I’m a good, loyal friend.
I also say it because it’s the truth.
But mostly I say it because I’m anxious to move on to my news.
As always, however, Kate is the main topic of conversation and she isn’t eager to relinquish that role.
“Do you know what makes me throw up in the mornings, Tracey?”
No, and I really don’t want to.
But I daresay that doesn’t matter, because I bet Kate is going to tell me.
“Everything.”
See?
I murmur my sympathy, glad that at least she didn’t elaborate.
“Billy’s breath is the worst,” she says then, and it takes me a moment to realize we’re still talking about morning-sickness triggers and haven’t moved on to a new topic, i.e., Billy Has Halitosis, in which case I’d be more comfortable changing the subject to my engagement.
“I make him get up and brush his teeth the second the alarm goes off every morning. And I make him open the refrigerator whenever I need something because the smell of it just does me in.”
“Good idea,” I say, rather enjoying the image of arrogant Billy as foul-breathed refrigerator doorman at Kate’s beck and call.
“And then there’s the thought of meat—any meat…Oh, God, Tracey, I feel like I’m going to hurl just talking about it.”
“Then let’s change the subject,” I say quickly. “I’ve got news for you.”
“What
