The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

  She enjoys sharing this part of herself, and I wish she’d never stop talking. I scramble for more questions to keep her engaged. “And are those collard greens?”

  “Brazilian-style, yes. We call it couve à mineira. Instead of slow-cooking the collards, we slice them thinly and stir-fry them in garlic and olive oil. Want to try?”

  I lean in, drawn to the savory smells wafting over the table. She lifts a forkful of greens and transfers it to the side of my plate. I’m on it in seconds. “Oh, damn, that’s delicious. The texture’s interesting, too.”

  She smiles at me, but then her face falls, as though she’s just remembered who I am and why she shouldn’t be chummy with me. With a sigh, she digs into her own dish. A few seconds later, she straightens in her seat and snaps her fingers. “Oh, shoot. I forgot to tell you to try adding peppers to your stew.” She crinkles her nose. “Actually, never mind. It’ll probably be too spicy for you.”

  My head snaps back. Excuse me? Too spicy? I laugh at the insinuation that I can’t handle the heat. “I’m a big fan of cayenne sauce. Eat it all the time. And since I want to experience this meal the way it was meant to be enjoyed, hit me with it.”

  She grins at me and waves our server over. “O senhor poderia trazer o molho de pimenta malagueta?”

  Our server’s eyes grow wide. “Sério? Tem certeza?”

  Lina nods. “Sim.”

  He flashes a smile her way.

  “Certeza means ‘certain,’ right?” I ask after he leaves. “I’m picking up a few words here and there. Probably helps that I took Spanish in high school and it sounds like Portuguese.”

  “Yeah, he wanted to be sure about the peppers.”

  “Gotcha.” I wipe the lower half of my face. “The stew’s excellent, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

  The corners of her mouth lift, but it isn’t a smile. She’s distracted. Probably still pissed at me for the snide remark I made outside the dress shop.

  Because we need to get past this, I muster the courage to address the T. rex in the room. “Lina, I want to reiterate how sorry I am for the role I played in your breakup with Andrew.”

  She raises her chin and fixes her face into a blank expression; it’s a move so effortless, I bet she’s done it a million times. “There’s no need to apologize, Max. I’m over it.”

  I’m not convinced. If Lina were “over it,” would she have greeted me the way she did earlier? Would she retreat every time we take a step forward? I don’t think so. She may not be showing any overt signs of resentment, but the resentment’s there just the same. “Look, I can understand why you’d be frosty with me. But in my defense, Andrew truly wasn’t ready to get married to anyone back then. Whatever I told him would have forced him to face that fact. So in a sense, I guess you could say I did you a favor.”

  I laugh in the hopes that she’ll join me. It’d be great if one day we could look back on this episode with amusement, knowing she dodged a miserable-ever-after.

  “Max, I think you should stop while you’re—”

  “And if you two were meant to be, you would have eventually found your way back to him, right? Besides, I’m sure there’s no shortage of people who’d love to take his place.”

  A muscle ticks in her jaw. She picks up her cocktail and drains it. After she sets the glass down, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Right. Exactly.”

  The server returns with the pepper sauce, and I ladle it onto the stew.

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “Been looking forward to this.”

  Without a word, he backs away slowly.

  “That’s not enough to get the true experience,” Lina tells me. “Make sure to get a generous helping. Oh, and you must try a few of the whole peppers.”

  I take her advice and scoop more of the sauce onto my plate, licking my lips in anticipation.

  She watches me under the veil of her lashes as I eat another spoonful.

  “Oh, you’re right,” I say. “The sauce gives it extra oomph.” My tongue sizzles from the heat, but it isn’t overwhelming.

  Lina looks at me expectantly. “You good?”

  “I’m great,” I say, then toss one of the small red peppers in my mouth. This time, I can feel the heat working its way to the back of my throat and down my esophagus. Whoa. That pepper’s got bite. “What kind of pepper is this again?”

  “Malagueta,” she says. “It’s about twice as hot as a cayenne pepper, but nowhere near a ghost pepper.”

  “Hmm.” I wipe my brow as I pop another in my mouth and chew. Damn, is it getting warm in here? I look around. People are laughing and enjoying their meals, but they’re appearing in my mind’s eye like hazy mirages, as though they’d disappear if I were to reach out and touch them. Someone’s stretching my tongue, too. It feels way too big for my mouth. I fan myself with the cloth napkin as my eyes water. What the hell did I just eat? “Are you thure thisn’t a gauche peppa?”

  Lina shakes her head as if to clear it. “What did you say? I can’t understand you.”

  “A gauche peppa. Theems a little throng.”

  Lina snorts. “A ghost pepper? Seems a little strong?” She tilts her head. “Max, is your tongue okay?”

  I wave off her concern. “No, no, I’m thwine.”

  Leaning over and resting my hands on my thighs, I push away from the table. The sound of my chair scraping across the floor draws a few curious stares. Jesus. Maybe I’m a shape-shifting dragon and this is my first transformation. My throat certainly feels like it’s capable of producing enough fire to scorch this restaurant. Trying to cool my mouth, I pucker my lips and inhale and exhale. Swoo-hoo, swoo-hoo, swoo-hoo. Okay, the burning sensation’s dissipating, thank God. My tongue still feels like it’s wrapped in sausage casing, but I’ll survive.

  “Would you like me to ask the waiter for milk?” she asks.

  There’s an airiness to her voice, as though my discomfort has eased her own. I lift my head and study my tormentor. Judging by Lina’s poorly concealed grin, I’m assuming this is exactly how she wanted this to play out. Well, isn’t that something—there’s a prankster beneath that crusty exterior. And that changes everything. Forget being amused by her snippiness. Fuck mixing the perfect cocktail. I want nothing short of her surrender. Retreat, regroup, reengage—that’s what I need to do here. “I’ll be fine, no thanks to you.”

  “Me?” she says, a hand flying to her chest. “You wanted the peppers.”

  “Based on your calculated encouragement, yes. I didn’t think the peppers would strip my taste buds.” I shake my head. “Never expected that from you.”

  She dabs at her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Consider me a chameleon, Max. I regress to blend into my surroundings, present company included.”

  With any luck, she’ll blend into a ghost and disappear. “This is fascinating, really. I never imagined you’d enjoy playing games. Rounds out your winning personality quite nicely.”

  She shoots sparks at me with her eyes. “You know nothing about my personality.”

  “Today’s been a crash course on what makes you tick, so I know plenty. I also know you wanted to marry my brother at one point. I can figure out your Myers-Briggs personality type based on that info alone. ISTJ. Insensitive. Stubborn—”

  “What’s the matter, Max? Is coming up with an insightful comeback beyond your skill set?”

  My nostrils flare all on their own; they’re affronted by her condescension. I drum my fingers on the table and lean back in the chair. “I. S. T. J. Insensitive. Stubborn. Twisted. And—”

  Her eyes narrow to slits. “Don’t you dare say it, Max. Call me a jerk and I’ll force-feed you that entire bowl of peppers.”

  “I’d never call you a jerk.”

  That seems to placate her. The aura of steam billowing around her head vanishes.

  I lean forward, throwing my elbow on the table as if I’m issuing a challenge. “Besides, that’s a noun. No, the million-dollar word is . . . juvenile.”

 
Lina stills, a vein in her forehead popping out like a tiny alien. Then she growls at me. Literally growls. And it’s the most perfect sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

  Eliciting that response from her is so fucking satisfying—and for some unfathomable reason, I want to do it again and again.

  Chapter Eight

  Lina

  Oh God. Did I just growl? In a restaurant?

  I plop my elbows on the table, throw a hand against my forehead, and peek at the diners around us. No one seems to have noticed. Except Max, of course. Max, who, despite having looked like asshole warmed over only minutes ago, now appears relaxed and unruffled as he watches me in silence.

  Everything about him bothers me: his complete lack of self-awareness (genuine), his sarcasm (rudimentary), his boyish smile (insincere), his stupidly chiseled jaw that he pretends to stroke absently (totally affected), his thick so-dark-it’s-almost-black hair that I wish with all my heart were dyed so I could picture him sitting in a salon with foil strips clinging to the strands (natural, unfortunately), and so on and so on. Grrr.

  We don’t mix well, that’s for sure. He pushes buttons I wish I didn’t have. But I’m stuck with him. For at least the next five weeks—and maybe more. Now he thinks I’m as immature as he is. Even worse, he’s probably questioning my fitness for the job at the Cartwright.

  Take a deep breath, Lina. You can fix this. I scour my brain for something—anything—to explain my explosive reaction to Max’s needling. It doesn’t take long to settle on a cause. Stress. That must be the reason I’m out of sorts. I channel the goddess of tranquility—who bears a striking resemblance to an actor in a Summer’s Eve commercial—and say, “Max, we need to rid ourselves of this negative energy. It isn’t healthy for either of us. Let’s rewind the last few minutes, okay?”

  He lets out a deep breath, proving he isn’t as unruffled as he looks. “You’re absolutely right. Sorry about that.”

  I lean forward and lower my voice to a whisper. “The thing is, I’m under an immense amount of pressure, and I think it’s finally getting to me. If it were just one thing, I think I’d be okay. But in the last few days, I’ve run into one pothole after another. The bridal shop where I run my business is shutting down. The opportunity with the Cartwright, as much as I’m excited about it, brings its own set of worries. And I didn’t anticipate seeing Andrew again—not in that conference room. I’m not myself. At all.”

  Well, I am being myself, but that’s not the version of me I want to present to the world—or to the man who’s already seen me at a low point in my life.

  “That’s fair,” he says, frowning. “To be honest, I’m not myself, either.” He gestures at the space between us. “None of that was necessary, so let’s put it behind us. As for what to do about your stress, is there an activity that could help relieve it?” His eyes grow wide. “Like a physical activity, I mean.” He shakes his head. “A sport or something. Ax throwing. Yoga.” Grimacing, he gives me a half shrug. “I don’t know.”

  I wrinkle my nose at him. “My stress relievers usually take less active forms. Watching TV, shopping, eating sweets, silencing all electronics and reading undisturbed.”

  He sits back in his chair and chews on his bottom lip as he considers me. Seconds later, he says, “I take a capoeira class here in the District during the week. Tonight, in fact. It’s an awesome way to let off steam.”

  I blink at him, unable to process what he’s told me. “You what?”

  “Capoeira,” he says. “It’s a Brazilian martial arts—”

  I roll my eyes. “I know what capoeira is, Max. I’m just surprised you’re taking it as a class.”

  He raises a brow. “Why’s that?”

  “Because we’ve been eating Brazilian food for the last thirty minutes and you didn’t once mention that you’re familiar with any aspect of Brazilian culture.”

  It’s also intriguing. Suggests Max has layers underneath his shiny yet annoying topcoat.

  He shrugs. “Oh. Well, now you know. Think you’d like to join me?”

  “What? Tonight?” I scrunch my face. “No, I couldn’t.”

  He nods as though he’s not surprised by my refusal. “I just figured you might appreciate doing something like that. Music and dancing mixed with martial arts. Yeah, it’s probably too physical anyway. You said yourself you prefer less active forms of stress relief.”

  Our server sweeps in with my dessert, a giant brigadeiro. Max stares at the monstrosity. Yes, it’s a massive ball of chocolate with sprinkles. Isn’t that the definition of a stress reliever? And if Max thinks I won’t enjoy the shit out of this, he’s so wrong. I can eat chocolate and take a capoeira class. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. “When and where’s the class? I might stop by. Just out of curiosity.”

  “The class?” He scratches his head. “Let me text you the info when I get back to the office. I can give you the details on what to wear, point out landmarks in the area. I’ll send you the link to sign up.”

  “Oh, okay.” I dip my spoon into the thick bomb of chocolate on my plate. “Want to try?”

  He waves his refusal. “No, I can’t. My tongue’s out of commission.”

  My gaze dips to his mouth. It’s a nice mouth. Not that it matters.

  “It’s out of commission for eating things,” he adds. His eyes bug out. “For eating foods.”

  “Yeah, I get it, Max.”

  The clarification’s superfluous, of course. The state of Max’s tongue has nothing to do with me. Still, when someone puts an image in your head that you’d prefer not to see, your brain grafts it onto your retina. Oh my God, why are images of his face between my legs flashing through my brain? Make it stop. Make it stop!

  Max motions for the check and hands our server his credit card without seeing the total. “Listen, if I’m going to have any chance of making tonight’s class, I’ll need to get back to the office soon. Is it okay if I slip out after I pay the bill? Want me to order a Lyft or something?”

  Shaking my head, I wave off his offer with my spoon. “No, I’m fine.” I point at the brigadeiro. “Going to enjoy this for a bit.”

  The server returns with the receipts and Max signs the restaurant copy.

  “Generous tip included, or do you need me to take care of it?” I ask.

  “Generous tip included. Always.”

  I nod. At least he has that going for him. “Thanks for lunch.”

  “No problem,” he says as he stands. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  He gives me a knowing grin. “Okay, so probably not.”

  “Maybe means maybe, Max.” I say goodbye with a wave of the fingers of my free hand. “Tchau.”

  “Bye, Lina.”

  I watch him weave his way around the tables and stroll out the door. Now I feel compelled to go to the class just to prove his prediction wrong. And I bet he planned it that way.

  Next time I’ll give him a ghost pepper.

  * * *

  “Can I just state for the record that I think this is a terrible idea?” Jaslene says as we climb the stairs to Capoeira Afro-Brasilia Studio.

  No, I’m not dragging Jaslene to the class just for emotional backup. She needs a stress reliever, too. Completing her college studies at night is proving more challenging than she expected, and as an older-than-average student who’s been out of school for several years, she’s struggling with the demands of her new schedule. As for me, with the week I’ve had, I’m warming to the idea of learning how to disguise my physical aggression as intricate dancing. Jaslene, not so much. “Listen, I just want to show Max that I’m not as predictable as he thinks. One class. That’s it. Plus, you need a little loosening up. And it’s capoeira. How could you not be excited about that?”

  She rolls her eyes and tips her head from side to side as we reach the landing. “Okay, fine. But when I ask you to come to pole dancing class, saying no will not be an option.”

  “Deal,” I say as we
walk through the door.

  I know I’m in the right place as soon as I enter the large studio. It’s a mixed crowd of people—many of whom are speaking in English but with a distinctive accent that in my mind immediately pegs them as native Brazilians—and the energy they’re generating is positively electric. Max doesn’t appear to be here, however. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll happily harass him about it for weeks.

  Jaslene and I stand near the door and survey the bustling scene. Not long after, a group of approximately twenty people of different ages, genders, and skin colors file out of a side door, settle onto chairs along the back wall, and warm up their instruments, including the single-string berimbau that drives a capoeira circle. I repeatedly tap Jaslene on the arm. “They have a real bateria. Tell me you’re not impressed.”

  Jaslene gives me a grudging smile. “Okay, yes, that is impressive, but that doesn’t mean their drumbeats are going to magically turn me into an acrobatic phenom. I’m going to look like a pendeja out there. And Max hasn’t even shown up yet.”

  Before I can respond, a man in white pants, bare feet, and a T-shirt with the studio’s logo on it motions us over to him. “Olá, meus amigos.”

  “Olá, estamos aqui para a aula inicial de capoeira,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice my Portuguese language skills are intermediate at best.

  His eyes brighten, and then the words flow from his mouth as though they’re riding a rapid. I’m only able to catch every third or fourth one before Jaslene puts up a hand to slow him down.

  “Whoa, there,” she says. “I’m Puerto Rican, not Brazilian, and I’m having trouble keeping up.”

  He draws back in surprise, plainly having assumed Jaslene was a compatriot. Hanging out with my family and me as much as she does, she gets that a lot, particularly because she’s Afro–Puerto Rican and her complexion is deep brown like mine. The man turns to me. “E você? Brasileira?”

  My cheeks warm under his inspection. I’m always a tad embarrassed when I’m put in the position of explaining that I’m not fluent. “Sim, meus pais são brasileiros, mas eu não falo português fluentemente.”