My Always One

by Aleatha Romig

  “She’s good. I saw Dad too.”

  “He was there?”

  “No, Mom took me back to their house for lunch. The invitations came in. They’re perfect.”

  His brown eyes narrow. “You didn’t work out?”

  “I ran the stairs, Jack.”

  He nods. “How about I Uber to the restaurant, explain to Fred and Martha that you’ve been shopping for your wedding dress, and you drive over and arrive by six?”

  He made it sound like an option, but it felt as though it was my only one. “I’m sorry. I should have checked—”

  Jack’s lips land on mine. “It will work out fine. I’ll see you at six.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  As he starts to walk away, he turns and pulls his key fob from his pocket. “Samantha, drive my car.”

  Of course, his BMW would look better as we drive away than my SUV.

  “And since you’ve been running around and busy, I thought I’d help. I laid out a dress for you to wear. You’ll be stunning.”

  I grit my teeth and keep my smile intact. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

  “It was. You’re welcome.”

  Marshal

  * * *

  Our architectural firm just landed a coveted project that includes four new hotels, two in Michigan and two in Pennsylvania. There is this hotel mogul who is looking to expand further, so if he and his board are happy with our final results, this partnership could be life changing for us.

  I say us, but I’m not a partner. However, it was my designs that got the hotel mogul interested, the one that caught his eye. That said, I’m part of a team. Tonight, my team is celebrating on the company’s dime. Hell, The Rooftop is one of the nicest restaurants in Grand Rapids and one with the biggest price tags.

  “Marshal,” the owner and CEO of our architectural firm, Jason McMann, says as he pats my back. “What can we get you for a before-dinner drink? As you know, I’m a whiskey man myself.”

  “I’m a bourbon fan. I like it smooth.”

  Jason grins. “I bet you do.” He turns to the pretty thing behind the bar. “Barbie” —yes, that is her name. It’s on a small pin-on tag right over her large left boob— “can you get my friend Marshal two fingers of Blanton’s.” He turns back to me. “On the rocks?”

  “Neat.” My answer comes without emotion as I stare across the bar and clench my teeth.

  This restaurant has one of those modern open-concept bars.

  If it were warmer outside, the glass windows would be opened and there would be tables on the balcony overlooking the river and the city lights. As it is, the windows are closed, keeping the snow and wind outside. However, the bar is open. Blue lighting projects around the center cabinetry where hundreds of bottles are proudly displayed. From where I’m standing, I can see to the other side, to a group of people.

  They’re dressed much as we are, in nice business attire. The women are a bit dressier. I can’t see below their waists, but I know a woman’s body well enough to know the way one walks in tall heels. There’s a rhythm to the way their bodies sway, as if they are asking for a strong hand to support them.

  No, I wouldn’t take only their sway as an invitation.

  Nearly a decade post-high school and I’m no more committed to a relationship than before, but I’m also not in danger of a sexual harassment lawsuit. I believe in consent.

  For once, though, I’m not looking at a woman but at a man.

  My jaw clenches tighter as a slimy smile curls his lips, and he whispers something to a woman I don’t recognize. One might wonder why it would matter to me that a man is speaking to a woman at too close of a distance. It does because that man is engaged to my best friend.

  “Marshal,” Jason says as he hands me a glass and others from our office gather around. Jason turns to all of us. There are three men and four women. We’re the team that worked on the bid. We’re the team that just landed Jason the biggest (and potentially even bigger) deal he’s ever had. “You did it. Thank you,” he says.

  We all clink our glasses.

  The bar is getting more crowded as we wait for our table.

  “Do you know Jackson Carmichael?” Melinda Beavo, a very talented architect and member of our group and a married woman, asks quietly, following my line of vision.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “You’ve been staring at him for the last fifteen minutes.”

  “Do you know him?” I ask, keeping my voice and anger at bay.

  “A little. I’m not a member of his fan club, but from what little interaction I’ve had with him, I believe it’s a club of one.”

  She makes me smirk. “So you do know him.”

  “My husband has done some work with their law firm. My connection is distant, but I’ve had enough encounters to know he is a conceited piece of...” She lifts her glass of red wine to her smiling lips. After taking a drink, she asks, “Why do you care?”

  “His fan club has recently inducted a new member. He’s engaged.”

  “To that blonde over there, the one he’s been schmoozing with since we arrived?”

  “Nope,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “How well do you know his fiancée?”

  I like Melinda. She’s maybe ten years my senior and has worked hard for her place in our firm, yet she’s never talked down or acted like she knew more than any of the newer members. She’s been open to our ideas while willing to point out her own. She’s a team player, which is about the best compliment I could give anyone. I look directly at Melinda. “His fiancée is my friend. I’ve known her...forever.” I shrug. “She’s probably my best friend.”

  “That explains why you look like you want to punch something.”

  My poor teeth are ready to splinter as I increase the pressure. “I was thinking more of someone.” I look around the bar, but Sami is nowhere to be found. “I want the piece of shit to know I’m here.”

  “You could yell across the bar, but I suggest a more direct approach.”

  I look at our group, all chatting and smiles. This is an occasion that deserves celebration. However, my thoughts are consumed with what I’m seeing. I can’t hear what Carmichael and the blonde are saying, but I’m not naive. I’m about as far from it as one can get. I recognize the moves, the body language, the fluttering of her hands and the way he leans in to speak.

  Fuck, I perfected those moves.

  “Melinda, if anyone asks, will you tell them that I went to speak to a friend and I’ll be right back?”

  “Friend?” Her eyes narrow. She reaches for my arm and leans closer. “Be open-minded.” When she releases me, she grins. “See, that—my touching your arm and leaning toward you—was innocent, but from across the bar...”

  “Yeah, sure.” Melinda’s touch lasted maybe five seconds. I’ve been watching Carmichael for over fifteen minutes. “I’m very open-minded.”

  Open-minded that Jackson Carmichael is a horse’s ass.

  With each step, I remind my heart to slow and my blood pressure to calm. I haven’t felt this protective of Sami since college when there was an asshole at a party making his moves on her. Thankfully, he never pressed charges. I’d heard he sported a black eye for a bit. As I neared the group of people, I reminded myself that Sami thought of Carmichael as her forever.

  She’d also considered Todd and Josh to name a few.

  Josh turned out to be a good guy. He was hired by the Lions. It also happened that after he moved away from Ann Arbor, he discovered what he hadn’t been willing to admit. Josh prefers men to women. A smile comes to my lips as I remember the way Sami took it.

  God, she was great.

  Last I heard, she and Josh are still good friends.

  She’s dated other men along the way, but none of them had put a ring on her finger.

  As I rounded the end of the bar, my gaze went from the snow-covered balcony to the dark-haired man at the bar. By the change of his expression, he saw me too.

 
“Michaels,” Carmichael said with a nod and a sobering expression. “What are you doing here?”

  I straightened my shoulders and utilized every inch of my height. “It’s a bar.” I lifted my tumbler. “I’m having a drink. What are you doing here? And” —I nodded at the blonde, who was now scanning me in a way I recognize— “who is your date?”

  Carmichael bristled. “This is our newest intern, Ellen Modarski. Ellen, this is Marshal Michaels.”

  She lifted her hand my direction. “Very nice to meet you.”

  “We’re waiting for our table.” Carmichael’s gaze goes behind me as he tries to make himself appear taller. “And here’s my date.”

  As if she materializes out of thin air, Sami steps around me, reaching for her fiancé’s outstretched hand.

  “Jack, I’m sorry I’m late.”

  She hands him a key fob. “No valet. I parked it myself.”

  Jack nods, taking the fob from her.

  Before she realizes I am even there, I have a flashback of a dance and a red dress. Hell, the one she is wearing now covers about as much skin as that red one did back then. In her defense, this one is cut differently, not as revealing on top, but damn, how did she walk on the icy sidewalk in those shoes?

  Sami spins my direction, her smile wavering and recovering. “Marsh, what’s going on?”

  The knot in my chest pulls tighter as I force a smile. I want to tell her the truth. That’s always been our thing. But do I really know the truth? Maybe Melinda is right. Maybe it was all innocent. I clear my throat. “I’m here with some of my coworkers celebrating a big deal and saw Carmichael. I stopped to say hi.”

  Carmichael nods. “I heard McMann landed the Sirius Hotel deal.” He extends his hand. “Congratulations. I should buy you a drink.”

  I force myself to take his hand. “No, thank you.” I turn to Sami. “Hey gorgeous, how about lunch sometime?”

  “I’ve never been able to turn you down.”

  When Ellen looks from Sami to me and back, I feel the need to save my best friend, to protect her. I’m not sure if it’s necessary, but I can’t stop myself. “Old friends,” I explain.

  “Since you were five?” Carmichael says in the form of a question.

  “Since Sami kicked my ass. Watch out. She has a mean right hook.” Sami’s smile warms my heart, slowly unknotting my worries.

  “I’ll text you,” she says before turning to Ellen and talking to her, completely unaware that moments earlier that woman was flirting with—no, her fiancé was flirting with that woman.

  I can’t say I feel better as I walk away, but I don’t feel worse.

  Did I just save Sami from witnessing what I’d been watching?

  If I did, is that good or bad?

  By the time I make it back to the others from my firm, I’ve chosen to believe it is all innocent and good. I glance across the bar to see her smile. It lights up the entire room. If Sami stood closer to the windows, she would undoubtedly melt the snow.

  “Are you all right?” Melinda asks as we follow a hostess to our table.

  “I think so.”

  Marshal

  * * *

  "No, no..." Sami's words trail away as she shakes her head.

  It’s been a little over three months since the incident at the bar and seeing the hurt in Sami’s expression and the tears on her cheeks, I know I made the wrong choice that night. I won’t do the same tonight.

  The bourbon burns as I take a long sip.

  The alcohol doesn't dull her pain, but it helps calm my rage at myself and her no-good asshole ex.

  Ex as in she left her engagement ring on the kitchen counter of her condo before coming here.

  Even half-wasted, Sami is adorable. I love the way her long, wavy hair becomes curly in the summer's heat. She hates it. She always has, but I can't stop myself from reaching out and tweaking a long chestnut curl, just to watch it bounce.

  "Stop it!" she says, pulling away and laying her head against my sofa.

  Her eyes half close and the glass of wine in her hand tips one way and then the other.

  "Sami, let me take that," I offer as I reach for the wine.

  Her grip on the long stem tightens.

  "No. I'm going to drink this wine. I'm going to drink all" —her arms fly open wide as I capture the glass once more. This time I seize the glass as the liquid sloshes and just before my light brown leather sofa has a nice red stain— "the wine you have." Her plump lips purse and change to a pout when she realizes the glass is gone. "Fine, take the glass, only because I know you're going to refill it for me. Aren't you, Marshal? You wouldn't let me stay sober, not after..."

  Her words trail away as more tears fall from the corners of her green eyes.

  "He's not worth it." It's the same thing I've told her fifty times since she got to my apartment. "He's not worth the wine or the headache you're going to have in the morning. He's a slime. A douche. An asshole. And coming from one asshole, I know assholes. I never knew what you saw in him anyway."

  Her arms cross over her tits, not in anger but in the way she does to protect herself, shield herself from everyone else.

  Placing my glass and her wine on the end table, I tug on one of her hands and shine my cockiest grin. "Besides, wouldn't you rather be here with me than with him?"

  I've grabbed her left hand.

  I hadn't meant to.

  It was just the closest.

  We both look down at her empty ring finger. Just a few hours ago she’d been wearing a giant diamond engagement ring.

  Sami pulls her hand back and her words slur. "We were supposed to be married."

  No longer sad, she springs up from the couch.

  In only a moment, she changes from jilted fiancée to the Sami I've known most of my life, the one who wouldn't let some asshole walk all over her, and the one who's been my best friend for the last twenty-three years. Finally pulling herself out of her wine-induced funk, she staggers before catching herself by holding the back of a chair. Standing tall, she says, "In three weeks." She holds up three fingers, narrows her eyes as she concentrates on them and then repeats, "Three.”

  “Sami.” I lift my hand, palm up, toward her.

  She shakes her head and opens her eyes wide. "Holy shit," she continues, "do you have any idea how much money my parents are spending on this wedding? Have spent? As in money they probably can't get back? Shit. My mom. Oh my God, my mom has been working so hard. She’s going to have a coronary. And my dad, holy shit, Marshal, he may never recover."

  I stand ready to catch her if she wobbles again.

  With her green eyes glistening, Sami stares up at me, silently demanding an answer.

  "I don't know how much they've spent. But I know they won’t be as upset as you think.”

  Her green eyes narrow.

  “Sami, they hate his guts."

  "No, they don't," she answers defensively. "They love him. Everybody" —she elongates the word— "loves Jack. Jack and Sami. Sami and Jack. The perfect couple."

  "Jack isn’t perfect. He’s far from it. Don’t forget, he’s the asshole who fucked some other woman in your bed."

  “It was her.”

  “Her who?”

  “Ellen.” Sami’s nose scrunches. “She’s that intern at their practice—the one you met at The Rooftop bar. Jack told me he was assigned to watch over her work. Apparently, watching over means screwing her from above.”

  I shake my head. "Listen to me. Your dad would have voted Jackson off the island a long time ago."

  A smile comes to my lips just thinking of her dad’s obsession with reality television and zombies.

  If there were a reality zombie show, he'd be set for life—or the apocalypse. If the apocalypse happens, after his years of watching Survivor and The Walking Dead, among hundreds of others, I'll definitely want him on my team. I already have him programmed in my phone, for phone-a-friend, just in case.

  According to Paul, you should always be prepared.
>
  Who knows? One day I may find myself on the set of some game show that asks obscure questions related to reality television, English grammar, and zombies. If that happens, I’m prepared.

  Sami takes a deep breath. "No, he wouldn't. Dad was thrilled that I was marrying Jack. And well, no one knows about that Ellen thing—no one but you and of course Jack and her." She nods her head. "Yep, that's everyone. Hell, they were so into it, I doubt they even know I was there."

  I run my hands over her arms, up and down. "You should have grabbed a lamp and conked them both upside the head."

  A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "That's why I love you. Violence is always your first thought."

  I shrug. "I’d say it’s yours. Usually screwing is my first thought. But...well, that was already happening."

  She playfully hits my shoulder. "Thanks for the reminder."

  "Ouch. See. Be violent with Jack, not with me."

  As I wrap my arms around my best friend, she falls against my chest. The scent of strawberries tickles my nose, and I take a deeper breath. For just a second, Sami seems to relax and melt against me. Our friendship has seen it all. We know each other's deepest, darkest secrets and we're still here—through childhood, our teens, college, and now.

  Always.

  The one thing we haven't done, not ever, is move beyond friendship. It is our most important agreement, one we made when we were young. We also agreed that friends and family were off-limits. I crossed that line once but learned my lesson. As for the line between me and Sami, we’ve stayed true.

  Keeping that line in place was easy when we were running around the neighborhood or swimming in the lake. Back then it was as if we were brother and sister, but sometimes lately the thought crosses my mind. After all, that agreement was between two kids. Sami is definitely no longer a kid and neither am I. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be with Sami, with her, making love with her.

  But I can’t do it. I won’t.

  No matter how beautiful she has become, or fun, or happy, or sad, we are friends first and always. We can't jeopardize that. However, if we did cross that line, I'm sure I could help her forget that asshole Jack.