The Best Man

by Renshaw, Winter

  “She could still change her mind.” I say the kind of thing I’d want to hear if I was on the other side of this. “You never know.”

  “She’s moving to New York for a few months.”

  I almost choke. “What?”

  “Some job trade thing with one of the actuaries at the Manhattan branch. It’s just until the first of the year.”

  My heart races as fast as my thoughts. I’ve spent the past several days wrapping my head around Claire’s dream theory, ignoring the lingering pull that remained, and convincing myself to let the whole thing go because it was as unrealistic as it was impossible.

  “I need you to keep an eye on her for me,” Grant says. “Make sure she doesn’t meet anyone else.”

  “And how exactly do you propose I do that? You realize I’ve met her all of twice.” Another necessary and pseudo-harmless little lie I’m not proud of.

  “I want you to date her.”

  His words land like a lead anvil. For a moment, I’m certain I misheard him.

  “What?”

  “I mean, don’t fuck her,” he says with a casual chuckle. “Just … fill that void so she doesn’t have time to date anyone else.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He’s out of his goddamned mind.

  “I’ll pay you,” he says in a tone that borders between mild ribbing and serious-as-a-heart-attack.

  “The hell is wrong with you?” Screw Grant if he thinks he can pay me to be a goddamned heartbreaking con man in this innocent woman’s life.

  “You’ll do it. You know why? Because I’d do it for you.” His words are the God’s honest truth, and we both know it.

  “Look … you know I love you like a brother, and I’d do almost anything for you—but I’m not going to fake date your ex-fiancée.”

  It’s an insane plan that will never work, not to mention wrong on a myriad of levels.

  “Fine,” he says. “Then just … befriend her. Keep an eye on her for me. Let me know what she’s up to and all of that.”

  “I’ll be here if she needs anything. But this whole thing is between the two of you. You have to leave me out of it.”

  My desk phone chimes, and Paloma’s voice comes over the intercom.

  “I have to go. Hang in there, all right? You’ll get through this,” I say.

  “Fine. But my offer still stands. I’ll pay you …”

  “Fuck off with your offer.” I snort, rising and fastening my suit coat.

  Even if he dumped ten million dollars in my lap, I still wouldn’t do it—and for reasons I could never begin to explain to him.

  “You’re a good man, Cainan. Best friend a guy could ask for.”

  I just wish it felt that way.

  25

  Brie

  “I think that’s it.” Maya stands in the center of her living room, hands tucked in the back pockets of her five-hundred-dollar mom jeans. “If you think of any other questions, just shoot me a text.”

  It turns out, all this time I’d been working alongside the daughter of a famous billionaire.

  She’s a Delgado—as in the Park Avenue Delgados.

  As in the media mogul Delgados.

  As in her mother was once the mayor of New York City and her father golfs with Bezos, Gates, and Zuckerberg every summer on some private island in the Pacific.

  I try not to gape too hard at the apartment I’ll be calling home for the next three months. I also tried not to foam at the mouth when she told me this was the apartment they used in the Sex and the City movie—the prewar unit with the custom closet that Big purchased for Carrie before the whole wedding fiasco.

  Maya leaves a set of keys attached to a platinum Cartier key ring on the table as well as a list of important numbers, all of them scratched out on monogrammed stationery with rose gold leafing on the edges.

  So I guess she’s an actuary for fun?

  Either way, I have a newfound respect for a woman whose work ethic already rivaled mine.

  “Thanks again for doing this. My grandparents have no idea I’m moving to Phoenix for the rest of the year. Can’t wait to surprise them.” She wheels two enormous designer suitcases to the door. I hand her my house keys. I’d offered to let her use my car as well, but she promptly informed me that she’d never driven in her life, that she intended to use a driver to get around. I nodded and acted like it was a completely normal thing to do where I’m from.

  “Let me know if you have any questions when you get there,” I say. “Though I think it’s all pretty self-explanatory …”

  What my place lacks in old world charm, it more than makes up for with efficient, new construction amenities. My water heater will never break down. My windows are airtight with pristine screens. The laundry is conveniently located off the master bedroom. And kitchen appliances gleam with a pristine factory finish, seldom used since I spend most of my time at the office.

  Maya leaves with a wave, and I lock the door behind her before heading to one of the windows in her living room to watch the world below. Horns honk. People shout across the street. A small dog yips before doing its business against a trash can.

  I’m no stranger to this city, but living here is going to be an exciting change of pace. One I welcome with open arms.

  I crack the window and let in an early autumn breeze, one that smells of crisp leaves and chilled earth from way up here.

  From the counter, my phone chimes with a text, pulling me from my reverie. While I’m ninety percent certain it’s my mom or sisters making sure I made it all right, I check anyway.

  Only it isn’t my mom or my sisters.

  GRANT: HEY, JUST CHECKING TO SEE HOW NYC IS TREATING YOU? TODAY’S THE DAY, RIGHT?

  It’s been over a week since I ended things. While he’s been giving me space, he’s still holding onto a thread of hope that things are going to work out. He texts every other day or so, mostly touching base, asking how my day was, that sort of thing.

  He wants me to know he still cares—as if I could possibly forget.

  ME: JUST LANDED A COUPLE OF HOURS AGO. GETTING SETTLED. SO FAR, SO GOOD!

  I keep it neutral. Short and sweet. I don’t want to lead him on, but I don’t want to ignore him either. We’re adults. We can act like it. Break ups don’t have to be messy or dramatic. And honestly, I wouldn’t mind staying friends with him. We have fun together. There’s no reason we can’t continue to hike together, catch games, and see live shows at our favorite venues.

  GRANT: I’M GOING TO SEND YOU CAINAN’S NUMBER. IF YOU EVER NEED ANYTHING, HIT HIM UP.

  A second later, Cainan’s contact card comes through.

  I shove my phone into my bag and grab Maya’s keys before changing into tennis shoes and heading out to explore my new neighborhood. No one smiles in passing, not that I expect them to. Everyone’s glued to their phone, staring straight ahead, lost in their own little universe.

  I don’t mind.

  I’m just here to soak in the scenery, reveling in the fact that there isn’t a cactus to be seen. Not a single javelina demolishing the contents of someone’s garbage. No angry sun beating down.

  In many ways, this feels like strolling through a movie set. Every awning, every street light, every front stoop in its perfect place.

  Dreamlike almost.

  I’m fully engulfed in this moment—until someone calls my name.

  “Brie?” It’s a man’s voice. Vaguely familiar.

  I stop in my tracks, my gaze fixed on the tall drink of water standing in front of me. “Cainan?”

  If I wasn’t so stunned, I could calculate the odds of running into him on this exact street in a city of millions of people.

  “This is so crazy—Grant literally just texted me your number. And then I walk outside and run into you.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that Grant orchestrated this whole thing as a way to keep tabs on me, only it’s not conceivable. I never told him Maya’s name. And even if he did figure it out, her ad
dress is private and registered under one of her father’s many LLCs. Besides, Grant would have no way of knowing that I was going to go out for a stroll at this exact moment.

  It’s nothing more than a strange coincidence.

  “Oh, yeah? He mentioned you were moving here. You staying close by?” he asks.

  I point behind me. “A couple blocks that way.”

  His full mouth tugs at one side and he points to the building beside us. “Guess that makes us neighbors.”

  My stomach trills, and my heart misses a couple of beats—not unlike what happened at brunch the other weekend, when Cainan came to check on me. It was a kind gesture. Surprising too. One I had to force myself not to read into.

  He’s nothing more than a nice guy.

  “You know of any good coffee shops in the neighborhood?” I ask.

  “Was actually on my way to Atlantis over on 65th. Best coffee this side of Midtown and bonus points—it doubles as a bookstore … if you’re into that sort of thing …”

  I lift a palm to my heart. “Are you kidding me? Books and coffee are life.”

  “Oh, yeah? Favorite author?”

  “Toni Morrison. No question. The Bluest Eye is a masterpiece,” I say without pause. “Also, don’t judge me, but I’ve read just about every Stephen King book in existence.”

  I wait for him to laugh as some ‘book’ people do when I gush about my love of commercial fiction, but his expression is strangely unreadable.

  “Mind if I tag along?” I check my watch. It’s too early for dinner and unpacking my one suitcase will take all of thirty minutes, if that. I’ve got nothing but time on my hands. “Unless you’re headed somewhere …”

  He studies me. “Not at all.”

  * * *

  “You talk to Grant much these days?” I ask when we’re settled at a corner high-top in the back of Atlantis. My hands are wrapped around a warm mug filled with café au lait sprinkled with brown sugar and cinnamon.

  Cainan drinks his coffee black. Straight forward and unfussy.

  “He’s called me every day since you broke his heart.” His gaze falls to my wrist for a second.

  I think he’s being sarcastic, though I can’t tell for sure. He’s guarded. Slightly unreadable. And given the fact that this is only our fifth time meeting, if I count his accident, we’re still barely more than strangers. Though now that I’ll be living here the next few months, I expect that to change.

  “How do you think he’s doing?” I ask.

  “Do you care or are you just making conversation?”

  I frown. “I care.”

  “Not good. You really did a number on him.”

  My shoulders deflate, weighted with guilt. “My parents are beside themselves over this. My sisters are all disappointed, telling me every chance they get what a huge mistake I’m making. My mom cried. Real tears. And my sisters clucked around like angry hens. My father hasn’t spoken to me for a week. Anyway, Grant calls or texts me at least every other day, and every time I hear his voice … it’s equal parts sad and hopeful.”

  “So you ran off to New York so you wouldn’t have to deal with all of that?”

  I shake my head. “Me being here has nothing to do with Grant or ending the engagement. My counterpart at the Manhattan branch wanted to trade locations until the end of the year. Her grandparents live in Mesa. We traded houses and offices. It’s temporary.”

  “Grant’s under the impression that you’ll be back together once you return.”

  I sip my coffee, the taste bitter on my tongue. “I know he is.”

  “So there’s no chance you’ll take him back?” His attention lands on my wrist once more. A nervous twitch, perhaps?

  “The likelihood of me changing my mind is … less than zero.” I shrug. “I don’t love him. Not like that. And I don’t even think I want to get married.”

  He winces. “Why didn’t you just tell him ‘no’ when he proposed?”

  “Because he organized this whole thing at this packed restaurant and my entire family was there. And I liked him a lot. I liked being with him. Everything was so new and exciting. And Grant’s a fun guy. You of all people should know that. And he treats me like a queen. It seemed like a safe bet at the time.”

  “So you decided to tell him ‘yes’ and then play it by ear?”

  I take another drink. “I’m not proud. I wish I were better at saying no to people. My twin sister always called me a sugar-coater. But she was a Band-Aid-ripper. She was brutally honest and it came natural to her. She’d tell you to your face exactly what she thought of you, and she made no apologies for it.”

  “Sounds like she’d have fit in great out here.”

  I snort under my breath.

  “That was Kari for you.” I say, allowing myself to miss her so badly it hollows my chest for a moment. “Anyway, I really did a number on Grant. And my family, too.”

  “You can’t live your life for anyone else.”

  “I just hate hurting people I care about.”

  “I’d be concerned if you didn’t,” he says.

  “You probably know him better than anyone,” I say, “so tell me … what does everyone else see that I don’t? What am I missing here? Why does he seem so amazing, and yet walking away from him feels like a weight’s been lifted? Like I’ve averted some kind of crisis?”

  Cainan starts to say something but stops, and instead gifts me with an apologetic, closed smile. My curiosity is piqued, but my respect for his quietude remains.

  “I’m sorry. I’m way out of line here. You’re his best friend. I shouldn’t put you in the middle of this.” I wave my hand. “You’re just really easy to talk to.”

  He rests an elbow on the table, his hand wrapped around a navy mug as he drinks me in. My heart forgets to beat again when our eyes lock. In this light, his hazel eyes are almost entirely golden with the tiniest flecks of brown. Mesmerizing, hypnotic. And in a way I can’t explain, they almost feel like home.

  “You sugarcoat because you think softening the blow can control the outcome,” he breaks his silence. “But we can’t control other people’s feelings or reactions. We can’t control anything beyond our own reactions. The sooner we accept that, the easier it gets.”

  “Wow. That’s … deep.” I attempt to downplay how impressed I am with his sage advice.

  Grant and I never had conversations that dug beyond the surface. He’s easy to talk to, but his topics are shallow and safe. I never realized it until now. Perhaps that’s one of the components we were missing. There was no connection beyond the physical and external—the superficial. It was never intellectual. Never profound.

  Never like this.

  There’s a depth to Cainan, a rare quality this day and age. He’s an old soul. Classic and reserved yet as strong as corded steel. I imagine many people mistake his aloofness for cold-heartedness.

  “You won’t believe how many divorcing couples try to sugarcoat the hard truths because they feel guilty and don’t want to hurt their partner even more than they already have. Nine times out of ten, it only makes things worse.”

  “Let me ask you this … if you don’t believe we can control anything besides our reactions, what made you want to become an attorney?”

  “Fair question … to which I would say you can control things like divorce. Nobody has to stay married to anyone if they don’t want to. My reference was more along the lines of not being able to control the way other people respond, other people’s actions,” he says.

  “Do you believe in marriage?” It’s a bizarre question to ask someone you hardly know, but given the topic of conversation and his profession, surely it’s not completely out of line.

  “Most days, no,” he answers without hesitation.

  “What do you believe on the other days?” I’m overwhelmed with the urge to pick his brain, to peel back his mysterious layers.

  I was wrong about him the night we met. He wasn’t some married man from the suburbs taking part in
his secret double life. He wasn’t a liar. He was exactly who he said he was.

  A rarity.

  There aren’t enough people like him in this world.

  Cainan’s phone buzzes on the table. Glancing down, he exhales. “I’m sorry. I have to take this. I’ll be right back.”

  Cainan swipes his phone and hauls himself outside, pacing in front of the shop windows as he talks to the mystery caller. He rakes a hand through his dark, sandy blond hair, his back toward me. I take the opportunity to drink him in. Shamelessly..

  He’s tall, but not too tall. Wields a runner’s build. Broad-shouldered. Chiseled features that belong on billboards. Cainan James is sexy in every sense of the word—but his beauty is merely a bonus, second to the rest of his charms. It’s his intelligence, his soul, the unshakable tranquility he exudes that does all the heavy lifting.

  And then there’s the way he looks at me—as if I’m the only person in the room.

  Grant did that on our first date, and while it sent the butterflies in my middle into a feeding frenzy, it was nothing compared to the chaotic flurry I experience when Cainan does it.

  I watch as he ends his call, slides his phone into a side pocket, and returns inside.

  I shift my thoughts back to neutral, clear my throat, and sip my latte.

  It’s self-indulgent, maybe even masochistic to fantasize about a man I can’t have.

  “Brie, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to cut this short.” He glances at his half-empty coffee and grimaces. “I’ve got an emergency client mediation to attend. Anyway, it was great seeing you. Truly. Now that we’re neighbors, don’t be a stranger.”

  With that, he’s gone.

  I finish my drink, forcing myself to deny whatever it is I’m feeling with each and every swallow.

  When I’m done, I pass a book display by the cash register. This month’s pick is Paolo Coelho’s The Alchemist.

  On a whim, I buy a copy. Then I make my way back to Maya’s apartment, losing myself between the pages of a novel about a man inflicted with a reoccurring dream and his search for its meaning. But every few chapters, my mind tiptoes to Cainan, a man who seems so quietly sure of himself, of who he is, and what he wants.