I chew the inside of my lip.
Two weeks ago, Brie texted me. Two weeks ago Claire preached to me about the perils of playing with fire—not that I needed the sermon. And every fucking day for the past two weeks, Grant reminds me of his broken heart in some way, shape, or form.
For that reason, I ignored Brie’s text about the book. I’ve avoided Atlantis like the plague. And I’ve drowned out my thoughts of her with anything and everything—mostly work.
I convinced myself I was doing the right thing, even if it made my insides twist and knot, even if my thoughts pricked through at three o’clock in the morning without explanation.
ME: SAW HER ON THE SIDEWALK A LITTLE BIT AGO.
I wasn’t going to invite her up initially—until she mentioned she was going to see Chicago. It made me think of the dream. About all the things I knew about her that I wanted to confirm. I’d fully intended on working a few of those details into small talk, but I wasn’t expecting her visit to be cut so short.
GRANT: HOW’D SHE LOOK?
I huff. I imagine he wants me to tell him she looks hopeless and miserable and despondent, that she’s a shell of the woman she was when she was his. But the truth was, she looked fucking beautiful. Glossy dark hair, livewire green eyes, chunky sweater over skintight leather leggings, a guarded smile she wore only for me.
ME: IDK. NORMAL?
GRANT: BTW I TOLD HER YOU PLANNED THE VEGAS TRIP.
ME: WHY DID YOU LIE?
GRANT: BC I DIDN’T WANT TO SOUND LIKE A FUCKING LAMEASS. BESIDES AS MY FORMER BEST MAN AND LIFELONG BEST FRIEND YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN THE ONE PLANNING THE TRIP ANYWAY.
GRANT: DID SHE SAY ANYTHING ABOUT ME?
ME: NOPE. WE TALKED BOOKS THEN SHE HAD TO GO. SAID SHE’S SEEING A SHOW TONIGHT.
GRANT: WHAT TIME WAS THIS?
ME: MAYBE TWENTY MINUTES AGO?
GRANT: INTERESTING. I THINK SHE HUNG UP WITH ME SO SHE COULD TALK TO YOU …
ME: AND YOUR POINT?
My question is idiotic. I know his point. He’s still on that kick about me “wooing” her so I can keep tabs on her and ensure she doesn’t date anyone else while she’s in town.
GRANT: TEXT HER AND ASK HER TO HANG OUT THIS WEEKEND.
I place my phone aside, followed by my copy of The Alchemist, and I walk away. Grant can get really fucking persistent sometimes, and I’m not in the mood tonight.
Vegas is the antithesis of my scene, but the poor bastard is hurting and duty calls, even if I have to ignore the fact that he claimed Brie was the love of his life yet still had his hands down Serena’s pants while simultaneously scheming to fuck Brie over with the prenup. Multitasking at its finest.
I retire my judgement.
It’s not my place to play judge and jury.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy she dumped his ass.
Brie deserves better.
She deserves someone more like … me.
29
Brie
“Excuse me. I ordered this without mayo and it’s drenched …” A skinny blonde in a silk Boho duster and knee-high boots slaps her deli sandwich on the counter Tuesday morning. “Hello? Does anybody work here?”
She scoffs and checks her phone before rising on her toes and flagging down a poor deli worker slicing a hunk of turkey breast.
“Hey! You,” she calls to him. He pretends not to hear her. Turning to me, she rolls her eyes. “They act like their job is so damn hard. Maybe a—”
She stops speaking the instant our eyes lock.
“You’re Serena, right?” I ask. “From Cainan’s party?”
Her Alaskan-blue eyes size me up from top to bottom, but before she can say anything, a middle-aged man in a white apron approaches her from behind the counter. I stand back, averting my gaze as she gives him the what-for over her turkey sandwich on rye. He takes it back without a word, making a show of tossing it in the trash before instructing one of his minions to make her a new one.
“So you live here in the city?” I ask.
“Brooklyn.” She watches as a girl who can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen makes her a dry turkey replacement sandwich. No cheese. No condiments. As soon as she wraps it in brown paper, Serena peels her stare from that direction and steals a glance at my hands.
I imagine she’s looking for my ring—for proof that the engagement is officially over.
“Here you go.” The young girl hands Serena her sandwich, and just like that, she’s on her way. Not so much as a see you around or nice running into you.
Weird …
I refuse to take it personally, given the fact that she knows nothing about me other than the fact that I was once engaged to a man she knows.
Ten minutes later, I dive into my soup and salad combo at a table-for-two.
Wonder what Cainan is up to today…
ME: I FINISHED DORIAN GRAY OVER THE WEEKEND. ALSO JUST RAN INTO SERENA AT THE HIGH MARKET DELI. SHE COULDN’T GET AWAY FROM ME FAST ENOUGH. I GET THE SENSE THAT SHE AND GRANT HAVE A HISTORY?;-)
CAINAN: YOU HANG AROUND THIS CITY LONG ENOUGH AND YOU’LL REALIZE THAT EVERYONE “HAS A HISTORY” WITH GRANT FORSYTHE.
ME: DAMN. AND HERE I THOUGHT I’D JOINED SOME EXCLUSIVE CLUB.
ME: WHEN CAN I RETURN YOUR BOOK? DO YOU HAVE AN AFTER-HOURS DROP BOX?
CAINAN: I’LL BE AROUND SATURDAY MORNING IF YOU WANT TO SWING BY.
ME: WILL DO …
I check the time and finish my lunch so I can get back to the office for my one o’clock Skype meeting. It isn’t until I’m boarding the elevator and riding it to the tenth floor that the ache in my cheeks pulls my fingers upward.
Holy crap. I’m grinning like an idiot.
I wipe the ridiculous expression off my face, compose myself, and duck into my office to check a few emails before the meeting starts. While I’m at it, I make a note on my calendar to return the book to Cainan on Saturday morning.
Not that I’ll forget …
Something tells me it’s all I’m going to think about for the next four days.
Even if I shouldn’t.
30
Cainan
Brie shows up shortly before eleven Saturday morning. “Feel like a walk? It’s gorgeous outside.”
It’s gorgeous inside too—the credit all hers.
Satin waves the color of dark chocolate frame her face, and her emerald irises light from within as she bites a smile and hands me the book she borrowed.
She isn’t wrong. It’s a fine October day. Crisp weather. Not too breezy. Trees turning the color of olives and rust and burnished gold, painting picturesque autumn portraits along every avenue.
“Fine.” I tease her with a wink as I grab a jacket and slip into a pair of sneakers—not unlike Mr. Rogers, though I’m a tad sexier if I do say so myself.
I place the book aside and lock up on the way out.
The instant we hit the sidewalk, the breeze brings me her perfume—a simultaneously sweet and dark number.
“What do you think of city life so far?” I ask as we head north, hands in our pockets, ambling ahead with destination-less strides.
“Definitely different than popping in once a month,” she says. “But, it’s also everything I expected and more. Sometimes I feel like I’m just some character living out a fantasy.”
“You’re giving this place way more credit than it deserves. It’s not that dreamy.”
“Tell that to my inner teenager who can’t stop walking around Maya’s apartment like I’m Carrie Bradshaw.” She chuckles under her breath and tucks a loose lock behind one ear, revealing a single dimple.
“Who’s that?”
She shoots me a look. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
I shake my head.
“Carrie Bradshaw,” she says the name harder. “Sex and the City …”
Shrugging, I shake my head once more. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
“It was this show from, like, twenty years ago
. My sisters used to let me watch it when I was probably way too young,” I say. “It was about these four best friends who lived in Manhattan and they had these crazy love lives.”
“Ah.” I recall a handful of billboards around the city and the occasional tour bus showing four middle-aged women dressed in outdated clothing. “I think I know what you’re talking about now.”
“I’d tell you to binge it, but something tells me it’s not your kind of show.”
“I don’t really watch TV.”
“Oh.” She rolls her eyes, though I get the sense she’s kidding. “You’re one of those.”
“My parents didn’t believe in TV growing up, so we never had one. When I got to college, I was too busy to even care about what was on TV, and it wasn’t something that interested me. I moved to the city right after finishing law school, and I’ve been building my career ever since. I can’t imagine sitting down and doing nothing but staring at a screen like a zombie. I’d much rather be staring at a book.”
“I love that about you,” she says as we round the corner. As soon as she realizes what she said, her cheeks turn rosy and without hesitating, she adds, “Grant said you’re not on social media either.”
Trying to change the subject?
“Correct. Tried it. Hated it.” I don’t get into the whole hacked-by-a-psycho-ex thing because it’s neither here nor there. “I’ve never understood the obsession with other people’s lives. Who the hell cares what some random person from your high school is up to these days? I’d much rather be living my life than watching everyone else live theirs.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” she says. “Though sometimes when you come from a large family, it’s just easier to keep in touch on a website. If my sisters want to post pictures of their kids, it’s easier to post them there than to send out two dozen text messages.”
“I suppose,” I say. “Guess I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”
She’s quiet for a beat.
“You have a sister, right? Claire?”
“Yep.”
“And you said your parents didn’t believe in TV? That must have been an interesting childhood.”
I chuff. “To say the least.”
“What else didn’t they believe in?”
“You name it,” I say. “Christmas, birthdays … getting along with each other for more than five seconds at a time.”
She flinches. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. They were assholes. And I haven’t seen or spoken to them in over a decade,” I say. “I’ve moved on. Life’s too short to hold onto the past.”
“Do you ever miss them?”
“Hard no.” I’m not even sure if they’re still living in Jersey. Don’t know. Don’t care.
“What about your sister? Does she still talk to them?” she asks.
I shake my head. “She invited them to her wedding a few years ago, only because it seemed like the right thing to do. They RSVP’d yes—and then they no-showed. I ended up walking her down the aisle.”
“Wow.”
We finish the current block in silence.
“What’s your family like?” I change the subject.
“Big,” she says. “Loud. Opinionated. Traditional. They could make a sitcom out of us. My parents have been married almost forty years and still adore each other like lovesick teenagers. I have three older sisters … Carly, Alana, and Megan. We lost Kari five years ago. Carly has three kids. All teenagers. Alana is pregnant with baby number five and due any day. Megan is the most indecisive soul you’ll ever meet in your entire life. She’s had four fiancés and six careers in three states over the last ten years. My family can be intense, and we’ve had our fair shares of disharmony, but there’s never been a shortage of love.”
“Sounds nice”
She pulls in a slow breath. “Yeah. It is.”
“You miss them?”
Brie smirks. “Not yet.”
We round the next block. Up ahead a hot dog vendor gabs into his phone, and the scent of all-beef franks fills the air.
“Confession time,” Brie says, “I really love hot-dog cart hot dogs—also I’m really hungry right now because I skipped breakfast—so I’m going to get one. Please reserve any and all judgement. I don’t know what’s in the water, and I don’t want to know what’s in the water.”
My blood turns cold, cracking like ice in my veins. The dream comes around again. This small detail about her isn’t news to me in the least.
Before I have a chance to respond, she’s ordering.
“You want one?” Brie turns back to me. “You know you do …”
“I’m good. Thanks.” I wave her off and shove my hands in my pockets, hardly able to feel them.
For a moment, I’m not sure if any of this is real.
What if this is a dream?
She returns with a steaming hot dog slathered in ketchup and mustard and a handful of napkins. We take a seat on a nearby bench. A city bus roars past us, as well as pockets of people, many of them tourists snapping pictures as they draw closer to Central Park.
“So what are you reading these days?” she asks between bites.
“Contracts. Mostly.”
“No. For fun.”
“Just finished The Alchemist for the fourth time,” I say.
She slaps my shoulder. “See! I told you it’s amazing.”
“So I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you.” The line has been resonating in my mind lately.
Brie nearly chokes on her bite. “What?”
“It’s a line from the book …” Oops. Maybe I should’ve thought about my choice better.
The color returns to her face. “Ah. I’ve only read it once. I guess maybe if I were an overachiever who’d read it four times, I’d have known that …”
“I’m hardly an overachiever. Intense maybe—if something captures my interest. Overachiever, nah.”
“That sounds exactly like the kind of line my sister, Kari, would’ve tattooed on herself.” Brie takes a small bite. “She had eight of them. My parents only knew of three.”
“You have any tattoos?” I steal a glance at her wrist, half-expecting there to be something this time despite knowing it’s impossible.
She sits up taller. “Nope. Too permanent.”
“Afraid of commitment?” Seems like a safe bet to me, given the status of her engagement.
Brie gives me side eye, glancing up through a fringe of dark lashes. “No need to analyze it. They’re just not my thing.”
A dab of ketchup rests on the side of her mouth. I swipe it away with the back of my thumb before stealing one of her napkins to clean myself.
I had to touch her. Needed to touch her. I couldn’t resist.
I wanted to know if she’s real.
If this moment is real.
We linger on the park bench long after her lunch is finished, chatting books and art, travel and history. I’ve never considered myself talkative or “chatty.” I don’t tend to speak unless the words about to leave my lips are profound or worthwhile to the listener. But with Brie, the conversation flows. The words don’t stop. I want to tell her everything about me. And I want to know everything about her.
It’s as though my soul has been waiting for her to come along my entire life.
Now here she is.
What I wouldn’t give to make her mine …
31
Brie
I step out of the shower Saturday night to find a text message waiting.
GRANT: HEY, BEAUTIFUL. HOW WAS YOUR DAY? WHAT DID YOU DO?
I wrap a towel around my dripping body and contemplate my response. Do I tell him I returned a book I’d borrowed from his best friend and invited him on a walk? Do I tell him we palled around the city, wandering for hours upon hours with no destination, the conversation flowing like delicious wine? Do I tell him about how we talked about our families? Spent an hour people-watching in Central Park? Do I tell him about the busk
ers we stopped to listen to on Bleecker Street? Do I tell him about the little Thai place Cainan took me to for dinner? How it was the size of a postage stamp but had the best Som Tam I’d ever tasted?
Do I tell him that being with his best friend inexplicably breathes life into my heart and soul in ways he never could?
I wipe the fog from the mirror, re-secure my towel, and inhale a steamy breath before making my decision.
ME: HAD A GREAT DAY … WANDERED THE CITY, TRIED A NEW RESTAURANT, WALKED FOR HOURS.
I decide to leave Cainan out of it. I don’t want to hurt Grant any more than I already have. I don’t want to make him worry about nothing.
Then again, if I’m leaving him out—I know damn well he isn’t nothing.
32
Cainan
I’m headed out to meet a few friends for drinks Saturday night when my phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart stutters in the moments before I read it, half of me hoping it’s her.
Maybe she forgot something at my place?
Maybe she has a question?
Maybe she’s bored and wants to know what I’m doing tonight despite the fact that we spent the entire damned day together—glued at the proverbial hip yet doing our best to keep our hands to ourselves and our conversation painfully platonic?
But it isn’t her.
GRANT: WHAT’S UP? WHAT’D YOU DO TODAY?
I’m not in the business of lying. Not to myself. Not to my best friend.
I’m also not in the business of being a woman-thieving asshole.
But telling Grant that I spent the entirety of the day aimlessly traversing city block after city block because every step away from my neighborhood equaled more time with Brie … would crush him.
If I told him I saw the city today through her big green eyes, wiped ketchup from her full mouth because I wanted to know what it was like to touch her, if I told him I didn’t look at my watch for hours, ignored a handful of phone calls and texts, and gave her my undivided attention because as far as I was concerned, she was the only living, breathing woman in all of Manhattan—it would devastate him.
The Best Man Page 14