I drive back to the hotel. What a strange day. I sit out on the balcony and watch the sunset. I text Freddy:
—hiya
—holla
—will @ bachelor party
—bastard!
—right?
—we’ll show him
For my second bachelorette party, we gather all the newly arrived guests and stake out space at the pool. Lights flicker in the palm trees. A jazz trio is playing at the bar. I settle into a lounge chair between Freddy and Nicole. Miraculously, Nicole’s phone is nowhere to be seen. We chat about work, about the wedding. She actually seems to be enjoying herself.
A gorgeous guy walks past us. Freddy puts a hand over her heart. “Unbearable,” I agree.
Nicole rolls her eyes.
“What,” I laugh. “I can’t look now?”
“Since when have you ever just looked?” Nicole is smiling, but there’s an unmistakable edge to her voice.
“Lighten up,” Freddy tells her. “We’re having fun.”
She shrugs. “If you say so. I think it’s kind of sad.”
I should have known her good mood wouldn’t last. It’s a shame. Nicole and I were so close in law school. She was always on the prickly side, but she was also cool and funny and wickedly smart. Lately she’s turned all dour and judgmental. I think the breakup with her boyfriend made her bitter.
“What’s sad about appreciating a good-looking man?” I ask.
“What’s sad is that you only act this way when you’ve been drinking,” she replies.
“Not true,” Freddy informs her. “I’ve seen Lily check out guys when she’s completely sober. Like while driving. Or at the doctor. Or at funerals.”
“Hey,” I say. “Don’t want people to ogle? Don’t have an open casket.”
“I’m serious,” Nicole says over our laughter. “It makes you seem like one of those women who goes out and gets hammered so that she can shed her inhibitions.”
Does this person know me at all? “Alcohol lowers my standards, not my inhibitions,” I say. “Big difference.”
Freddy and I clink glasses. But Nicole won’t let it go. “I’m concerned about you, Lily.”
“That’s very touching,” Freddy says tartly. “But there are a couple of flaws in your argument.”
“I’m not making an argument,” Nicole says. “I’m only suggesting—”
Freddy interrupts her. “Of course you’re making an argument. Why deny it? Lily drinks, and Lily screws around. You conclude that Lily screws around because she drinks. Isn’t it equally possible that Lily drinks because she screws around? Or, what’s far more likely, that the two have nothing to do with each other?”
“Possible, sure,” Nicole says. “But most women aren’t like that.”
“Oh, okay,” Freddy says. “So we’re not actually talking about Lily, then. We’re talking about ‘most women,’ and what ‘most women’ do. Interesting.”
Nicole turns to me. “Am I so off base here?”
“Yes.”
“The random hookups? The meaningless sex? Do you really enjoy it?”
“Yes.”
Nicole shakes her head. “I don’t buy it.”
At which point I finally lose patience. “Why, because I’m a woman? And women aren’t like that? They don’t really enjoy sex? They don’t lust?”
“No, but—
“I’m faking it, huh? It’s all a big trap to catch a man and have his babies? Good to know, Nicole. Thanks. I love it when women explain other women to themselves. And when they top it off with a hefty dollop of condescension? That really warms my heart.”
Nicole gets up and walks away. I set my empty glass down on the table. Freddy’s watching me.
“Too harsh?”
Freddy shrugs. “When the scars heal, she’ll probably appreciate the extra asshole. What’s got you so worked up?”
“Long day. Weird day. For example, I caught my mom and dad doing it on the floor of an abandoned house this afternoon.”
“Katherine? And Henry?” she cries. “Together?”
“Yes, yes and a big old yes.” She begs for the gory details. I oblige. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. My parents, together again. My father, cheating on his fifth wife with his first. The implications for my own marital future are … not great.
Freddy leans back in her chair contentedly. “Your father is a beautiful man. I would have watched, too. Hell, I would have joined in.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “But he’s not your father.”
“This would make an amazing country song! I caught my momma and my poppa on the kitchen flo’,” she belts out, “but they sho ain’t married to each other no mo’!”
“I think you’re missing the point, Freddy.”
“Hold that thought. I have to pee.” She disappears.
I get up and wander around. The party is in full bloom. I greet old friends and meet some of Will’s relatives and school buddies. It’s a lot of fun, but I’m still troubled. I head for the bar. Before I can get there, my friend Diane comes screaming up and practically tackles me to the ground. I’m so happy to see her! We met as teenagers at the hospital. Now she’s a psychiatrist herself, which is perfect because she’s totally insane.
“I need some advice,” I tell her.
“Don’t do it,” she says.
“Don’t do what?”
“Whatever you were thinking about doing.”
“Why not?”
“Because whatever it was, it wasn’t your first impulse,” Diane explains. “If it had been, you wouldn’t be asking for advice—you would have just done it. And if it wasn’t your first impulse, it’s not in your nature to do it. So you shouldn’t do it.”
“I have absolutely no idea what we’re talking about,” I say.
“Good,” Diane says. “Go with that.”
Freddy has joined us. “So what if it was Lily’s first impulse? She can change.”
“People don’t change.” Diane points to the cocktail Freddy just handed me. “Are you going to drink that?”
I give it to her. “You’re a psychiatrist, and you’re telling me I can’t change?”
“Maybe a little, around the margins,” she replies. “But no, not really.”
“I’m so screwed.”
“You’re not screwed,” Diane says. “Your life is awesome. You’re marrying Indiana Jones!”
I laugh. “Will is no Indiana Jones.”
“He’s so fucking hot!” Diane cries. “Does he wear the hat in bed?”
I put my arms around her. “Speaking of bed, I think we need to help you find yours, quick.”
Instead, she staggers off, and Freddy brings me another drink. We sit down. Everyone is pink and tipsy, happily chatting about how they’ve been taking advantage of all that the island has to offer. My friends Leta and Caroline kayaked through the mangroves today. Another group went snorkeling. Will’s Aunt Dahlia won’t stop raving about the seafood. They’re all talking about dodging some snowstorm that’s barreling toward the East Coast, how relieved they are to be here in paradise, where it’s all warm breezes, fruity drinks and shimmering pool.
My phone pings with a text.
—What up?
—nada
—Bored?
—maybe
—Send me a picture
—what of
—Surprise me
Freddy looks over my shoulder at the screen. “Why is your dry cleaner texting you right now?”
“It’s not my actual dry cleaner,” I explain. “It’s a guy I met there. That’s how I keep track.”
“Interesting,” she says. “I thought that’s why someone invented names.”
“This way, Will won’t get suspicious if he looks at my phone.”
Dry Cleaner writes:
—I want u now
“Because that’s not suspicious,” Freddy says. She puts down her drink and takes the phone from me, scrolling through my contacts. “Nails, Hair, Hardware Store …”
I sigh. “Dumb, but so dreamy.”
“Cleaning Lady, Pet Store.” She looks up. “What were you doing at a pet store?”
I shrug. “I like to browse.”
“Accountant, Dentist,” she reads. “These are all fake?”
“No, Dentist is my actual dentist.”
She drops the phone on the table. “I guess I should be relieved that you aren’t sleeping with your dentist.”
“No.” I finish my drink. “Not anymore.”
“Jesus, Lily!”
“What? It was great. Until it got weird.”
She picks up her drink. “I don’t get sexting. I’ve always found it skeevy.”
“It’s only skeevy if you’re reading someone else’s,” I say. “But if you’re the one doing it? And know who’s on the other end, and what they can do? Sending one out, waiting for one to come back? Not sure what it’s going to say or what it’s going to show? There’s nothing more exciting.”
“Eh,” Freddy says. “I like bodies.”
“You’re analog. You’re lo-fi.”
“I’m no-fi.” The phone pings, and she picks it up. “Your dry cleaning is ready. What’s the passcode?”
“9455.”
She types it in. “9455,” she says. “W-I-L-L. That’s either very sweet, or very twisted.”
She hands me the phone.
—where r u?
—1000s of miles away
—:(
“Boring!” Freddy says.
I toss the phone into my purse. “I think Will is hiding something,” I say. “Something big.”
Freddy stretches out her legs, crossing her ankles. “Here we go.”
“He’s been acting very agitated lately. Jumpy. Nervous. Not himself.”
“Honey, if I were about to marry you, I wouldn’t just be jumpy,” she says. “I’d be shitting myself.”
A waiter arrives with more drinks. “Get this,” I tell her. “Will said he’d never been to Key West before, but he knew exactly where the cemetery was.”
“An archaeologist knew the location of a bunch of old stuff?” Her eyes widen. “That is so fucked up!”
“And he lied about his name. It’s not William. It’s Wilberforce.”
“No it isn’t,” she says automatically.
“Yes, it is.”
“Wilberforce,” she says. “Wilberforce Field.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “I didn’t even think of that.”
“He’s a lost Star Wars character,” she says. “A reject from the cantina scene!”
We about die laughing. Then Freddy stands and holds out her hand. “Come with me.”
We go upstairs and sit on her balcony. We share a joint. She cracks open a couple of bottles of rum from the minibar. Then she positions her chair so that it faces mine.
“It’s time for a little truth telling,” she informs me.
“Oh boy.”
“You know that I love you,” she says. “I speak my mind, but I never judge. I support you one hundred percent. And I will defend you to the death from morons like Nicole and their bogus ideas about what all women think and how we should all behave. You are who you are, and you do what you do—the texting, the guy Sunday night, whatever’s going on with your boss, everything—and it’s just you. Your … whatever-you-want-to-call-it. Appetite for life. Blithe abandon. But, honey? I’m starting to get a little worried.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Everything’s under control.”
“For the last three days, you bring up your doubts every time we talk. It’s like you can’t help yourself. But as soon as we start actually discussing them, you retreat. You deflect. You make a joke, or change the subject, or start spinning your ridiculous theory that Will is some nefarious gold digger. And I’ve played along. I didn’t want to rush you. But it’s Tuesday night. You’re getting married on Saturday. Pardon my French, but Lily? It’s time to shit or get off the pot.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I don’t know what I want, Freddy! I said yes, didn’t I? It was so romantic. So sudden. He swept me off my feet. He’s the kind of person a person like me should want to marry. He’s interesting, and intelligent, and kind, and steady, and loving.”
“So he’s not a devious liar with a dark past?”
“Of course not. And here’s the thing. When anyone suggests that I shouldn’t marry him, or offers any impediment, I become convinced that it’s the right thing to do. There’s some part of me that really wants this.”
“Just not all of you,” she says gently.
What happened to all my certainty, my conviction last night that this was what I wanted? I stare out at the sea and watch the lights of a cruise ship move slowly across the horizon.
Freddy takes my hand and gives it a comforting squeeze. “You’re such an honest person,” she says. “You can speak your mind to anyone, about anything. But you can’t seem to level with the one person who should know everything. I don’t get it.”
She doesn’t get it? She should try being me for a while.
I finish my rum and lift my feet off the balcony railing. “Let’s go.”
“Back to the party?”
“No.” I stand up. “Out. Just you and me.”