Free The Friends We Keep by Holly Chamberlin Page B

which there’s going to be a really amazing reception. The whole thing is costing my father, like, thousands of dollars and believe me, I’m spending a lot of my own money, like on a personal trainer, visits to a tanning salon, a stylist, and a honeymoon wardrobe to die for. There’s only one problem and it’s a big one. See, my three girlfriends from high school are still my best friends. Naturally, they expect to be my bridesmaids and I have no problem with two of them. Like me, they’re in shape, tall, and blonde. They’ll look awesome on either side of me! (I’m thinking of spring green for their dresses. Well, my stylist is thinking. She’s amazing.) But the third girl is kind of fat and she’s much shorter than the rest of us and her hair is really dark brown. I mean, this stuff never bothered me before. She’s really funny and let’s face it, next to me (and my other two friends) she’s no threat! But if she’s in my wedding party, she’s going to ruin everything! What should I do? She’s destroying what is supposed to be the most awesome time of my life!
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    Dear Most-Shallow-Woman-Alive:
    You must do the right thing and ask all three of your friends to be bridesmaids. Under no circumstances are you to suggest that your short, plump, dark friend wear five-inch heels, go on a diet, or color her hair. But before you do anything related to this sickening display of self-indulgence you call a wedding, you are to get out your checkbook and write a hefty check to one of the following charities. (See below.) Try thinking about someone other than your pampered self for once and maybe, just maybe, you’ll discover how awesome it is to be a human being.

    S OPHIE
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    In the kitchen, Jake perched on a stool at the counter while I made a salad. I’d bought the raspberry dressing he liked.
    Jake claimed to be eating well but I know my son. He can barely boil an egg without it resulting in disaster. Maybe his lack of culinary skills is my fault. After all, he never even had to make a sandwich for himself. I was always there. Anyway, I’d asked him over to my apartment on the pretext of giving him a packet of new socks. I knew that once he smelled my famous roast chicken and mashies, he’d stay on for dinner.
    â€œI talked to Dad yesterday,” Jake said, as if he’d just remembered.
    I looked up from chopping a Vidalia onion. “Oh? How is he?” I wondered if I really wanted to know. It was hard to say.
    â€œHe’s good,” Jake said.
    Why do women have to drag information out of men? “Is he still seeing that bimbo, what’s her name, Kara?” I asked.
    â€œCarly. Yeah, he’s still seeing her.” Jake looked at me curiously. “Mom, when was the last time you talked to Dad?”
    â€œOh, maybe about two weeks ago. Why? Is everything all right?”
    Jake grabbed a tomato from the counter and began to toss it from hand to hand. “Everything’s fine.”
    â€œThen, what?” I asked, grabbing the tomato midtoss. Hadn’t I taught Jake not to play with his food? “There’s something you’re not telling me, Jake. What is it?”
    â€œNothing!”
    â€œJacob Michael. I’m your mother, I know when you’re lying.”
    Jake sighed. “Mom,” he said, “I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you, okay? I don’t want to get involved any more than I already am.”
    â€œInvolved with what?” I asked, somewhat disingenuously. “I’m not trying to play you off your father, Jake. And if there’s something you promised not to tell me, fine. But—”
    â€œDad’s thinking of asking Carly to marry him,” Jake blurted. “Okay? That’s the big secret although he didn’t actually tell me not to say anything.”
    I laid the knife on the counter; my hand shook ever so slightly. “Oh,” I said.