“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.” Brie tucks a small bag under her arm and disappears around the corner to the restrooms.
Claire, Luke, and I damn near sigh in collective relief.
Grant doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest.
“Dude.” I reach across the table and yank his phone out of his hand to get his attention. “Not cool putting her on the spot like that in front of us.”
He reaches for it—and misses. “Not cool taking my fucking phone out of my hand. What are we? Twelve?”
I don’t remind him that neither of us had cell phones at that age. I don’t remind him of our humble roots, though maybe someone should. The older we get—and the fatter his bank account— the more he seems to forget where he came from.
Placing the phone down in front of me, I lean forward to say something … only I stop when a distracting text fills his screen.
Snatching it up, I shove it at him.
“Seriously?” I wrinkle my nose at him. The image of Serena’s au naturel teardrop tits is now forever burned into my memory. “Thought you were done with her?”
He examines the text, his lips lifting into a half-smirk. “She’s obsessed with me. What can I say?”
“How about you take responsibility for your part in that?” I shoot him a look. “Maybe, I don’t know, tell her to stop texting you because you’re engaged to the love of your life?”
I use air quotes around love of your life.
“The hell is your problem? Who died and made you the relationship police? You’ve never given two shits about this kind of stuff before …” He taps out a response to Serena, and judging by the full-on smile engulfing his face, it’s fair to say he isn’t telling her to stop sending him nudes.
Claire places a hand on my forearm.
“Are we ready to order?” Our server returns with a chipper grin that fades the instant she realizes she left for a few minutes and returned to a war zone. “Looks like you could use a few more minutes … I’ll check back in a bit.”
“Grant, maybe you should go find Brie? Make sure she’s okay?” Claire sips her water.
He doesn’t look up from his phone. “She’s fine.”
He doesn’t know that though. And he obviously doesn’t care.
Grant hungover and in a mood is a combination I haven’t seen since college. It can only get uglier from here.
Rising, I toss my napkin on the table.
I’ll fucking do it.
Before anyone has a chance to protest, I stride toward the restrooms, a man on a mission. I stop short when I find her leaning against the wall, her phone pressed to her ear. Perhaps she didn’t shy away because he put her on the spot. Maybe she had to make a simple phone call.
“Hey,” she says when she sees me, covering the receiver on her phone. Lifting a finger, she adds, “Give me a second. Just finishing up a work call.”
A few seconds later, she hangs up and turns back to me.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” I say, embracing how bizarre it is that I’m the one checking on her while her fiancé sits back at the table, feasting his eyes on a buffet of nudes from his longtime (and ongoing) fuck buddy.
Her dark brows gather, but then her expression softens, and she waves a hand. “Oh. Yeah. No. I’m good. Everything’s good.”
“Is it?” I keep my voice low, intimately so.
She tilts her head, studying me through squinting emerald eyes. “For now, yes.”
All the things I want to say in this moment are all the things I can’t say.
You’re making the right decision leaving him …
Grant is notoriously self-centered and unfiltered when he’s in a mood …
If he truly loved you, he wouldn’t be fucking another woman behind your back …
He doesn’t deserve you …
You should be mine …
But I say none of those things because Grant’s relationship shortcomings aside, he’s still my best friend. My brother. The most loyal friend I’ve ever had. And we’re not the kind of men who have ever let a woman come between us.
He would never throw me under the bus.
I’m not about to do it to him.
Besides, Brie’s mind is made up. She’s leaving him. My opinions and Grant’s secret second life are irrelevant. They won’t make a difference either way.
“I’ll be back to the table in a minute. Just have to make one more work call,” she says. “Go ahead and order without me if you need to.”
I return to the scene of the crime and take a seat. Grant’s phone is buried and out of sight, and he and Luke are now talking finances and long-term investment vehicles—like none of that shit show happened.
I survey the hall for Brie. While I hardly know her, the table feels incomplete in her absence. I’d almost say I miss her, but that would be absurd. Besides, I couldn’t even begin to explain why I have these feelings.
It’s easier to ignore them.
So I do.
When Brie comes back, we place our brunch order. The five of us spend the hour that follows talking current events, upcoming trips, and exchanging old memories. When we’re done, we split the tab and go our separate ways—Grant and Brie hailing a cab so they can collect their bags from the hotel and head straight to JFK to catch their flight, and Claire and Luke debating whether or not to hit up an art fair in the East Village or jog off their heavy breakfast in Central Park.
“You doing okay?” Claire prods me in the arm with her elbow. “You got kind of quiet after you checked on Brie … I swear you maybe said all of twenty words over the last hour. Not like you.”
“I’m fine.” I do my best to convince her with my words, but my voice must fail me because she rolls her eyes.
“Liar,” she says. “What’s really going on?”
Without saying a word, Luke excuses himself to a newspaper stand half a block away. As Velcro’d as he is to my sister, he always knows when she needs a moment away from him.
“Does it bother you that Grant’s getting married?” She folds her arms, hips cocked. “Is that what this is about? I know you two had this grand plan to be bachelors for life or whatever, but if—”
“—no.”
“Okay … then what was that about earlier? With the phone and the text message and the freaking air quotes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use air quotes in my life. And your tone with him. Yeesh.” Claire exaggerates a shudder.
“It doesn’t matter.”
She scoffs. “Of course it matters. So tell me. You know I won’t let this go until you do. What was that really about?”
I debate whether to give her a satisfying enough response that’ll send her on her way for now … or to just tell her the truth, which she’s bound to pry out of my sealed lips sooner or later.
“I don’t even know how to say this,” I begin.
Claire lifts a shoulder. “Just say it.”
“Brie …” I swallow a lungful of crisp, late morning air, only it tastes like bus fumes and dying leaves, “is the woman from my dream.”
Claire is quiet for a rare beat. “That Brie?”
“Yes. That Brie. I just … this is so fucked up, Claire. This entire thing. I’ve spent all this time searching for someone I wasn’t even sure existed … and when I find her, she’s engaged to my fucking best friend.” My jaw clenches. I leave out the part about Brie confessing she’s going to end her engagement because, it’s a secret she’s entrusted me with. But I don’t hold back the next part, “And not only that, but he’s been screwing around on her with Serena the entire time they’ve been engaged.”
Not to mention the prenup bullshit—another detail I’m not at liberty to share due to attorney-client privilege.
“He doesn’t love her,” I continue. “And he sure as hell doesn’t deserve her.”
Sliding her hand into the crook of my arm, she leads me to a nearby bench and forces me to take a seat.
“Okay, so the way I see it,” Claire
says, “this can only be a good thing.”
“How so?”
“Grant met Brie because she was the one who came upon your accident, called 9-1-1, stayed with you, followed you to the hospital. All that stuff. Right?”
I nod.
“So when you were fading in and out of consciousness in your mangled car, she was probably the last face you saw, the last voice you heard before you passed out completely. Also, you said you met her in a bar the other week, right? And that you’d met before but you didn’t remember meeting her?” Claire’s eyes light and her words spew faster, as if she’s on the cusp of her own personal eureka moment. “Oh my God. It all makes sense. That’s why she was in your dream!”
Her theory makes sense.
“The actual dream itself meant nothing,” Claire says with convincing insistence. “And Brie just happened to be in it because she was fresh in your subconscious.” Taking a seat beside me, she covers my hand with hers. “Cain … this is a good thing. We’ve figured it out. We’ve cracked the code. You can move on with your life now. Your real life. You can forget all about that stupid dream because now we know it was nothing more than mental gibberish.”
Luke returns, taking slow and cautious steps our way, this month’s issue of the New Yorker tucked beneath one arm as he waits for Claire to give him the all-clear.
“I have to go. We can finish this talk later though, okay?” She rises. “But seriously. Think about it. You’re finally free.”
I don’t tell her I disagree.
I’m not free.
I’ll never be free until I can make her mine.
And making her mine will never be an option.
23
Brie
“Hey, babe.” Grant greets me with a kiss Wednesday night as I step across the threshold of his front door.
I tense at his touch.
The time has come.
I’m ending this.
My throat constricts, and my mouth is dry. The words are there, on the tip of my tongue, ready when I am.
We landed late Saturday evening and went our separate ways from Sky Harbor. The last few days we’ve been catching up at work, too busy to send more than a handful of scattered texts throughout the day.
I take a seat on his sofa as he opens a bottle of pinot noir in the kitchen, pouring two glasses almost to the top.
After that comment he made at brunch last weekend—about me having second thoughts, I excused myself to make a call, hoping the topic of conversation would be diverted by the time I came back. And it was. On the plane ride home, Grant slipped his headphones on and crashed for four straight hours.
“I’ve missed you.” He hands me a glass and takes the cushion beside me. “Work’s been insane this week, playing catch up. It’s like they’re incapable of functioning without me telling them exactly what to do twenty-four-freaking-seven.”
There are circles under his eyes that weren’t there ten days ago—before his dad died, before he missed a week of work, before he got so hammered at a party that he made an ass of himself and showed his true colors the next morning.
“You’re quiet.” He rubs my shoulder. “And tense. Jeez, babe. What’s wrong?”
I place my untouched wine glass on a coaster and clear my throat. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence before Grant pops up, dragging a hand through his hair and pacing the spot between the coffee table and fireplace.
“I knew it,” he says under his breath. “I knew you were going to do this.”
He stops pacing and turns to me.
“Brie … babe … please. Don’t …” His glassy eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen before.
“I’m sorry.” I rise. “I think we rushed this, we got carried away … but I don’t want to get married. And not just to you—to anyone. It’s not something I want. I don’t even know if I want kids.”
“You’re scared.” He comes around the coffee table and clasps my hands in his, peering so intensely it feels as if he can penetrate my soul. “It’s normal. Everyone gets scared. Cold feet. Whatever. We can do counseling. We can talk through this.”
He’s speaking so fast it’s a wonder his mouth can keep up.
“I don’t think counseling can change my mind about wanting to get married …”
“I thought we were in love? Isn’t that what you do when you love someone? You take it to the next level? You commit?” His eyes search mine. “We can postpone it. How much time do you want? A year? Two? Whatever makes you comfortable. The last thing I want to do is scare you into walking away because I’m so damned crazy about you.”
“Grant …”
“I’ve never felt this way about anyone.” He swallows, his gaze glassy. “I know … if you walk out of my life, there will never be another you. I swear to you, I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy. Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”
“You do make me happy. You’re a good man. And you’ve always been wonderful to me …” Save for him completely ignoring me at Cainan’s party last weekend. “This isn’t about you. This isn’t about anything you’ve done. It’s just the way I feel.”
“Seriously, Brie? You’re going to pull this shit right after my fucking dad died?” His tone changes. The glassy eyes turn dry. The painful wince on his face is replaced with scowling lips and ruddy cheeks.
Grant releases my hand. He scoffs and steps back.
Suddenly it’s as if I’m arguing with a teenager and not a thirty-year-old, self-made man.
“I don’t think it’s fair for you to use that card.” On instinct, I fold my hands across my chest, but I keep my shoulders pulled back as I maintain my composure. “Would you have preferred that I strung you along?”
He tries to speak but nothing comes out.
“There was never going to be a perfect time to do this. I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. I hate that I’m hurting you. But I want you to know that I adore you as a person. I think you’re an amazing human being, and I have nothing but respect for you.”
His hands go to his hips, and he squints out the window. “How many times did you practice that one in the mirror?”
“Excuse me?”
“You sound rehearsed.”
My arms fold across my chest. I take a deep breath and remind myself that he’s deeply hurt, that sometimes people get this way as a defense mechanism, that hurt people hurt people.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, yes. But I haven’t rehearsed any of it. I’m speaking from my heart,” I say. “Anyway, I hope we can stay friends after—”
Grant collapses on the sofa, his head buried in his hands. I can’t tell if he’s actually crying or if he’s faking it—all the more reason to assure myself that I’m doing the right thing. I’ve seen countless sides of this man in the last week that I never knew existed.
“I fucked this up.” His voice is muffled against his palms. “I’m so sorry, Brie. I’m so sorry.”
I hesitate before taking the spot next to him, and then I place my hand onto his back to let him know I’m still here. “You didn’t … fuck anything up.”
“What can I do?” When he turns to me, his eyes are red and glossy. But his cheeks are dry. “Tell me what to do. I want to make this right. I can’t lose you.”
The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself.
We’re going in circles.
“I’m sorry.” I collect my bag. “My mind is made up— for a couple of weeks now.”
The color drains from his face as he watches me stride to the door. Half of me expects him to rush to my side, to try to capture me in his arms, to fall to his knees in an act of last-resort desperation.
But he remains planted on the sofa, still as a statue.
“I’m moving to Manhattan,” I say, because I know that as long as he believes I’m in town, he’ll relentlessly pursue me.
“What? When?”
“Next
week,” I say.
“How long have you had this planned? And when were you going to tell me? Is this why you’re ending things?”
“I just decided the other week. And it’s a temporary arrangement. I’ll be moving back after the first of the year. I’m doing a favor for a colleague.”
He exhales, as if he’s relieved that I’m coming back. Though, if I’m lucky, he’ll have moved on by then.
Grant is an attractive man. He’s successful and driven. He’s ambitious and hard-working. He’s an outgoing people person. Phoenix is filled with beautiful, intelligent, driven women who’d be happy to scoop him up in a heartbeat.
“Why don’t we just take a break then?” He stands, shoulders back. There’s a confidence in his tone that doesn’t belong. “Three months apart. Three months to think about things. To really think about them.”
“I’ve already thought about them …”
“Think about them some more then,” he says. “You might be surprised. You might miss me. You might change your mind. And when you do, I’ll be here. Waiting.”
24
Cainan
“Can you believe this shit?” Grant blows a breath into the receiver Thursday morning. I check the clock—my nine AM should be here any minute.
This is the first we’ve talked since brunch last weekend, and I have to admit I’m relieved he’s pretending like our heated little moment never happened. Moving on is in everyone’s best interest.
“I’m so sorry … I know you really liked her.” I drum my fingers against my desktop. Pretending to be shocked at this news and lying to my best friend isn’t my finest moment, but the truth would make things ten times worse.
“I just … she blindsided me,” he speaks slowly, as if he’s dumbfounded with disbelief. I picture him slumped over his desk, head in his hands, staring at the wall with wide eyes.
“You really didn’t see this coming?” As much as I want to remind him of the fact that he literally said she was having second thoughts a few days ago, I opt not to go down that road.
“I mean, maybe? She’d been kind of quiet the last couple of weeks; thought maybe she was pulling away. Then I thought it was my imagination. Guess I didn’t want to believe she was having a change of heart.”
The Best Man Page 11