These Are the Moments (2 page)

Chapter 3

Now

Vivian Delano had changed overnight. Outwardly, she looked exactly the same. Same skinny body, same unevenly chopped hair. But there was a new tint to her now, like she’d just bathed in a vat of glitter or something. Vivian was engaged. And that wasn’t going away.

The three of them lay out on the campus parade grounds, the bell tower, aka
the scene of the crime
, still in view. Summer-schoolers shuffled their feet to class, dragging their hangovers through the sweltering heat. A group of shirtless boys played Frisbee in the field.

“So how do you feel? Do you feel engaged?” Wendy asked, taking another look at the ring. Clear. Pear-shaped. Dainty.

“Hmm, if feeling engaged means feeling like you just ate a bowl of clouds for breakfast, then yes. Yes, I do feel engaged.”

“So, we’re bridesmaids, I assume?” Reese asked, picking at grass.

“Reese, you can’t just
ask
if you’re a bridesmaid,” Wendy said with a sideward glance. “But seriously, are we bridesmaids?”

“Well duh. Man. I have to think about wedding things now? Like plan and shit?” Vivian said. “I’m probably just going to get married right under this tree in a onesie.”

“That sounds hot and miserable,” Wendy said, pausing. “You should totally do it.”

“You’re so adult now,” Reese said. “Soon you’ll have a mortgage and a baby and you’ll say things like,
my husband never takes out the trash
. Tell me, how is it being a fully functioning adult with responsibilities? Because, like, you’re lucky I even put on pants.”

Vivian sighed. “You’re so . . . special.”

Reese threw a blade of grass in her direction. “Obviously.”

“You’re going to be married soon.” Wendy said. “Like actually married. Mr. and Mrs. Till Death Do Us Part. And I can’t even stay awake past 9:00. What’s wrong with this picture?”

Wendy remembered being worried about introducing Reese and Vivian. In so many ways, they didn’t make sense as friends, but somehow that’s what made their trio work. They’d all come together in college, when Vivian decided Texas was too much of “the safe choice” and moved back to Louisiana.

“You better not ditch me for your first best friend,” Reese had said. “Never forget. I’m possessive and violent when provoked.”

Wendy assured her she’d keep that in mind. It all worked out, in the end. And honestly, Wendy had been over the moon, out of this world happy. Finding out Vivian was coming back for college had been one of the best days, in a time when she really needed a best day.

“Remember when y’all met?” Wendy asked, pointing at the two of them.

“Who? Me and Owen?” Vivian blushed when she talked about him. It was sickeningly adorable.

“I think she means us,
Mrs. Landry
,” Reese said.

Vivian tucked her chin into her neck and sniffled.

“Everybody hold up. Emotions on the rise,” Reese said.

Vivian wiped her face. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that in real life.
Mrs. Landry
.
God, I’m so cool.”

“Bride hormones. Right on time.” Reese put a finger gun to her temple.

“You asked Vivian to stop smiling. You said it creeped you out,” Wendy said, trying to round the conversation back to her point.

“It did. It still does.”

Vivian smiled bigger, flashing her teeth in Reese’s face.

Wendy lay back in the grass, the thin blades prickling her ears. Owen and Vivian met four years ago, when Wendy introduced them at their sorority formal. Four years that felt like a lifetime.

“So are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” Reese interjected, tapping Wendy’s knee. “Hmm. That doesn’t really work when you’re not actually in a room, does it?”

Wendy sat up on her elbows, locking eyes with Vivian for just a second, thinking
avoid avoid avoid
.

“I’m fine,” Wendy said, shoving the words out of her mouth. “I’m fine.”

And for the most part, she was.

Because they were her friends, because they knew what that meant, they didn’t push any further.

“When do you head back?” Vivian asked her instead.

Wendy sighed. “Soon. I need to do laundry before work tomorrow.”

“If you don’t start visiting more,” Reese said, “we’re going to think you don’t love us. And then we’ll be forced to go postal and start making semi-stalkerish trips to your home. Please don’t make me a wanted criminal before twenty-five.”

“Promise?”

Vivian punched Wendy with her tiny hand. “You don’t get to be cynical. Bride’s orders.”

“Excellent. Bride commands. The perks just keep on coming,” Reese said.

Wendy
and
cynical
were two words that never went together—that is, if life had gone according to plan. Because it hadn’t, she let herself wear the cynic title occasionally. It always felt wrong, though, like she was two years old trying on her mom’s heels.

In truth, she was about 85% excited for this wedding. About 85% was generous, she thought.

Chapter 4

Then

Wendy didn’t know God could be cool. When she thought about God, she thought about kneeling on hard wood, white Communion dresses, and those veils made of lace. She loved God. But
cool God?
That was new.

At retreat, there were
hundreds
of young people. Young people who smiled all the time and liked regular-people things like playing guitar and going to movies. They laughed the way she did and they had fun, too. The whole weekend was fun, in fact.

She went through each hour with heels skidding against the floor. She’d never been high before, but she was pretty sure this was what it felt like: happy, ecstatic,
pure and utter joy
.
That was God. And community. And fitting in.

It was amazing what a few days could do. Wendy had friends now, friends who weren’t Vivian, friends who were both boys and girls. These were the kind of people who would ask her if she was having a good day, how her “faith journey” was, the kind of people who asked the Big Questions. Reese was the best part of that. She checked up on Wendy, but she never made Wendy feel like she was pushing
God God God
.

The last night of retreat, after Mass, the hundreds of them sat by candlelight in the huge gymnasium. It smelled like incense and whatever hope was made out of. They sat there for a while, all of them silent, praying, to the strum of a single guitar.

God
, Wendy thought. But she couldn’t think of what to say to him, so she just chanted his name to herself:
God God God God God
.

The guitar player, “the worship leader,” broke the silence. “This part of the night…” He paused, strummed emotionally. “Is about healing.” More strumming. “Maybe you’re struggling right now. Maybe you’re here to find God. Maybe you already have.”

Why was she here? What did she want from God? From herself?

“Bring everything to him tonight. Lay it all down.”

And then he sang. The lyrics displayed in big white text on a big black screen. Hundreds of voices, soft and dreamlike, joined him.

Around her, kids abandoned their chairs, kneeling or sitting on the floor. She joined them, knees to the ground.

“Lay it all down.”

That’s what he’d said, so that’s what she’d do.

God
, she thought,
I feel alone. But that’s okay. There are worse things. There are people with much bigger problems, so please, if you need to go talk to them, do so, by all means
.

Mom liked to say that no problem is too big or small for God. A hangnail? He’s got it. Earthquakes? Just another day for God. But Wendy didn’t like bothering him.

Thinking about Mom made her think about signs. Mom was always saying that God spoke in small ways and if she weren’t paying attention, she might miss them. Signs, that is.

God? If you’re still here
,
she prayed,
I’d like a sign. It doesn’t have to be anything big. It could be anything really. I just need to know you’re there. I need to know I’m not alone.

People started to form lines in the aisles. There were retreat volunteers laying hands over the attendees, praying over them. Some attendees fell to the floor. Wendy gaped. Gasped, just a little.

“It’s okay,” someone whispered beside her. “It’s normal.”

Simon. He hadn’t been there before, but now he sat beside her, with Redhead leaning her head on his shoulder.

Wendy nodded.

She didn’t want to talk to him right now. He’d been a little more tolerable since the thumb-wrestling match, but only because she’d won.

“I took it easy on you. Since you’re new and all,” he’d said.

But still, apart from being completely self-centered, he’d taken the time to try and get to know her a little after that.

Just so you know,
she thought, back to God,
I’ll be looking. I won’t miss any signs. From now on, if you’re talking, I’m listening
.

She didn’t know why she started crying, but she did. She slumped her head between her knees and let out a huge batch of tears. The music seemed to swell over her head, each voice and melody a newly crashing wave. It was beautiful. This was beautiful.

A hand grazed her back. She picked up her head, looking to Reese. All she saw were knees, as Reese stood tall with eyes closed, her hands reaching to the sky.

Wendy glanced to her right. It was Simon. Redhead was gone, and he was somehow closer to Wendy than he’d been before, and now, his hand traced over her back, comforting her.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

She nodded. “Fine.” Then repeated, “I’m fine.”

But she hid her head all the same and let herself keep crying, let the music keep moving her and let the boy with the blond hair stay close.

Chapter 5

Now

Wendy wanted to stay in bed, but Monday was here, and Mom was next to her, laying something on her bedside table.

“Wen?” Mom said, singsongy. “Time to get up, hun.”

Wendy groaned, like every morning, and it started out small before growing into a strange kind of roar.

“See you downstairs,” Mom said, unfazed.

Five more minutes
, Wendy thought. She reached beside her bed and grabbed the ripped piece of paper. It read, “‘Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man the things which God has prepared for those who love him.’ 1 Corinthians 2:9.”

Wendy crumpled it up, and threw it into her drawer, where it fell on thirty others just like it.

Downstairs, Dad fixed his hair in the mirror by the front door. “Claudia,” he called up the stairs, “You’re making me late. I’ve got a big meeting, let’s go.”

“Morning, Dad,” Wendy said.

Dad smiled over at her, big and bearded and warm. “Morning, kid.”

Claudia stomped down the stairs a few minutes later, heavy-footed in her loafers, earbuds framing her face.

“Pull that up. It’s bad for your back,” Dad said.

“I’m okay,” Claudia answered.

In the kitchen, Mom cooked eggs in her white, spa bathrobe. She’d set a cup of coffee on the counter, and Wendy plopped down at the bar stool. She sipped. Still hot.

Dad and Claudia walked out the door, still bickering about the backpack. Mom yelled over them, “Bye guys, see you tonight!” Then she turned to Wendy. “
Sooo,
how was the weekend? Claire texted me some pictures. Loved the confetti thing. Was Viv surprised?”

Wendy swallowed. “Good. Quick. Yes, very.”

She didn’t really feel like talking.

“Tired?”

“Yeah.”

The eggs were warm and dry, the way she liked them. “Can I just stay home today?”

Mom turned to Wendy, forcing her mouth into a smile. “Of course you can. You just stay right here and be my little baby.”

Wendy stayed still while Mom hugged her tight. “I should get ready.”

The good thing about working for a small firm was that she didn’t have to get dressed up. Wendy pulled a pair of black jeans over her hips and slipped a white blouse over her head. In the bathroom, she looped her straightened brown hair into a ponytail, and did her makeup. Just to look like she tried a little.

At the bottom of the stairs, a packed lunch waited beside her keys.

I’m pathetic,
Wendy thought.

She grabbed the keys. “Bye, Mom.”

Covington was the little town that could. It wasn’t small town, exactly, but it definitely wasn’t big town either. Most people knew each other or knew of somebody who knew somebody’s momma. There were three high schools. One Public. Two Catholic, one for the boys and one for the girls.

Wendy’s family lived on the outskirts of “city life.” Right on the edge, where there were no subdivisions and everyone had big backyards. Theirs was the white house in the woods, the one that got asked to be in that magazine that one time, or so Dad said.

Donald Dreyfur’s office was downtown, on Boston Street. On Friday nights in fall, all the streets in town were closed off for Friday Night Block Parties. First, everyone would go watch high school football. Then, they’d celebrate by walking downtown with beer and good conversation.

Wendy slammed the door of her pea green SUV shut.

Across from the office, a woman in black pointy heels stepped into the art gallery. Raven DuBois. She was a Northern transplant, hailing from New York or somewhere. Word was that she married a New Orleans native, and he’d given her an ultimatum. She was unfriendly, people said. She was Northern, they whispered.

Wendy let herself in the front door. Donald Dreyfur barked orders in his office, door open, phone on speaker.

“Wendy, you get that email?”

He was referring to the email about canceling his subscription to
Guys with Guns
, with a note attached that said, “You know Carrie.”

Carrie was Donald’s wife. She was anti-gun. He was pro. Very, very pro.

“Yeah,” she said. “Canceled.”

And that was the extent of her work for the day.

Wendy checked Facebook, and saw that Vivian had changed her status to “engaged.” 110 likes. 54 comments. Her status said, “I normally don’t post, but I can’t help it. It’s official! Owen Landry and I are getting hitched! You’re stuck with me, dude.”

There was a picture of the two of them taken by the hidden photographer. Owen on one knee, a scared smile plastered to his face. Vivian’s hands braced her cheeks, like she was trying to keep her head from flying off her neck.

Wendy sipped coffee from her thermos. Black, no sugar, no cream, with chicory.

“Good weekend?” Donald asked. He was using his “Wendy” voice, a throwaway voice, the kind people use when making comments on the weather and other topics they don’t actually care about.

“Good weekend.”

“Nice. Got a special project for you. Filing. Good stuff,” he said, filling up his water from the cooler, then heading into his office again.

Wendy checked the starch white clock on the wall. 8:35. Seven and a half hours to go.