Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

“It went great,” I say. I can still hardly believe it. Suddenly my nervousness is forgotten in my excitement over recounting my incredible evening. “Luke, you don’t even know… your idea—offering brides beautiful dresses at prices they can afford—it was brilliant. A brilliant idea. Ava Geck and I—her whole family and I, as a matter of fact—we’re going into business together. My designs, their business savvy. We’re going to give brides across America beautiful, nice dresses that they can afford. Not just brides, either. Bridesmaids, mothers of the bride, flower girls, dogs—it’s going to be huge.”

Luke laughs—mostly at my enthusiasm, I think. It’s pretty clear he has no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t think he’s ever even heard of Geck’s. Well, his family probably never shopped there in their lives. Maybe his mom sent their housekeeper there to buy cleaning supplies.

But, ever the loyal fiancé, he acts like he knows what I’m talking about.

“Lizzie,” he says. “That’s great! I’m so proud of you!”

“Thanks,” I say. “This all just happened. Just now. I… I’m still a little shell-shocked, I guess. It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted, Luke. It’s going to solve everything. Mr. Geck made me an offer—you can’t even believe how much.”

“Well, that’s even better,” Luke says, gri

I stare at him. And realize I need to sit down. Fast.

Oh God. How can I do this? I can’t—I can’t do this. I’m not a Bad Girl. I’m not!

And yet, for the past week, that’s exactly what I’ve been acting like. Maybe—deep down—I am a Bad Girl.

Either way, it’s time to pay the price for my actions.

“Yeah,” I say, heading for the couch, where I sink down before my knees can buckle beneath me. “Listen. About that.”

“Uh-oh,” Luke says. The grin has vanished. “I don’t think I like the tone of your voice right now, Lizzie. Should I be scared? Because suddenly I’m scared.”

I look up at him—his gorgeous, perfect face. I can’t help shaking my head.

“Luke,” I say, in a Who are we kidding with this? voice. “Come on.”

He spreads out both his hands in a What, me? gesture. “What?”

“Seriously,” I say. “Get real with me. For once. I know you’re Mr. Nice Guy and everything. But was that not the worst kiss ever?”

He drops his hands.

And suddenly he drops the pretense as well.

And I realize I may not have to pay anything at all.

“Okay,” he says in an entirely different tone, coming over to the couch and collapsing onto it beside me. It’s as if all the bones have gone from his body. I can see the jet lag has finally kicked in. “Yeah. I’m glad you said something. God… Lizzie… I thought it was me.”

The relief that surges through me is like an electric pulse. It leaves me slumped beside him like a rag doll. I think I must feel almost as exhausted as he is—and I haven’t just traveled thousands of miles to get here.

“It’s not you,” I say. It’s horrible to be falling back on a tired cliché like this. But in this particular case, it really is true. “It’s me.”

“No, Lizzie,” Luke says. “It’s not you.”

“No,” I assure him. “It really is.”

But I’m not going to tell him about Chaz. If I have my way, he’s never going to know about Chaz. At least, not until a suitable mourning period for our failed relationship has passed, during which Luke’s had time to find a fabulous new girlfriend—maybe someone like Valencia, a size 2 who’ll fit into that Vera Wang wedding gown I saw in that display window today—and who will cause him to forget all about me.

“I think I just… I pushed you too hard for a commitment you weren’t ready to make,” I say.

“No,” he says valiantly. “That’s not true. It’s just… we’re just at such different places in our lives right now. Jesus, Lizzie, we even ended up on different continents. How could we ever have hoped to make this work?”

I can actually think of a lot of ways we could have made it work. But considering it’s clear neither of us wants to make it work anymore, it seems better to leave them unsaid.

So instead I say, “Well, we can still be friends, right?”

“Always,” Luke says, trying to look sad. But I can see such relief in his sleepy brown eyes, it’s almost comical. It’s the same relief I’d felt out on my stoop that night before he’d left for France, when I’d told him we were taking a break.

I know exactly how he feels. How is this even possible? How could we have disentangled ourselves from this without so much as an angry word or even a tear? Is it possible that we’re just… well, adults?

“Here,” I say. “I want to make sure you get this back.”

And I pull off the diamond that’s been weighing down my left ring finger for so many months. It slips off so easily, it’s almost scary.

“No,” Luke says, looking slightly panicky, putting out a hand to stop me. “Lizzie—no. I want you to keep it.”

“Luke, I can’t keep it,” I say.

“Really,” Luke says, looking completely panic-stricken. I’m not imagining it. “I don’t want it. What am I going to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I don’t understand this. Why won’t he take it? “Sell it. Luke, I’m breaking off our engagement. I can’t keep it.”

“No, I’m the one breaking off our engagement,” Luke insists. “I can’t keep it. You sell it.”

The relief is gone from his eyes. Now I see genuine terror growing there. He really doesn’t want the ring.

Something, I can tell, is wrong. Very wrong.

And our breakup had been going so nicely up until now.

“Okay,” I say gently, slipping the ring under some magazines on the coffee table, since the sight of it seems to upset him so much. “I’ll keep it.”

The relief creeps back into his face.

“Good,” he says, visibly relaxing again. “Good. I want you to have it. I do.”

Um… okay. What kind of guy wants his ex to keep the ring? Especially a ring that cost as much as mine had to have. (Okay. Twenty-two thousand. Tiffany looked it up one day on the Cartier Web site. She was bored.)

I’ll tell you what kind of guy: a guy with a guilty conscience. That’s what kind.

But surely not. Not Luke. Not my sweet, handsome, loving Luke, whom I so cruelly wronged by boinking his best friend in a Knight’s I

Luke would never do anything for him to have a guilty conscience about. He’s exactly what Shari accused him of being—too perfect. Sure, I thought he might be cheating on me all those nights he spent studying at his place and those afternoons he was at the library, when he said he didn’t want to see me.

But that was just my overactive imagination. I’m the only one with a guilty conscience in this relationship.

Luke yawns—then does look guilty. But only about his rudeness.

“Oh my God,” he says. “I’m so sorry… ”

“You must be exhausted,” I say. “You should go. I’d offer to let you crash here, but—”

But we just broke up.

I don’t have to elaborate. Luke gets the message.

“No,” Luke says, getting up. “Sorry. I’ll go to my mom’s. God, this feels so weird. It’s weird, isn’t it? Is it weird?”

“It’s weird,” I assure him, standing as well. It’s just not as weird as he knows. “But I think it’s good. It’s a good thing.”

“I hope so,” Luke says.

And, as we hug good-bye at my doorway, and he gazes down at me, I see that there are actual tears gathered in those deep brown eyes of his. No, really. They’re hovering, like the tiny Swarovski crystals that dot Ava Geck’s phone (only not pink) on the edges of his tremendously long eyelashes.

As if I didn’t feel guilty enough. Now I’ve made him cry.