We kept the guest list pretty small. Mostly family. And a handful of world-famous movie stars. Of course. But only the ones Jack actually liked.
Kennedy Monroe, for example, did not make the cut.
But guess who did?
Meryl Streep.
She couldn’t make it, but she sent us a set of French steak knives—which would henceforth be known as “Meryl Streep’s steak knives” even to our future kids. As in, “Babe, can you grab me one of Meryl Streep’s steak knives from the drawer?” Or, “Do not try to pry that open with one of Meryl Streep’s steak knives!” Or, “How did a four-year-old manage to bend one of Meryl Streep’s steak knives so badly we can’t bend it back?”
So she really wound up quite a guest of honor.
And did I let Taylor be a bridesmaid, even after she begged?
Um. Not exactly.
I did let her pass out programs, though.
And Kelly? Long-suffering Kelly? Who had tried so hard for so long to find a place on Team Jack but never caught a break from anybody?
We sat her in between Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling—and we sat Doghouse across from them and let him burn with jealousy all night. Then she accidentally spilled a jar of moonshine on one of them—I can never remember which—and she wound up having to help him take off that slim-fit dress shirt and change into one of Jack’s spares.
So in the end she had a pretty okay time.
Sometimes enthusiasm is its own reward.
* * *
WHAT’S IT LIKE to be with Jack Stapleton, you want to know?
I imagine it’s like being with any kindhearted, comically good looking, world-famous guy who laughs all the time.
It’s pretty great.
Is Jack’s handsomeness still exhausting?
Absolutely.
Poor guy. He really can’t help it.
And it’s tempered by reality. When he goes for a run and leaves his sweaty T-shirt in a clump on the bathroom floor. When his glasses get bent and he doesn’t notice. When he sneezes into his shirt and then takes a bow like he’s the world’s biggest genius. When he laughs so hard at dinner that he spits water all over the table. When he tries to throw an expired tub of yogurt across the kitchen into the trash can for a three-pointer, misses completely, and then darts out the door before you can make him clean it up.
I mean, he’s not perfect.
But you don’t have to be perfect to be lovable.
One thing that’s changed is that I know for sure I can read him now. I know the acting Jack from the real Jack at a glance. I know his fake laugh from his genuine laugh. I know his irritated smile from his delighted smile. I know his actual passionate kisses from his pretend passionate kisses.
Another thing that’s changed is that I can read myself now.
And by “read,” I mean: appreciate.
I mean, sure, we should all just know our own inherent worth, and see our own particular beauty, and root for ourselves wherever we go.
But does anybody really do that?
It doesn’t hurt to have a little help, right?
It doesn’t hurt to spend your life with people who see what’s great about you—in a way that you maybe never would have on your own.
The people we love help teach us who we are.
The best versions of who we are, if we’re lucky.
That turns out to be my favorite thing about Jack Stapleton. It’s not the handsomeness. Or the way he wears those Levi’s. It’s not the money, or the philanthropy, either. And it’s certainly not the fame.
The fame’s a little bit of a pain, actually.
The best thing about Jack Stapleton is a particular ability he has—and now I know he got it straight from his mom—to see the best in people.
Whoever you are, and whatever you have to offer, he sees it.
He sees it, and he admires it, and then he calls your attention to it. He mirrors back to you a version of yourself that’s infused with admiration. A version that is absolutely, always, undeniably … lovable.
All to say: Peanuts Palmer will never fool me again.
Remember when I called that on-screen kiss Jack had with her “my favorite kiss of all time”？
Yeah. Jack Stapleton took that as a personal challenge.
A personal challenge that he won.
Well … to be fair: We both did.
Acknowledgments
IT’S ALWAYS HARD to write acknowledgments. I just want to thank everyone who’s ever read, loved, recommended, reviewed, or posted about my books. Because every little butterfly-wing flap of love for a novel helps it find its readers: the folks who will love it, and feel changed by it, and help other people find it, too. Writers absolutely cannot write books without readers who want to read them. I’m so beyond grateful to get to spend my life obsessing over, getting lost in, and writing stories. So … to readers, and bookstagrammers, and bloggers, and podcasters, and all the beautiful other authors out there lifting each other up … thank you. And a special thanks to novelists Jodi Picoult and Christina Lauren for letting Jack Stapleton star in fictional movies of their real-life books.