part where my father, the University of Virginia law student, shows up at the UVA-Clemson game and sees my mother for the first time. He is short, nerdy, and not remotely athletic—the opposite of Landry McCoy. But does he let this stop him? No. My father walks right up to my mother after the game and says, “I’m Jeffrey Mayer. I’m just a schmuck from Hackensack, but I’m going to marry you.”
“Of course,” my mother said, smiling, “I thought he was crazy, but then I started getting these letters …”
Clearly, this wasn’t going to be the abridged version. She was going to rehash my father’s entire courtship, play-by-play, right down to the fateful moment when he shows up at her dorm with a guitar and proceeds to serenade her. My mother has no choice. The minute she hears “Carolina in My Mind” she knows she will break Landry McCoy’s heart, confessing that she is not only in love with someone else, but she is also transferring to UVA to be with him.
“What’s your point?” I asked, cutting my mother off.
“My point?” She looked surprised.
“Your reason. For telling me this.”
“It’s the Laundry McCoy Story,” Ruthie said. “She doesn’t need a point.”
“Never mind,” I muttered. I felt an inexplicable lump in my throat, realizing that my mother had been so busy reminiscing the glory days she’d forgotten what we’d been talking about to begin with.
But I hadn’t forgotten. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about Ryan. It wasn’t just the roses. It was the texts he’d been sending, the pathetic attempts to apologize.
Lx, sry abt wht hapnd sat nite. (You should be.)
I f-d up bg time. (Yeah. You did.)
Let me x-plain. Pls? I lv u.
Lv? Lv??? How much could Ryan love me if he did what he did? If he couldn’t even write the whole word?
“Honey,” my mother said, obviously catching the look on my face—well, half my face. “There’s a plan.”
“What?” I croaked.
“There’s a plan,” she repeated, “for you and Ryan. Just like there was for your father and me. Everything happens for a reason.”
“What’s Ryan got to do with it?” Ruthie asked, giving her soda one last, noisy slurp. I have never known anyone who drinks as much soda as my sister. No wonder she has so many zits.
“Nothing,” I told her. The last thing I needed was one of Ruthie’s cracks about me and Ryan—one of her Ken-and-Barbie comments.
“Whatever.” Ruthie shrugged and tossed her cup in the trash. The perfect ending to a conversation that never should have started.
The whole Ryan-not-showing-up-at-my-bedside situation was easy to explain to my family. We had a fight.
Taylor was harder.
After a week, I was allowed nonfamily visitors, and thirty girls arrived at my door. No joke. Thirty girls, fifteen balloons, eight teddy bears, six People magazines, three bags of Swedish fish, one Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants DVD, and one fruit basket. But no best friend.
“Lexi! Omigod! You look so good!”
Ironically, it was Heidi leading the pack, carrying the fruit basket. Heidi, whose lifeblood was Little Debbie snack cakes. “This is from me and Taylor,” she announced, walking ceremoniously across the room and lowering the basket to the foot of my bed. “We’re so sorry this happened to you, Lexi. Taylor really wanted to be here in person today, but…” Heidi paused, trying for an aggrieved expression but not quite pulling it off. “…she couldn’t make it.”
In the silence that followed, thirty arms were nudged, thirty knowing glances exchanged.
Suddenly, I understood why so many of them had shown up—girls I’d gone to school with and played field hockey with but wasn’t really friends with, girls I barely knew. It wasn’t compassion; it was morbid curiosity. They’d heard about Taylor hooking up with Ryan and wanted to witness the emotional fallout for themselves. Not to mention the carnage.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself that