I stare glumly at the floor. “Nobody wants to hear me complain. I’m about to have the,” I use my fingers to make air quotes, “‘wedding of the century’ to the ‘sexiest man alive’ according toPeoplemagazine. What right do I have to be unhappy about anything?”
“If you make air quotes one more time, I’m tying your wrists together,” warns Alvina.
I drop my hands and rest them in my lap.
“Just because everything looks great from the outside doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to have problems,” she continues. “No one’s life is perfect. No one is happy all the time. It’s okay to be human, Gwen.”
I needed that. Her permission to admit my feelings.
“It bothers me,” I say, and it feels good to get those words out. “How can I not think about it?”
Her chestnut eyes pop wider to give me a pointed stare. “By reminding yourself that girl is jealous of someone who never existed. A Hollywood-generated image, a false idol. You know therealman. You get to go home to Caleb, the actual human being who loves you more than anything.”
She’s right. Intellectually, I understand that, but it takes Alvina’s wordsto make it sink in. I do know Caleb better than anyone, except maybe his parents, and it occurs to me at that moment what a privilege it is—to know him so well—in a way that Skylar and the rest of the world doesn’t. It’s not special because he’s rich or famous. It’s special because that’s the magic of a committed relationship, where you crack yourself wide open for another person. You let them into your heart, your mind, so they see all of you, the sparkly bits and the dull ones, too. I love all of him, even the parts he believes are unlovable. I do that because he sees and accepts me, this version of me who strives to improve but will always be flawed.
“Okay, I’ll try.” I sigh and wiggle deeper into my seat, determined to take Alvina’s advice to heart. I need to develop better coping strategies to deal with the press and Caleb’s fans. Otherwise, every encounter will leave me like this, shaken and insecure. It’s time to get used to this.
After all, I am Caleb’s future wife, and, even more importantly, I’m Gwen Freaking Wright.
5
Tuesday,December 10
14 days until the wedding
Jenny
Dean and Caleb took the box into the men’s restroom to look it over. Much to my annoyance, they refuse to let me in. A few years ago, I would have pressed my ear to the door and listened as hard as I could. But now, in my continued effort to become someone worth trusting, I don’t do that. Instead, I stand outside, shifting from foot to foot, getting angrier by the second, annoyed they’re leaving me out.
When they emerge from the bathroom, I can tell they’ve been fighting. They have identical stiff shoulders and tight jaws and are shooting glares at each other.
“I’m serious, Dean. No police,” Caleb says over his shoulder as he walks out. “They never help any—” He cuts off whatever he was about to say when he sees me.
“What’s going on?” I demand for the tenth time.
“It’s nothing,” Dean says without a glance my way.
“Caleb!” A voice cries out. We all turn in unison to see Caleb’s mom, Marjorie, standing by the theater entrance. She rearranges her windblown, dark blonde hair, running her fingers through it. “Are you ready for lunch?” She beams at us, her smile dimming as her question is met with a tense silence. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Caleb says quickly. He stares at Dean and me as if daring us to contradict him.
“We should leave. Our reservation is in 20 minutes.” Dean checks the large watch he always wears on his left wrist. It’s black and bulky. The kind with all the extra dials so he can go scuba diving, rock climbing, or walking on the moon. Whatever a guy like him does in his limited free time.
“We’ll do the interview after lunch, right, Jenny?” Marjorie asks.
“Sounds great,” I reply, excited for the chance to interview Caleb and his mom together.
The four of us make our way to the parking garage and climb into Caleb’s Aston Martin DBX. With a roar of its engine, Caleb guides the car up the ramp and out onto the crowded city street.
This assignment is my first trip to New York. As a native Californian, I’m in awe of the bustling sidewalks and towering skyscrapers. I’ve seen the city many times in films or on TV so to be here now is exhilarating, if also slightly terrifying.
During the drive to the restaurant, it starts to snow. Fluffy white flakes drift down from the sky like confetti at the end of a concert. I chew on a butterscotch candy and press my nose to the chilled car window, watching with delight as New Yorkers spill into Central Park to build snowmen and ice skate.
Dean sits in the back seat next to me since Caleb drives and Marjorie rides shotgun. I pester him with questions. “What’s that ice-skating place called?” I jab at the picturesque rink surrounded by windblown trees and the tallest buildings I’d ever seen. Dean grew up in the Bronx, so I figure he should know.
He flicks his gaze to see where I pointed. “Wollman Rink.”
“How about over there? With all the snowmen?” My phone rings with “Butthead” flashing on the screen. I turn it to silent, making a mental note that I have to talk to him eventually. The window fogs from my breath. I trace a defiant smiley face into it that quickly fades away.
