The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

  I stare at him as he fidgets with his key fob. He wants to bolt, and I’m standing here preventing his escape. I should say goodbye, but I don’t want to end the night this way. “Max, it’s true there are no do-overs in life, but we can move on from here. I’d like us to be friends.”

  He exhales a deep breath and taps the roof of the car. “I’d like that, too.”

  Before I can think better of it, I blurt out, “And I hope there isn’t any doubt about this, but your ex-girlfriend was wrong. You’re a great guy—in your own right. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

  “Thanks for saying that.” He runs a jerky hand through his hair. “But I still need to head out. I’ll call you about Saturday.”

  He doesn’t wait for my response. Confused by his impolite behavior, I watch him walk to his car and slip inside. Within seconds, he’s speeding off—as if his own demons are chasing him and he’s determined to outrun them.

  Max

  It’s been two hours since I left Rio de Wheaton and I’m still unsettled. I’m also itchy and jumpy as hell. Not even a cold shower made a difference. And if all that isn’t enough, Dean’s ignoring my texts.

  A beer would help, but I’m holding off on drinking one, because if Dean ever answers, I’m driving over to his place. He’ll know what to say to get my brain in proper order. As of now, synapses are misfiring and my lobes are working against each other.

  I scramble to grab my phone when I hear the text alert.

  Dean: Sorry, man. Was on a date. What’s up?

  Me: Got someone with you?

  Dean: Nope. Weren’t feeling each other. The search for my perfect partner continues.

  Me: Can I stop by? Need to talk.

  Dean: We’re talking now.

  Me: We’re texting.

  Dean: R u ok?

  Me: I’m fine.

  Dean: Is this a booty call?

  Me: Fuck you. Can I come over or not?

  Dean: Sure, come on over.

  I’m there within fifteen minutes.

  When Dean opens the door, he crowds the threshold. “What the hell is that?”

  I raise the items in the air. “An overnight bag and a pillow. Just in case.”

  Dean scratches the side of his face and lets out a heavy sigh. “Get your ass in here.” He stalks away, then plants himself on a stool in his kitchen, watching me set my stuff down in a corner. “It’s late, and I need to be at work bright and early. What’s going on?”

  I pace the length of his living room, trying to formulate my thoughts. “I need to hear those reasons again.”

  I’m not sure how long he stares at me, but it feels like a long time. A minute, maybe?

  “What happened?” His voice is resigned, as though he has his suspicions and only wants me to confirm them.

  “Nothing happened. I’m trying to make sure that remains true.”

  He stands. “Don’t bullshit me, Max.” Shaking his head, he gestures in my general direction. “This is not what ‘nothing happened’ looks like. What’d you do?”

  I slow my steps and face his skeptical gaze. “I had inappropriate thoughts about Lina.”

  “Just thoughts?”

  I nod. “Just thoughts.”

  He throws up his hands and plops back onto the stool. “What’s the problem, then? We all have inappropriate thoughts from time to time. It’s called being human.”

  Dean’s not getting it. I’ve been thinking inappropriate thoughts about Lina for the past two and a half hours. I’m having them now. And I don’t want to get in bed because I’m worried about where those thoughts will take me. It would be a slippery slope—literally and figuratively. “Thoughts are one thing, but what if I do more?”

  He blows out his cheeks, then releases them, peering at me with a puzzled look on his face. “What does that mean?” Several seconds later, his jaw goes slack and he falls over in laughter. “Oh damn. You’re scared you’re going to think about her as you jerk off?”

  Hearing him say it out loud sounds so much worse than I imagined. I pull on my hair, zigzagging across his living room like a Ping-Pong ball. “It’s not funny. I’m trash. Complete trash.”

  “What set you off this time?” he says on a chuckle.

  “She was dancing at her family’s shop, oblivious to the fact that I was watching her. And Dean, I’m telling you, I was fucking mesmerized.” I whimper at the memory of the way she moved her ass and hips in the middle of that store. “Christ, she was going to be my sister-in-law at one point.”

  Dean purses his lips at me. “But she isn’t your sister-in-law now, so calm the fuck down.”

  “Tell me what to do,” I say.

  He ponders my request, and then he asks, “Is she showing any signs that she’s feeling the same way? Is this a two-way thing?”

  “I’m not even sure she likes me. As a person, I mean. She said we could be friends. Said I was a great guy. I felt like I’d won the lottery. Freaked me the fuck out. To her, though, it’s nothing. She tolerates me, probably for the sake of this big-deal job she wants to get. I mean, she wanted to marry my brother. She couldn’t possibly be interested in me.”

  “Then tie your hands behind your back and go the fuck to sleep. My couch is your couch. Sheets and blankets in the hall closet. We can talk more tomorrow.” He ambles toward the hallway leading to his bedroom. “Good night.”

  Grumbling at Dean’s lack of support when I need him the most, I stomp to the bathroom, where I brush and floss my teeth. Still pissed, I throw a sheet on the couch, turn off the hall light, and dive under the comforter I grabbed from the closet, one that smells like a woman’s perfume. I don’t even get fresh linens. Some host he is.

  And with nothing else to do, I settle in to consume the images of Lina that won’t stop flashing in my restless brain. The way she moaned her appreciation for her lunch. The moment she brushed crumbs from my face. The dance of torture.

  She’s always in control. Detached. Not mean, exactly, just reserved. Face blank, voice even. Everything and everyone has a place. That’s the planner in her, I suppose. But God, I want to disorganize her to within an inch of her life. Disorient her so thoroughly she throws on her clothes inside out afterward. Extra points if I can get her to a state where she’s incapable of telling the difference between a button and a boutonniere.

  I picture us together, in high-definition resolution with surround sound and memory-on-demand playback capabilities. It’s only a vision of my hand slipping underneath her pencil skirt as she squeezes her eyes shut and gasps, but it’s enough to make me jump off the couch, drag the lavender-smelling comforter down the hall, and knock on Dean’s door.

  “What?” he barks.

  I peek inside. “Let me stay in here tonight. Your bed is huge. It’ll guarantee I won’t . . . you know . . . and I promise to stay on my side.”

  He slaps a hand on his forehead. “Jesus Christ. Are you incapable of self-control?” After a few seconds more, he says, “Anything I’ve ever owed you is repaid tonight. Understood?”

  “Yeah,” I say, relieved he’s not tossing me out.

  “And if I sense any rocking motion, I will shove your ass onto the floor and permanently ban you from visiting me.”

  “No problem.” I jump on the bed and fall onto my back, rearranging the comforter over my lower half. “Thanks, man.”

  “Fuck off,” he says, turning to his side. “You need to figure your shit out, because this is not going to be a regular thing.”

  “I know.”

  I’ll worry about that later. For now, I can rest easy knowing I’ll be able to look Lina in the eyes the next time we’re together. That’s something, at least.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Max

  From: MHartley@AtlasCommunications.com

  To: CSantos@DottingTheIDos.com

  Date: April 19 - 11:17 am

  Subject: Saturday

  Hi Lina,

  Just following up about the trip tomorrow. A few questions
:

  (1) Should we drive down together?

  (2) What’s the name of the place we’re visiting?

  (3) Do I need to bring anything?

  It would be great to discuss our strategy about the presentation at some point, which is why I vote yes on Question 1.

  Hope you’re well.

  Max

  From: CSantos@DottingTheIDos.com

  To: MHartley@AtlasCommunications.com

  Date: April 19 - 1:13 pm

  Subject: Re: Saturday

  Hello Max,

  (1) That’s fine, but I’m driving my car there.

  (2) Surrey Lane Farm, Raven Hill, VA

  (3) I checked the weather forecast, and there might be a passing shower. Since it’s a farm, weatherproof boots would be a good idea. And a change of clothes is always wise (in case the grounds are muddy).

  I can pick you up at your place Saturday morning, or you can meet me in College Park and leave your car there. You’d be backtracking if you come my way, though. It’s up to you.

  Best,

  Lina

  I’m typing a reply when Andrew knocks on the door and waltzes in without waiting for my invitation.

  “And hello to you, too,” I say without looking up from my screen.

  “Hey, got a minute?” he asks, sitting down in a guest chair.

  “Let me just finish up this email.”

  I type. He waits. There’s no chatting in between. After I hit send, I lean back in my chair and place my clasped hands on the desk. “What’s up?”

  “Two things,” he says. “One, the Virginia Real Estate Consortium wants to discuss marketing for the third quarter. Within the next couple of weeks, if possible. When you get a chance, can you send Sammy the days you’re free for lunch?”

  I scribble a note to myself to do just that. “On it. What’s the second thing?”

  “For the presentations to Rebecca Cartwright, have you thought about what A/V equipment you’re going to need? Will a computer suffice? PowerPoint on a projector screen? Just trying to figure out if we need to make any special requests.”

  Is he, now? The equipment he needs is always where it’s supposed to be because I make sure it’s there. Truth is, he’s never concerned himself with these issues before, which immediately puts me on high bullshit alert. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on here. My big brother’s snooping and doing a piss-poor job of masking it. “Haven’t given it much thought yet. Lina and I still need to talk about the specifics of the presentation. Right now I’m in the due diligence stage.”

  Andrew tips his head back slightly. “Really? The pitch is less than four weeks away. That’s not a lot of time to prepare.”

  I shrug. “We’re preparing. Believe me, everything we’re doing will inform the pitch in some way. How’s your guy? Henry, right?”

  Andrew nods. “He’s an organizational guru. Scarily put together. I’m excited to show Rebecca what we’ve come up with.”

  “I guess that’s why they’re planners. Organization comes easy to them.”

  “In Lina’s case, she had other options,” Andrew says, tapping his thigh. “Did you know she was a paralegal before she became a wedding planner? You should ask her about it sometime.” He rises from the chair.

  It irritates me that Andrew knows more about Lina than I do. Then I remind myself that he’s Lina’s ex-fiancé. He should know more. That irritates me, too. Wearing a self-satisfied smile, I look up at him. “Maybe I’ll do that. We’re heading to Virginia this weekend. Work-related. I could ask her during the two-hour drive.”

  Andrews stiffens, a muscle in his jaw clenching in response to the news.

  Fuck. That was uncalled for. I can picture Dean pointing at us now and saying, This. This is what I was talking about, man. I’m ashamed of my small-minded behavior, and I wish I could retract the statement, but that’s not how these things work. As Lina said, there are no do-overs in life. And she’s right. There are only do-betters.

  “Anyway,” I say, mentally scrambling to clean up my shit, “we’re looking at a potential wedding venue. I hope we don’t kill each other before we get there.”

  His body goes lax again—well, as lax as Andrew will allow it to go—and he rocks back on his heels. “Good luck. You’re probably going to need it.”

  He’s so right. But not for the reason he thinks.

  * * *

  “This is your ride? A ninety-nine Volvo? It’s yellow.”

  Lina huffs at me as she tries to jiggle the trunk open. “It’s a 2002, okay? And anyone with a discerning eye can see it’s Maya Gold.” She grits her teeth as she pulls on the latch, until the trunk pops open with a loud kerplunk. “That’s just a minor jam. The car is sound.”

  I slip her a wary glance, unsure whether it’s wise to put my belongings in the back of this behemoth masquerading as a vehicle. “I have a decent Acura less than a hundred feet away. It’s not too late to hop in that one instead.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Listen, car snob, I’m driving, and I drive well in my car. Let’s not alter any variables unnecessarily.” Muttering to herself, she rounds the back of the banana cab and slides into the driver’s seat.

  She’s wearing jeans today, and I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to look at another pair without envisioning Lina in them. Who knew there was such a thing as a denim fetish? She’s paired the pants with a black collared shirt that’s partially tucked into her waistband, resulting in a look that once again throws my perception of her out of whack. This trip is already off to a shaky start, and we haven’t even used an ounce of gasoline yet.

  Knowing I need to extend an olive branch to make up for the dig about her car, I climb into the passenger seat and hold up the paper bag and thermos in my hands. “I brought snacks.”

  She twists her head in my direction and peers at me, the corners of her glossy lips lifting in a lopsided smirk. “It’s nine in the morning. I think I can hold off on eating until we get to the farm, but if you’re hungry, don’t let me stop you.”

  I shrug. “Suit yourself. But give me a minute to get situated.” Then I place the thermos between my legs so I can put on my seatbelt. After strapping myself in, I uncap the thermos and pour coffee into my reusable travel mug. The drink is sweet and creamy and probably has more grams of sugar in it than an entire bottle of maple syrup, but I like it. A lot. “Your mother makes a fantastic cup of coffee.”

  She wrinkles her nose but keeps her eyes trained on the road as she eases into traffic. “My mother?”

  “Yeah. I stopped by Rio de Wheaton this morning. She gave me cafe and”—I shake the bag—“pão de queijo.”

  Her mouth falls open. “You didn’t.”

  “Ah, Ms. Santos, I did. I knew I’d never be able to earn brownie points with you, so I figured I’d try for pão de queijo points.”

  She grins. “What do you need points for?”

  “Insurance. If my past conduct is any guide, I will most definitely screw up in the future, and I’ll need to cash in on any credits. I’m working on building a reserve now.”

  “Smart man,” she says, still grinning.

  A few beats of silence pass, during which she blinks so excessively I wonder if a lash is trapped in her eye, then her shoulders drop in resignation. “May I have one, please?”

  “A cheeseball?”

  She grimaces. “If you want to earn points, don’t call it a cheeseball.”

  I scoff at her. “That’s the literal translation.”

  “No, it isn’t. The literal translation is cheese bread. And anyway, it’s so much more than a ball of cheese. It’s this morsel of goodness that’s flaky on the outside, and gooey and warm on the inside, and when you break it apart, the cheese stretches for miles.”

  “Do you want it or not?” I ask.

  “I want it,” she says breathily, sticking out her hand.

  “Ah-ah-ah. Safety first. Both hands on the steering wheel, please.”

  Her mouth
twitches, but she does as she’s told. I need to keep her in the driver’s seat. She’s much more agreeable in this position.

  Despite the limpness of her expression, she opens wide as my fingers approach, then she takes the entire ball in her mouth. I will not make a smart-ass remark here, and to ensure it, I bite down on my bottom lip hard enough to make a small tear in the skin.

  “It’s good,” she says as she chews. “But it’d be a thousand times better fresh from the oven.”

  “That’s what your mother said. Luckily for me, I had a few at the store that were still piping hot.”

  She grumbles a few unintelligible words and says more clearly, “You’re losing pão de queijo points here.”

  “Want another one?”

  She nods. “One more.”

  I feed her another, then pop one in my own mouth, relaxing into the seat in preparation for the long drive. When she gets on Rock Creek Parkway, I twist in my seat to face her. “Sure you don’t want me to drive a leg of the trip?”

  “I like driving. It’s actually a stress reliever for me, so if it makes no difference to you, I’d prefer to stay at the helm the entire way.”

  I shrug. “Makes no difference to me so have at it. What about music?”

  She bares her teeth as though she’s anticipating a negative reaction from me in response to whatever she’s about to say. “I rarely listen to music in the car. That stress relief I mentioned? It comes from sitting in the driver’s seat, watching the road, and working through my thoughts. But I’m not a car hog, either. If you want to listen to music, be my guest.”