Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

So what if they won’t all look exactly the same? It’s them you love, not their look, right?

LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS ™

Luke has promised to come over and make me a nice dinner because of the day I’ve had—though Madame Henri calls just after five to let me know that her husband has gotten through his surgery with flying colors—but the truth is, all I want to do is take a hot bath, read a fashion magazine, and go to bed.

Only how can I tell this to Luke, who went to the market and picked up two sirloins and marinated them (his post-baccalaureate premed classes don’t start up again until after Martin Luther King Day), especially for me?

So when he calls just before six with an apologetic note in his voice and says, “Listen,” it’s all I can do to keep from clicking my heels together with joy. He’s canceling! Alleluia! And hello, this month’s Vogue.

“There’s a Michigan game on tonight,” he says. “And Chaz really wants me to watch it with him. You know how he is about the Wolverines. And the truth is… he seemed kind of depressed on the phone when he called to tell me about it.”

“Chaz is depressed?” This is news to me. He hadn’t seemed a bit depressed when he’d had his hand down my bra. Not that I add this last part out loud, of course.

“Well, I mean, it’s only natural he’d be a little down, you know,” Luke says. “We’re getting married, and his girlfriend left him… for another woman. I really thought he’d have someone else by now—I’ve never seen him go without a date for this long.”

“Shari only broke up with him at Thanksgiving,” I point out dryly. I notice there’s a new red splotch on the inside of my elbow where the old one, which has faded away, was. So it wasn’t a mosquito bite. What could they be? Maybe an allergy to the detergent I’m using? But I haven’t switched detergents lately.

“For Chaz, a month and a half is a real dry spell,” Luke says. “Now his best friend is marrying the cutest girl in the world… No wonder he’s depressed.”

“Then you should absolutely stay home and watch basketball with him,” I say. I’m already fantasizing about the Chinese food I’m going to order in. Moo shu chicken with hoisin sauce. Maybe I’ll even eat it in the bathtub.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Luke says. “The game’s only on satellite. We’ll be watching it at O’Riordan’s Sports Bar, which is around the corner from your place, on Lexington. So I thought, if you wanted to stop by later… ”

“Gosh, honey,” I say sweetly. “There’s nothing I can imagine wanting to do more than sit around with you and your depressed guy friend watching sports.”

“We’ll be ordering chicken wings,” Luke says in an effort to tempt me.

“That is so hard to resist… ”

“Come on,” Luke says in a more serious tone. “Chaz loves you, you know that. He wants to say congratulations in person. And seeing you will cheer him up. You know how much he likes teasing you about your weird outfits. Besides, if you don’t show up, I won’t see you all day.”

Except it isn’t my outfit I’m afraid of Chaz teasing me about.

Not that I’m about to mention this, either.

“Luke,” I say. “The whole point of our not living together is so that we can use this time of our engagement to explore who we are as individuals, so that when we come together as a married couple we’ll have a clearer idea of exactly what we want out of—”

“Lizzie,” Luke says. “I know all that. I was there when you made that little speech, remember? Can’t a guy just want to see his girlfriend?”

I sigh, visions of my fun evening of high-fashion photos and bubbles going down the drain. Literally. “I’ll be there around seven.”

The bar is crowded, but thankfully not smoky, since New York City banned all smoking indoors and actually enforces it. I find Luke and Chaz in a booth beneath one of the dozens of televisions hanging suspended from the ceiling and blaring college basketball games. Luke leaps up to kiss me hello. Chaz, I see, is wearing one of his ubiquitous (except when he’s in evening wear) University of Michigan baseball hats, pulled down low over his hair. He is unshaven and looking a little rough around the edges… rougher, even, than when I’d seen him last, after a night of too much champagne…

And too much other stuff as well.

“Come on,” Luke says to me, grinning his adorable grin. “Show him.”

I’ve slid into the booth beside Luke, and am taking off my coat and unwinding my scarf.

Chaz is nursing a beer, his eyes on the game above my head.

“Luke,” I say, blushing, though I don’t know why. “No.”

“Come on,” Luke says. “You know you want to.”

Chaz’s gaze flicks down from the television screen and onto me. “Show me what?”

Luke lifts my left hand to show Chaz my engagement ring. Chaz lets out a long, low whistle, even though of course he’s already seen it. “Nice,” he says.

Luke’s grin is now ear-to-ear.

“Let me get you a drink,” he says to me. “I’ll just run up to the bar, since the waitress takes forever. White wine?”

I nod. “That’d be great… ” I wonder if I need to remind him to get it with a side of ice. I hate warm white wine, and I can never seem to drink it fast enough. It’s tacky, but lately I’ve started asking for my white wine with a glass of ice on the side. It also lasts longer and has less calories that way.

“Be back in a flash,” Luke says before I have a chance to say anything, as I slide to let him out of the booth to go to the bar, then slip back into the seat he’s just vacated.

Oh well. He’ll remember about the ice.

Chaz has lifted his gaze back to the game over my head. I clear my throat.

“Thank you for the roses,” I say quickly, to get it over with, and before Luke gets back. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” Chaz says shortly, still not looking at me. “I did.”

“Well.” I see that Luke is still frantically trying to get the bartender’s attention, so I lay a hand—my right—over Chaz’s. “Thank you. It meant a lot to me. You have no idea.”

Chaz looks down at my hand. Then he looks back into my eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

I pull my hand away, stung—though I’m not sure why.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

Chaz chuckles and reaches for his beer. “Nothing. God, what are you so defensive for? I thought you and Luke were so blissfully happy.”

“We are!” I squeak.

“Well, then”—he tilts his beer at me in a toast—“mazel tov.”

“You don’t seem very depressed,” I can’t keep myself from remarking.

Then I immediately want to kill myself.

He seems almost to choke on the mouthful of beer he just swallowed.

“Depressed?” he echoes when he’s recovered enough to speak. “Who said I’m depressed?”

I look around for a conveniently loaded pistol. Sadly, there doesn’t appear to be one available, so I have no choice but to answer the question.

“Luke,” I mutter shamefacedly. “He thinks you’re depressed because he’s getting married and you’re all alone.”

“Luke would think that,” Chaz says with a smirk.

“So… you’re not depressed?” I ask, feeling a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe suicide won’t be necessary, just this once.

Chaz looks me dead in the eye and says, “Why, yes, Lizzie. I’m manically depressed because the girl I’ve finally realized I’ve always been in love with, and who I was beginning to think just might love me back, turned around and got herself engaged to my best friend, who, frankly, doesn’t deserve her. Does that answer your question?”