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Authors: Jennifer Weiner
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the box containing her husband-to-be’s cuff links at him when he’d show up, pale and hungover and half an hour late, to the rehearsal, and her best friend, Maisie Greaves, had had a breakdown in thebride’s room just before she was to walk down the aisle, sobbing over and over, “I can’t, I can’t, and you can’t make me!” until Mrs. Greaves crushed two Valiums into a can of Diet Coke and made Maisie drink it down, and Mr. Greaves had taken her by the elbow and practically frog-marched her up to the priest.
Maureen and Tommy were paying for their own wedding—service at the church, luncheon for the relatives, and a bash for their friends at the VFW hall that night. They’d fought about the flowers. Specifically, Maureen thought they needed something, even just a modest centerpiece on each table, and Tommy thought it was a waste. “Why should we spend money on something that’s just going to rot in a jar?” he asked.
“Because it looks nice,” Maureen said. “And the tables are going to look empty without them. People will say we’re being … ” The word
cheap
had teetered treacherously on the tip of her tongue. She bit it back just in time. Tommy was sensitive about what he called their financial situation. He assured her over and over that it wouldn’t last for long, even though she didn’t care, not that much—everyone they knew was living like this, renting too-small apartments and driving secondhand cars. It was the nature of being twenty-four, and Maureen kind of enjoyed it, clipping coupons and scouring the papers for somewhere they could go out Friday night and not have to pay a cover charge, but Tommy regarded it all as beneath him, an embarrassment.
That night Tommy had narrowed his eyes. “Come over here,” he said, his voice slow and measured. Maureen had come, walking across the bedroom in her short, sheer nightgown. Tommy, who’d been lying on the bed in just his boxer shorts, lean and, to her eyes, startlingly handsome, with his shock of dark hair and even features, slid one hand along the curve of her hip.
“You know what?” he asked, in that calm, conversational tone. “You’re getting fat.” Quick as a snake, his fingers pinched the skin on her hip and twisted. Maureen had gasped, more from the shock of it than the pain. She’d jerked backward, but Tommy kept pinching, kept twisting, like he was trying to pry that bit of flesh and skin right off her. His fingers felt like iron. His lips were peeled back, his teeth were bared, and through the flaring agony of her hip, Maureen thought fleetingly,
An animal, he looks just like an animal,
before finally, finally, Tommy let her go.
For a moment, they stood there, regarding each other, in the tacky little bedroom of the apartment on Kater Street, where they slept in a futon on a black metal frame, not yet having saved the money for a proper bed. She was panting, her chest lifting and falling visibly, each breath coming in a pained gasp. Tommy, propped up on one elbow, his body still tan from summer, was staring at her coolly, in silence, with his handsome face composed.
“What do you want to do about it, Mo?” he asked her. “Ball’s in your court.” That was another Tommyism, about the ball, the court.
Maureen thought. She thought of all the nights in college when she’d accompanied her girlfriends to parties and watch them pair up one by one and slip away into the night while she waited, feeling enormous, feeling monstrous, one too-big hand wrapped around a plastic cup of beer. She thought of the first time Tommy had asked her out, how he’d come right up to her after their economics lecture and invited her to the movies, how her heart had lifted, and how a voice in her head had whispered,
I am saved
. She thought of a hundred and fifty invitations, ornate script on ivory card stock, each envelope stamped and licked shut and slipped into the mailbox on the corner of Secondand Pine. She thought about the front room
Maureen and Tommy were paying for their own wedding—service at the church, luncheon for the relatives, and a bash for their friends at the VFW hall that night. They’d fought about the flowers. Specifically, Maureen thought they needed something, even just a modest centerpiece on each table, and Tommy thought it was a waste. “Why should we spend money on something that’s just going to rot in a jar?” he asked.
“Because it looks nice,” Maureen said. “And the tables are going to look empty without them. People will say we’re being … ” The word
cheap
had teetered treacherously on the tip of her tongue. She bit it back just in time. Tommy was sensitive about what he called their financial situation. He assured her over and over that it wouldn’t last for long, even though she didn’t care, not that much—everyone they knew was living like this, renting too-small apartments and driving secondhand cars. It was the nature of being twenty-four, and Maureen kind of enjoyed it, clipping coupons and scouring the papers for somewhere they could go out Friday night and not have to pay a cover charge, but Tommy regarded it all as beneath him, an embarrassment.
That night Tommy had narrowed his eyes. “Come over here,” he said, his voice slow and measured. Maureen had come, walking across the bedroom in her short, sheer nightgown. Tommy, who’d been lying on the bed in just his boxer shorts, lean and, to her eyes, startlingly handsome, with his shock of dark hair and even features, slid one hand along the curve of her hip.
“You know what?” he asked, in that calm, conversational tone. “You’re getting fat.” Quick as a snake, his fingers pinched the skin on her hip and twisted. Maureen had gasped, more from the shock of it than the pain. She’d jerked backward, but Tommy kept pinching, kept twisting, like he was trying to pry that bit of flesh and skin right off her. His fingers felt like iron. His lips were peeled back, his teeth were bared, and through the flaring agony of her hip, Maureen thought fleetingly,
An animal, he looks just like an animal,
before finally, finally, Tommy let her go.
For a moment, they stood there, regarding each other, in the tacky little bedroom of the apartment on Kater Street, where they slept in a futon on a black metal frame, not yet having saved the money for a proper bed. She was panting, her chest lifting and falling visibly, each breath coming in a pained gasp. Tommy, propped up on one elbow, his body still tan from summer, was staring at her coolly, in silence, with his handsome face composed.
“What do you want to do about it, Mo?” he asked her. “Ball’s in your court.” That was another Tommyism, about the ball, the court.
Maureen thought. She thought of all the nights in college when she’d accompanied her girlfriends to parties and watch them pair up one by one and slip away into the night while she waited, feeling enormous, feeling monstrous, one too-big hand wrapped around a plastic cup of beer. She thought of the first time Tommy had asked her out, how he’d come right up to her after their economics lecture and invited her to the movies, how her heart had lifted, and how a voice in her head had whispered,
I am saved
. She thought of a hundred and fifty invitations, ornate script on ivory card stock, each envelope stamped and licked shut and slipped into the mailbox on the corner of Secondand Pine. She thought about the front room
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