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“As you know perfectly well,” Chaz says, looking mockly offended, “no. What is the matter with you tonight? Is this about Valencia? Are you jealous or something? I don’t think I should have to remind you that you’re the one who’s engaged.”
“Right. To your best friend.”
“Hey, he’s your fiancé. As you seem to feel the need to keep reminding yourself.”
“At least I have a fiancé,” I say. “At least I’m not an emotional cripple who is afraid to commit myself to someone just because the girl I liked turned out to like girls.”
“Oh yeah?” Chaz’s blue eyes flash more brightly than any of the fireworks that have exploded in the night sky so far. “Well, at least I didn’t get myself engaged to the first guy who asked me to marry him just because I’m in the wedding gown business and I couldn’t stand seeing all my clients getting pretty diamond rings on their fingers and not have one for myself.”
I suck in my breath, outraged—just as my cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my gingham sundress. I have to keep the stupid thing on all the time these days because of bridal gown emergencies. Although I have no weddings scheduled for today.
“That,” I snap at Chaz, “is so untrue. I happen to love Luke. And I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”
“Yeah,” Chaz sneers. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday you’ll even start to believe it.”
I slide the phone out, thinking maybe Luke is calling—although it’s close to two in the morning in France—then see that it’s my mom.
“And I suppose,” I say to Chaz, “you think you’re so much better for me than he is.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Chaz says. “I wouldn’t be stupid enough to go off to France for the summer and leave a girl like you on your own with guys like me around.”
Flustered by this, I fumble with the phone, nearly hanging up on my own mother in my attempt to answer her call.
“Mom?” In the background, the fireworks are reaching their crescendo. It’s the show’s grand finale. “I can’t talk right now. I have to call you back—”
“Oh, Lizzie, honey,” my mom interrupts. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I know you’re at Shari’s party”—we’d talked earlier in the week, and I’d mentioned that I’d be attending a party at Shari’s today—“and I don’t want to spoil it for you. But I wanted to tell you before you heard it from anybody else: Gran died.”
The fireworks are so loud, I don’t think I’ve heard her correctly. I put one finger in my ear and yell, “WHAT?”
“Honey, GRAN DIED TODAY. Can you hear me? I just wanted to make sure you didn’t hear it on your machine or from the De
I murmur something. I don’t know what.
I think I’m in shock.
What had she said?
“Lizzie?” Chaz is looking down at me with a fu
“Can you hear me now?” Mom is asking in my ear. The ear I can hear out of. When I say yes, she says, “Oh good. Anyway, it was very peaceful. She went in her sleep. I just found her there this afternoon, in her chair. She must have dozed off watching Dr. Qui
The world seems to have tilted. Suddenly, I can’t stand up anymore. I feel my knees give out… but it’s all right, because Chaz has his arm around me and is steering me toward the beer cooler, the lid of which he’s snapped closed. He sits me down on it, then sinks down beside me, one arm around my shoulders, going, “It’s okay. Take it easy. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
“Gran’s dead,” I say to him. I can’t see him very well.
Then I realize it’s because I’m looking at him through a veil of tears. I’m crying.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry.”
“She was watching Dr. Qui
“Well,” he says. “If you’re Gran, and you have to go, that’s the way to do it.”
I let out a hiccupy sound, halfway between a sob and a laugh.
“Lizzie?” Mom’s voice sounds in my ear. “Who’s that with you?”
“Ch-Chaz,” I say with another sob.
“Oh, honey,” Mom said. “Are you crying? I didn’t think you’d be so upset. Gran was ninety, you know. It wasn’t as if this was entirely unexpected.”
“It was by me,” I wail. I realize dimly that the booming of the fireworks has ceased, and that it’s grown very quiet all of a sudden. I realize, as well, that the pale blobs I can see through my tears are faces… the faces of everyone at Shari’s party. And that they’re all turned toward me. I fight to regain my composure, reaching up and trying to wipe away my tears with the back of my wrist.
But they won’t stop. They just seem to come faster.
Chaz, seeming to realize the problem, pulls me into a hug. And suddenly I’m weeping against his chest.
“Oh,” Mom says comfortingly into my ear. I’m clutching my cell phone tightly in one hand, and the front of Chaz’s shirt with the other. “Good. I’m glad Chaz is there. He’s a good, old friend and will take care of you.” I don’t mention that my “good, old friend” not five minutes ago was making lewd suggestions about “theories” he was going to illustrate to me back in his apartment.
“Yeah” is all I can manage to choke out.
Because the truth is, until she’d called, I had pretty much been going to accept his invitation.
“Mom,” I choke. “I’m go
“Okay, honey,” Mom says. “I love you.”
And then she’s hung up, and I’ve hung up, and Chaz is saying, “Shhh,” into my hair, and Tiffany has come over and is asking what’s wrong, and Shari is stroking my arm and going, “Oh, Lizzie. It’s going to be all right.”
But it isn’t. How can it be?
Gran is gone.
I never even got to say good-bye.
A HISTORY of WEDDINGS
Why is the third finger of your left hand considered the ring finger? Ancient Egyptians and Romans both believed that a vein from that finger led directly to the heart, so it seemed like the logical position for the placement of the wedding band. Science has since proved this not to be strictly accurate.
But tradition lives on, and that finger is still universally known as the ring finger. And isn’t it romantic to think that our wedding rings are linked to our hearts? Well, by a creepy vein of blood, anyway?
Tip to Avoid a Wedding Day Disaster
It may sound obvious, but try on your rings—both bride and groom—in the days leading up to your wedding. The last thing you want to be doing during your wedding ceremony is squeezing a ring that won’t fit over fingers that have swollen due to nervous last-minute binge eating.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™