The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

“No, no. I was just wondering. I’m comfortable with silence.”

  She nods. “Great.”

  We’ve finally reached a point when there’s no animosity between us. It’s a welcome change, and I figure now’s an ideal time to ask her about her former job. “So Andrew mentioned that you were a paralegal before you became a wedding planner. Why’d you decide to make the switch?”

  In the span of seconds, her expression hardens like quick-setting concrete. If she tried to crack a smile in her current state, her face would probably splinter into a thousand pieces. “Hmm. You and Andrew have been talking about me?”

  Whoa. Okay, I didn’t think I was going to need those pão de queijo points so soon. And sure, out of context, I can see why she wouldn’t appreciate that revelation, but I can easily explain this away. “Not really, no. He made an offhand comment about wedding planners and their organizational skills and suggested that some of your skills come from your experience as a paralegal. He said I should ask you about it.”

  Staring straight ahead, she grinds her teeth a bit, then she sighs. “I didn’t choose to make the switch from paralegal to wedding planner.”

  “You didn’t?”

  She shakes her head. “No, Max. I was fired.”

  Dammit. We were doing so well. Now I’ve raised a topic she obviously doesn’t want to discuss. I squeeze my eyes shut, mentally cursing my brother for suggesting that I ask her about her old job. Even when Andrew’s not around he’s wreaking havoc in my life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lina

  I’m not mad at Max for posing an innocent question at Andrew’s suggestion; I’m annoyed that Andrew fiendishly encouraged his brother to ask it in the first place. Andrew doesn’t understand how that experience impacted my life—because I never explained it to him—but he knows I don’t like to talk about it. No purpose could possibly be served by rehashing that drama. Andrew’s goal was to undermine Max, plain and simple.

  I sneak a glance at Max, my heart twisting at his stricken expression. I’m feeling surprisingly protective of my travel companion, and I never imagined I would. “It’s old news, okay? But yes, wedding planning is my do-over.”

  He clears his face of any evidence of his agitation. “Do-better, you mean.”

  “What?” I ask, frowning.

  “You told me there’s no such thing as a do-over, remember? So this is your do-better. I think the term fits perfectly. And I’m . . . I’m sorry if my question brought up bad memories.”

  I shrug off his apology. “Don’t sweat it, Max. It’s not a big deal.”

  He fidgets in his seat, then reaches for his travel mug, changing his mind mid-stretch. “How can it not be a big deal? It played a part in the person you are today. That matters.” He shakes his head as he taps on the passenger window.

  I understand why he’s frustrated with his brother, but I also get the sense he’s frustrated that he doesn’t know this part of my background. It’s puzzling—and a weightier subject than I want to tackle during a quick excursion to Virginia farm country. Unable to bear the silence any longer, I reach out to turn on the radio. Before my finger hits the dial, though, Max swings around, startling me.

  He scrapes a hand through his hair and clears his throat. “I’m going to be honest here and tell you I fucking hate that Andrew knows your secrets. He doesn’t deserve to.”

  Okay, then. I guess we’re talking about this whether I want to or not. “So, what? You think you do?”

  “I’d take better care of them,” he says softly.

  I believe him—and that scares me. Max would never use my past in an immature attempt to outwit his brother. But as much as I’d like to take his words at face value, I can’t ignore their problematic nature. Because even though Max can’t see it, I can: Neither he nor his brother knows how to exist without the other as a benchmark. Despite their efforts to resist their bond, it’s there nonetheless—the good, the bad, and the annoying.

  “No one gets anywhere with me by diminishing someone else. You want my secrets? Earn them.” I give him a sideways glance to emphasize my meaning. “All on your own.”

  I wish I could see his reaction to the gauntlet I’ve thrown, but it’s more important that we get to our destination without incident. I hear it, though. Boy, do I hear it.

  “I’ll earn your secrets,” he says, his voice serious and steady. “I promise.”

  It doesn’t surprise me that he wants to try. What surprises me is that I want him to. Unsettled and on edge, I scramble for something else to talk about. “Why don’t we discuss a plan for the presentation? That seems like a productive way to spend the next couple of hours.”

  He blows out a slow breath and nods. “Good idea.” Then he quickly pulls a bag from the back seat and produces a notepad and pen, as though he’s just as eager as I am to move on. “So, I’ll confess that I didn’t have a good grasp on what wedding planners do on a day-to-day basis, but watching you in the past couple of weeks has been eye-opening. I’m thinking an approach that focuses on the different roles you play could be compelling. I mean, apart from making sure the actual wedding day goes off without a hitch, you wear so many hats: vendor intermediary, a location scout, a fashion consultant, a nutritionist, even a family counselor, and I’m sure there’s lots more. The trick is that when a couple starts to think about doing all those tasks on their own, it’ll sound overwhelming and rightly so. That could be one hook for your branding strategy.”

  It’s gratifying to hear him speak about my work in such complimentary terms. People often assume wedding planners deal with trivial matters, but the weddings I handle involve complex family dynamics, test the strength of relationships, honor cultural customs and traditions, and embrace love and partnerships in all their iterations. It’s hardly fluff, and I would side-eye anyone who claimed otherwise. I’m glad to know Max doesn’t fall in that camp. “I like where this is headed. I’d like to focus on the practical ways I can help a couple. The types of tasks you can take off your to-do list if you hire me. That’s how I came up with the name Dotting the I Do’s.”

  He chuckles. “That name’s perfect. In marketing parlance, we’d say that’s a great way to build brand recall. The name stands out in a crowd. But keep in mind that if you want your strategy to hit your target audience, you need to address the emotional aspect of wedding planning, too. Case in point, I talked to a few of your references and a common theme that emerged is . . .”

  The hesitation in his voice is no surprise. “Let me guess: I’m not as friendly as they’d like me to be.”

  He takes a deep breath and drops his chin. “Yes, something like that. Let me add, you got stellar reviews across the board, but if there’s one place that could use a tiny bit of improvement, it’s your perceived approachability.”

  Ah, there’s that word again. The one that reminds me I’m never going to win any congeniality contests. My no-nonsense persona comes at a cost. I know this. Some people read it to mean more than it is. Words like unrelatable, unapproachable, and unlikable get thrown around. It hurts, but I can’t fault people for not seeing what I don’t show them. Plus, some will label me with those terms without knowing a single thing about me.

  The irony of all this isn’t difficult to see: I need to make myself more palatable to counteract the effects of the persona I developed to hide the less palatable aspects of my personality. The notion makes my head spin; I mean, it’s not only a tongue twister but a mind twister, too.

  “I’m sorry,” Max says. “It can’t be easy to hear that. Please know this is a marketing issue, not a you issue.”

  I glance over at him. His eyebrows are drawn together as he doodles on his pad.

  “Max, I get it. I’m a professional working in an industry that treats emotions as currency. I don’t gush or swoon or squee with my clients. That’s just not me. But if the perception that flows from not being touchy-feely is hindering my brand, then I’m willing to address it for the sake of the pitch. I owe it to my
family to give it my best shot.”

  “Your family?” he asks.

  I drum my hands against the steering wheel. “Yeah, my family. My mother and aunts helped me start my business. Made a lot of sacrifices before then, too. I don’t want to let them down.”

  “I’m sure that’ll never be the case.”

  I wish I could say the same, but I can’t. I let them down once already. “So, I suppose you want to adopt a marketing hook that’ll soften my image. Is that the idea?”

  He taps his pen against the pad again. “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way. See, it’s all about adopting a shorthand that will resonate with potential clients. An identity that’ll do the emotional work for you. I’m not suggesting we film you running through a field of daisies as wind whips through your hair, but I bet we could put our heads together and settle on a concept we’d both be happy with.”

  I nod. “Now’s as good a time as any, right?”

  “Right,” he says.

  We spend the next hour brainstorming—and rejecting each other’s ideas.

  “What about ‘the Wedding Whisperer’?” he asks.

  I cringe, recalling my own nickname when dealing with Natalia. “Feels too hokey to me. Makes me think we’re playing into the stereotype of bridezillas who need to be tamed. And what would the logo look like anyway? A silhouette of me putting a bride in a choke hold?”

  Max barks out a laugh. “Okay, okay, fair point.”

  “How about a play on maid of honor? ‘Planner of Honor’?” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m so bad at this.”

  “Don’t be discouraged. Trying and discarding ideas is part of the process.”

  I spy a rest stop ahead and prepare to pull in. “Okay if we take a break? I need to use the restroom.”

  He drops his pen and pad into his bag. “Of course.”

  As I’m parking, he abruptly shifts in his seat and snaps his fingers. “I think I’ve got it. A play on the fairy godmother character. Instead, you’re the wedding godmother. You turn ordinary things into the stuff of dreams. Just when things seem hopeless, you sweep in and ensure a magical day. I’d need to massage the verbiage, but I think it could work. The key is that a godmother is that kind, helpful figure in your life. The person who’ll be there for you when you need a bit of comfort as things get hectic. It’ll make prospective clients envision that you’ll be there for them, guiding them every step of the way.”

  I turn off the engine. “I like it, actually. Just as long as we emphasize that I do way more than pass out glass slippers. Oh, and if we need a tagline, I vote for ‘Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Bitch.’ A little truth in advertising never hurts, and it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Max just stares at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  The corners of his mouth quirk up, then he says, “Who are you?”

  I exit the car. Before I close the driver’s-side door, I bend down and wink at him. “Ah, Max. That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

  Not to be outdone, he winks right back at me. “You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to the search.”

  On that note, I shut the door and scramble to the restroom. Oh my. This truce may be more than I bargained for.

  When I return a few minutes later, Max is sitting in the passenger seat with his eyes closed. I don’t want to notice that the skin above his five o’clock shadow is smooth, or that his lips are plump, or that his jaw is strong and bears a small bean-shaped birthmark on the left side, but in a ten-second visual sweep of his profile, it’s hard not to. If I’m a little disoriented when I try to fit my key in the ignition, it’s only because I’ve been driving for nearly two hours and the trip’s taken a toll on me. And when I turn the key and nothing happens, it must be because I’m hallucinating.

  Max turns his head and peeks at me with one eye. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not starting. Not even cranking.” I peer at the dashboard. “No lights, either.”

  He sits up and surveys the dashboard, as though his set of eyes will help solve a mystery that’s already been solved. “Battery’s dead.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  He points a scolding finger at me. “You’re the one who insisted on taking the banana cab for its last hurrah, so don’t get snippy with me, woman.”

  And just like that, the truce is over.

  I caress the dash and steering wheel, begging my car to wake up. “Come on, baby. We just need to go a few more miles and then we can get you checked out.”

  Max groans. “This is ridiculous.” He climbs out of the car and whips out his phone.

  I climb out as well and stare at him over the roof of the car. “Who are you calling?”

  “A tow service. Got a better idea?”

  I scrunch my brows at him. “We can just get a jump. I do it all the time.”

  He lifts his chin and narrows his eyes at me. “I thought you said the car was sound. How many times have you gotten a jump?”

  What does it matter? And why is he interrogating me? I shrug. “Three times, maybe? It’s really no big deal. Most manufacturers only recommend battery replacement after six or seven jumps.”

  He puckers his lips in disbelief. “That’s not true.”

  “Well, it should be.”

  “For someone who plans everything, you’re pretty lax about car maintenance.”

  “Car maintenance requires money, and I’m not rolling around in a bed full of cash, okay? Besides, I do maintain this car. I just thought the battery had a few more lives left.”

  He smacks his forehead. “Okay, never mind. Let’s find someone with a working battery.”

  Hands on his hips, he spins around, searching for a person who can give us a jump. The only problem is, we haven’t seen anyone drive past us in the ten minutes we’ve been parked at this stop.

  After a few minutes of waiting in silence, I admit defeat. “I’ll call a tow.”

  He widens his eyes and throws up his hands. “That’s a brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Your sarcasm lacks imagination,” I say, the phone at my ear. “You need to kick it up several notches.”

  He rolls his eyes at me. For someone who claims to be inherently low-key, he sure does hit all his high notes around me.

  “Just get a tow, okay,” he says. “In the meantime, I’ll pop the hood and take a look. Make sure there isn’t something else going on.”

  He untucks his blue button-down and unfastens it, slowly revealing the white T-shirt underneath.

  My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “What are you doing?”

  The customer representative on the other end of the line clears his throat. “Excuse me?”

  Shit. “Sorry,” I say into the phone. “I was talking to someone else.”

  Max cocks his head at me, his eyes flickering with amusement. “I’m not going under that hood without taking this off. I don’t want to mess it up.”

  “I’ll do it, then,” I whisper. “My shirt’s black, so even if I mess it up, no one will be able to tell.”

  He ignores my offer. “You’re making the call. I’m looking under the hood.” Then he slips out of the shirt, opens the passenger door, and carefully drapes the shirt on the front seat.

  Ugh. It’s the return of Hartley the Hottie. I’m entertaining inappropriate thoughts about the man who would have been my brother-in-law, and it’s making me crabby. I grimace at the enticing view, compelled to lash out at the person who’s suddenly got me rattled. “Why are you just standing there? Will you get under the hood already? Chop, chop.”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” he grumbles. “There’s no need to be so rude. Sheesh.”

  He stomps off, and I find myself peering at his back to see if he’s ripped there, too.

  Dammit. He is.

  * * *

  “Yep, battery’s dead,” the tow truck operator—“TJ” per his nameplate—tells us. “But you’re in luck. I can tow it
to my shop, call around for a new battery, and get that sucker in by tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning!” Max and I shout in unison.

  TJ takes off his baseball cap and wipes his brow. “Well, yeah. We’re not in the District, Dorothy and Toto. There isn’t a parts distributor on the next corner. Hell, there are no corners round here. And it is a 2002 Volvo.”

  “We can hire a Lyft,” Max says.

  TJ laughs. “Good luck with that. This isn’t exactly hired car service country, either. Most people have trucks. Or their own cars. Plus, you’ll need to get your vehicle in the morning.”

  This trip will be a total bust if I don’t make our appointment, so I’m determined to at least accomplish that. As for the rest, I’ll deal with it later. “TJ, we’re heading to Surrey Lane Farm. According to Google Maps, it’s only 2.7 miles away. Can you take us there before you tow my car to your shop?”

  He throws his cap back on. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Do I get a say in what we do from here?” Max asks. “Considering I’m the one being inconvenienced by your failure to prepare for the high probability of a breakdown?”

  I shake my head at him. “Nope. You just used up all your pão de queijo points. Sorry.” As I climb into TJ’s truck, I hear the unmistakable grumbling sounds of a pissed-off Max behind me. That’s music to my petty ears.

  * * *

  Surrey Lane Farm boasts the kinds of pastures and lush fields I’d expect to see in B-roll movie footage. With the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background, the farm’s picturesque views are, in a word, breathtaking. My clients, who are planning to renew their vows, spent a weekend here for a couples retreat when they were experiencing problems in their marriage. They feel a sentimental attachment to the place, and now that they’ve decided to rededicate themselves to their relationship, they’d like to host their celebration where their second chance began.

  Max and I are squeezed into the cab of a pickup truck as we tour the acres and acres of land reserved for sustainable farming and raising livestock. Hannah, our guide and the farm’s resident event planner, handles the uneven terrain like a pro; my ass, however, is handling it like an amateur. Worse, my thigh and Max’s are pressed so tightly together we might as well strap a rope around them and run a three-legged race. Earlier today I made a mental checklist of questions to ask Hannah, but with each bump in the dirt road, my body’s tossed against Max’s and I can’t recall any of them. Each time my soft parts connect with his hard parts, I’m tempted to groan.