Three weeks later, alone in her apartment with a bottle of cheap sauvignon blanc and a VHS copy of The Philadelphia Story , she sobbed so violently her neighbor banged on the wall. After that, she got better. Not perfect. Better.
She nodded.
Julianne stopped breathing.
"Dad used to tell me a story. About a girl who almost ruined his wedding. And then didn't. He said that was the bravest thing he'd ever seen."
Julianne looked at the lake, the sky, the girl who called her "Aunt Jules," the woman who'd once been her rival and was now something like a sister. fylm My Best Friend-s Wedding mtrjm 1997 - fydyw lfth
Kimmy reached across Michael's body and took Julianne's free hand. "He was talking about both of us," Kimmy said softly. "He loved us differently. But he loved us both."
For the first time in fifteen years, Julianne didn't feel like the runner-up. She felt like part of a strange, broken, beautiful family that had been forged in the fire of a near-mistake. Julianne moved to Chicago. Three weeks later, alone in her apartment with
When the door clicked shut, Michael reached for Julianne's hand. His grip was weak but warm. "I need to tell you something," he said. "And you have to promise not to interrupt."
Not since the night of his wedding rehearsal dinner, when she’d danced with him on a dock in Chicago and realized—truly realized—that she didn't want to steal him. She wanted to be the kind of person who could let him go. And she had. Barely. Messily. After the wedding (where she’d been the maid of honor, smiling so hard her jaw ached), she’d kissed his cheek, whispered "Be happy," and walked out of the reception into a cab that smelled of spearmint gum and regret. Better
One night, Michael was lucid. The stars were cold and sharp outside the window. "Do you regret it?" he asked. "Not fighting harder for me?"