But all’s well that ends well.
I bumped into Nicky’s cousin putting the programs into a box outside in the foyer. “It was a beautiful wedding,” he said, in that weird helium voice of his.
“Yes, it was,” I answered.
And as I walked outside, I saw that the day had now become beautiful, too.
It was like as soon as Veronica had agreed to get her dress wet, the sun had decided to come out and shine down on us.
Down the street, I could see Mama Jane, smoking a cigarette while she waited for me by her truck.
And in front of me, the last of the wedding guests were pulling out of street parking and driving toward Beverly Hills for the reception.
But as the last car pulled away, I noticed that there was one guy, staying put, dressed in a well-cut tuxedo and leaning against the door of his car. He kind of looked like James.
Then the last car pulled away, and I realized that it actually was James, leaning against his Jake Ryan Porsche.
He was looking straight at me. In fact, he lifted his hand and gave me a hesitant wave.
I looked over my shoulder to see if there was maybe someone standing behind me, somebody that James Farrell would actually want to wave at.
But there was nobody there. I turned back. There had to be some mistake. “Me?” I asked, pointing at myself with my bouquet.
He laughed and mouthed back, “Yeah, you,” as he made his way across the street.
I was not sixteen. Let me repeat this: I was not sixteen. And I was deeply aware that my last birthday cake had thirty-two candles, not sixteen on it. But still . . .
I came down the steps to meet him. We both stopped short about two feet away from each other on the sidewalk.
“Hi,” we both started to say at the same time and cut off.
Then I tried again. “Hi,” I said.
He smiled and answered, “Hi.”
“Um, what are you doing here?” I asked. “The reception’s in Beverly Hills.”
“Yeah, but . . .” He looked down at his shoes, then back up at me. “Tammy told me you were still here.”
I stared at him, completely stunned. “You came here for me?” I asked.
“Yeah,” James said, holding my gaze. “Is that okay?”
I can’t say tears didn’t fill my eyes right then, but I will always give myself credit for keeping it together enough to say my next line. “Yeah,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”
“So, do you have a ride to the reception?”
“Yes,” I said. “I mean, no. I mean . . .” I couldn’t look him in the eye as I said this next thing. “Where’s Erica?”
“We broke up,” he answered. “A month ago. Tammy didn’t tell you?”
“No, we don’t really talk about . . . you.”
James shrugged. “Well, Erica and I were a little different than I remembered. It didn’t work out. Plus . . .” He pulled a red napkin out of his pocket and placed it in my hand. “I never got my birthday gift.”
I looked down at the napkin. It read:
Tonight, Davie Jones will do this to James Farrell:
1. Give him the best blow job ever.
2. Say yes to spending the rest of her life with him.
3. Tell him all of her secrets.
Acknowledgments
SO many people to thank:
Thanks to my sister and first reader, Elizabeth Carter.
Thanks to my first editor, Karin Gutman.
Thanks to Emily Farrell. So far you’ve shown me the attic at Tyler House, put me up for two weeks while I searched for a summer sublet in L.A., and copyedited my first novel. You are in every way that counts such a good friend.
Thanks to Jessica Sinsheimer for picking me out of the slush pile.
Thanks to Sarah Jane Freymann for being such a wonderful agent and also for taking me out for the best lunch I’ve ever had in New York City.
Thanks to Maya Ziv for coaching me through all the details.
Thanks to Dawn Davis for being the editor of my dreams and so easy to talk to!
Thanks to my father for always proudly quoting the limerick I wrote in third grade every time I see him.