The Rehearsals Page 9

  The only mature response to this was to hide.

  As Donna parked the car back at the hotel, Megan could only assume Leo was in the lobby. “I’m going to go for a walk,” she told her mother and Brianna.

  “Maybe she’s making a run for it,” Brianna stage-whispered to Donna. “I wouldn’t blame her. Tom’s the exception. The rest of the Prescotts are real pieces of work.”

  As Megan weaved up the steep driveway toward the island’s private residences, she heard her mother say, “Oh, Brianna. Watch your mouth. Wouldn’t you put up with a little snobbery for that lifestyle?”

  Her sandals kept slipping on the gravel path. A trail of sweat was making its way from underneath her thick hair down the length of her spine. Most distressing, she had no solid game plan. Megan’s only strategy was to stay away from Leo. It was shortsighted, considering he was the best man at her wedding, but it was all she had.

  Once she dead-ended at a wealthy private home, one designed by a real-life Disney architect who’d created some iconic sets (a fact Megan had been thrilled to learn in her youth), she was trapped. If she lurked nearby and there were people in the house, they’d likely call security. Damn it. Where could she go?

  She started pushing her way through the dense forest and brush, her legs getting scraped, spiderwebs snagging her body, her hair increasing in size with the mugginess. By the time she popped out the other side, she was in shambles—thin streaks of blood on her legs from thistles, the topknot she’d put her hair in earlier totally wild. Her eyes felt as though they could leap from her head at any moment.

  Megan found herself near the back employee parking lot of the hotel. Relieved, she sat in the shade of a maple tree. She dabbed at the sweat on her forehead and was attempting to arrange her hair into a bun when she heard her name.

  “Megan?”

  She could weep; she could run. But suddenly this meeting felt inevitable. The only way out was through. “Hi, Leo.”

  “Hey!” He jogged toward her, clearly expecting her to stand and give him a hug. When she stayed put, he knelt down beside her. It was hardly fair of him to catch her in this state. Especially since Leo always looked so comfortable in his skin—not to mention his clothes. On Leo, a T-shirt that cost five dollars looked like it cost five hundred. Something about how he carried himself made casual seem couture.

  “I’ve been searching for you,” he said. “You look—”

  “Like Bigfoot’s bride?”

  “I was going to say beautiful. Although…” He carefully picked a few twigs and a small leaf from her hair and handed them to her like peace offerings.

  But there was no peace where Leo was concerned. She knew that now, although she still couldn’t decipher how or why.

  “Can I talk to you? Please?” His voice was tentative, but he had a spark in his eye. A look that dared her to say yes, to love him. Leo, with his lazy smile and easy charm, was meant to be adored. And Megan had adored him. But that adoration was self-destructive. More than she’d let herself realize in her late-night fantasies. Because Leo was the type of guy Donna would choose—unpredictable and wild.

  A pang of nostalgia, so sharp it made her short of breath, came on suddenly. She remembered the first time she and Leo had hung out, just the two of them. Tom had strep throat and they’d decided to go to CVS to find things to cheer him up. They’d bought a yo-yo, a packet of baseball cards, Popsicles the color of nuclear waste, and teen magazines with quizzes like “What Shade of Lip Stain Best Represents Your Personality?” and “Are You Ready to Tell Him How You Feel?” They’d laughed so hard in the incontinence aisle, Megan nearly peed. Leo, oversize brat that he was, offered to buy Megan a package of Depends.

  She briefly indulged one of her favorite forbidden daydreams of living out of a tent with Leo, him scouting locations for new tours while she pursued the subject of her documentary, the one that would sweep the awards at international film festivals. They’d have no family members for miles and miles. And she wouldn’t have to work at a job she’d taken because it was convenient for his career.

  Because that’s exactly what she’d done for Tom. While he went to law school, she’d stayed in Cambridge with him and got her master’s. When he moved to New York to be an associate at his dad’s law firm, she’d gotten a job at GQ so they’d be together. Every decision she’d made was to stay in step with him. What would things look like now if she hadn’t?

  In another life she could’ve chosen the path that would take her through the brambles with Leo. She could’ve dropped the idea of security and pursued passion instead. Together they could’ve spent months off the grid, making love in shabby tents, pretending everyone else had evaporated from the earth.

  In another life.

  Or this one.

  Her skin prickled. The thought was a betrayal of everything she believed. So Megan did what she always did when her resentments grew too loud. She plucked a Tom memory from the drawer in her mind that she kept locked up and safe just for moments like this. The memory was of the first note Tom had ever written her (not including the Cure lyrics in her notebook). She recited the note’s contents to herself, just as she did whenever her doubts about Tom loomed too large.

  “Come on, Megan.” Leo picked a few blades of grass and playfully tossed them at her nose to get her attention. “You’ve been avoiding me for years—don’t think I haven’t noticed. You can give me ten minutes now.”

  “I’ll give you two,” she said, against her better judgment.

  Leo chuckled. “Remember when you used to time me to see how fast I could get to the liquor store and back with more beer?”

  “You’d always show up with these weird craft-brewery samples that had flavors like Fruity Pebbles and Bull Testicle.” She shook her head at the memory. “You now have one minute.”

  “You’re killing me, Givens.” Leo rubbed at his eyes in frustration. “We have this unspoken conversation between us that’s been steeping for eight years and I don’t know where to even start.”

  “Thirty seconds, Leo.”

  “Givens. Please. Just hear me out?” While Leo waited for her to respond, he continued to pick nervously at the grass, an alluring smile on his face but fear in his eyes. “Aren’t you afraid of what you’re signing up for? Of what you’re signing away? I care about you, Givens. I’m worried about you. I just…your happiness means a lot. To me. And it should mean a lot to you too. I just have to know. Are you happy?”

  She risked a look at her former best friend, a hundred different scenarios playing out in her mind, underscored by the sound of her own voice chanting, What do you want? What will make you happy?

  Megan thought of the gifts Leo had sent her and Tom over the years. When they’d moved to SoHo, Leo sent them a sculpture by an artist she loved as a housewarming gift. Two Christmases prior, they’d received a rare copy of Megan’s favorite episode of Mystery Science Theater. Leo sent gifts they’d both enjoy but that were particularly meaningful to Megan. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or appalled.

  Before she could decide just what to say to him, what magical combination of words would make everything right, a shadow loomed over their heads. She looked up, expecting for a moment to see Tom. It was merely a cloud passing over the sun.

  This was why everything was happening again.

  Maybe Megan was psychic and whatever she had experienced the day before was a warning. Was she supposed to choose a different path? Megan absorbed that…if so, this was her second chance. She was getting a do-over. An opportunity not to get caught up in reliving a decade-old mistake that shouldn’t matter. Didn’t matter.

  She had friends who subscribed to the theory that the universe gave them signs, that there was some sort of—not necessarily a God, but a divine tapestry of energy guiding people toward their destinies.

  Rebooting an entire day was a hell of a sign. And Megan was not going to ignore it.

  Today was about leaving Leo in her past, about keeping her one err
or in judgment in the shadows so she could embrace her trajectory with Tom. Above everything else, Tom was her future. He had to be.

  Because why else would they have stayed together for twelve years? And even though things weren’t perfect, and it could sometimes feel like they were stuck in a rut, they still had so much good between them. When their demanding jobs and even more demanding families didn’t get in the way, when she didn’t let herself resent him for being the sole decision-maker, she knew what they had was special. He could still give her butterflies with his sexy smile, make her laugh with an inside joke. And she never felt safer or more secure than when she was with him. Everything with Leo was unstable. Unpredictable. Unwritten. But Tom, Megan’s Tom—he was safe.

  “I don’t have time for this today, Leo.” Megan stood, brushing stray strands of grass off her jersey dress. “What happened between us happened when we were kids. It has nothing to do with Tom and me now.”

  As she left Leo behind, Megan could feel the phantom I miss you note in her hand, so she mentally cradled the first note Tom had ever written her in her other palm. She squeezed her fists tight, running off toward the salon, wanting to proceed with her appointments, with the festivities of the weekend and the plans that had been set long ago. No more distractions.

  She was getting a do-over, and this time, when she showed up to the rehearsal dinner in her beautiful dress to sit with her beautiful fiancé, the evening would end with a kiss.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tom

  The lock screen on Tom’s phone still offered nothing more than the background photograph of him and Megs at the botanical gardens in Montreal. They’d driven up to Canada during a rare long weekend and spent three days filling up on poutine and crepes, trying desperately to learn French through immersion.

  What a relief that pretty much everyone in Montreal spoke English.

  In the photo, Megs was midlaugh, her nose wrinkling adorably. His face was in profile because he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The photo had been taken by another tourist, a woman who was there with her husband to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary.

  “We’ve already been together for over a decade,” Megs had said while they chatted amiably. “Getting to fifty years will be no problem.”

  Tom had kept the photo front and center as a reminder of that day. Of how easily they could see an entire lifetime together.

  Now the photo made him want to chuck his phone against a brick wall.

  He shrugged into his suit jacket. It felt too tight around the shoulders.

  He’d been calling and texting Megs intermittently for hours but there had been no response. At first he wondered if something had happened to her. He’d considered texting her family to make sure she was okay and then, like a flood, he thought about her with Leo. She was probably avoiding Tom to sneak off with his best friend and didn’t even have the courtesy to answer her damn phone.

  He was pissed. Telling her just how pissed was all he wanted—it would quench his anger like a cold beer on a hot day. There was no way in hell he was going to sit through that rehearsal dinner; he was calling off the wedding the moment he found her.

  But he was in their hotel room and she was God knew where.

  He remembered when she’d first started out at GQ, not long after they’d moved to New York together; she’d gotten the opportunity to sit in on an interview with the legendary Kenneth Birch, one of the few men in Hollywood with a truly successful and long-lasting relationship. When Tom asked if Megs had heard any good celebrity gossip, Megs laughed and told him that Kenneth’s juiciest stuff had been about his own life. He’d talked about how couples tended to have the same fight over and over again, that while the words sounded different in each, the meanings were the same. The insight had been interesting, if a little disappointing; Kenneth had starred in dozens of movies over the course of at least three decades, and Tom had been hoping to find out which of Kenneth’s costars threw tantrums on set.

  But for some reason, that story had stayed with Tom. Even though it didn’t seem to apply, because he and Megs never fought—with the exception of Megs tossing a pillow at his face and telling him to cut his toenails because they were scratching her calves in bed or Tom telling Megs to wear her nasal strips to clamp down on her snoring. But even when they’d first moved to New York and everyone told them over and over again that they’d sink or swim in the city, they’d never felt as overwhelmed as they should’ve, and they’d certainly never taken it out on each other.

  That was their secret drinking game, regardless of whether or not alcohol was present. If someone responded to Tom and Megan’s “take over New York” plan with the phrase sink or swim, they’d share a look and mime taking a shot.

  They didn’t even fight when John and Carol kept offering to foot the bill to get them out of their dodgy neighborhood and their even dodgier apartment and when all they could afford to eat was peanut butter and whatever carb was on day-old sale at a nearby bakery. Tom and Megan were more than content making love on the stained futon they’d bought off Craigslist to the sounds of their upstairs neighbors trying to train their dog. Their relationship felt untouchable.

  He knew now it’d already been touched. Defiled. Because the Megs who’d moved to New York with him and who’d mimed taking shots and who’d eaten peanut butter on stale dinner rolls was also the one who’d slept with his best friend and never told him.

  His anger, the hurt he felt, was as fresh as it had been when Leo made the confession during yesterday’s today. How could she avoid him all day and leave him to stew alone in his misery?

  He rolled that word around in his mind: alone. Because he had to be alone in this. Everyone else seemed to be going through the day for the first time. And if Megs were experiencing this loop thing too, she would’ve answered one of his calls—or tried to call him.

  He gave up on trying to reach her. They’d see each other at some point during this day. His stomach clenched at the thought.

  As much as he wanted to confront her, to call everything off as soon as he could, he also didn’t. Because living through the ensuing fight again was beyond cruel.

  Tom couldn’t stay in this hotel room one more minute waiting for Megs to show up. With only an hour until the dreaded rehearsal dinner, he decided to get himself some courage in a glass to deal with what lay ahead.

  There was a casual restaurant close to the pier and then there was the one higher up, offering better views and a pricier menu, where their rehearsal dinner would take place. Luckily, the former also had a bar.

  He walked up the stone steps and shook his head at the hostess who wanted to put him on the patio with the rest of the polo-wearing guests dining on charcuterie platters and crab cakes. He didn’t want a stunning view or to be surrounded by happy families making memories in the last days of summer. He didn’t want to look at Happy Accident in the marina. He wanted to lurk in a dark corner and try to make sense of this day. Of his life.

  He perched on a bar stool, not caring whether he was wrinkling his suit, and stared at the menu.

  “Oh, man, you look like a goomba,” said a sultry voice from behind the bar. Tom glanced up from the happy-hour menu.

  Her name tag said CASEY. She wore her jet-black hair in a high ponytail that hung straight down to her waist. The azure ends appeared to have been dipped in a blue-raspberry Slurpee. She had a tiny stud in her nose. Her eyes were lined in a way that flicked at the end. It occurred to Tom that this was what Megs had meant all those times she’d talked about trying and failing to do a cat-eye.

  “A goomba,” he said.

  Her lips, a surprisingly appealing orangey red, broke into an easy, sardonic smile. “Yeah. You know, those little mushroom guys from Super Mario who have angry eyebrows and perma-frowns.”

  “I know what a goomba is.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have said ‘A goomba’ like you didn’t.”

  Tom had thought that if he couldn’t talk to Megs, he wanted to
be alone. Yet he was enjoying this. Here was someone he owed absolutely nothing to. Someone who could distract him from the storm ahead, if only for a minute. “You’re saying I look like an angry little mushroom man.”

  “You do get it.” Casey leaned on the bar. “What can I get you? Something to cheer you up, perhaps?”

  “Yeah. I’m thinking a scotch.”

  She leaned in closer and stage-whispered, “I don’t know if you know this, but alcohol is a depressant.” She turned around, made his drink, gave him one more smile as she placed it in front of him, and left him to brood.

  He replayed yesterday in his mind. He replayed today. He searched for some sort of answers as to why it was happening—how it was happening—and came up empty. When he started replaying the fight he’d already had with Megs and had to have again, he needed distraction more than scotch. So he caught the bartender’s eye and raised his glass in her direction as a miniature cheers.

  “How’s that scotch going down? Like liquid sunshine?” Casey sauntered over, her smile crooked. Inviting.

  “About what you’d expect.” Tom’s voice sounded troubled, even to himself.

  “Bartenders are supposedly unlicensed therapists, right?” She rested her elbows on the bar.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Then may I offer you some unsolicited advice?” She tilted her head. “I’ve heard that people love receiving unsolicited advice.”

  He laughed despite himself. Despite everything. “Be my guest.”

  “Whatever’s making you look like an angry mushroom isn’t worth it.”

  “Oh yeah?” Tom sat up straighter, crossing his arms, his body language transmitting full skepticism. And perhaps a little intrigue. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Life’s too short, man. Too damn short. Especially for someone like you—handsome, together. You can spend your days tying yourself in knots for the things that ultimately make you miserable, or you can chase the great unknown.”