The Worst Best Man Read online

  He slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Disregard all of it and move on.”

  I lean back and look at him. “As simple as that?”

  He stares at me, his expression somber. “It’s that simple. Do you want me to list a dozen of the million reasons why?”

  “I think I need to hear them,” I say.

  Dean stands and paces the length of his living room. “One, she didn’t just date Andrew, she was going to marry him. Isn’t that reason enough? Two, your mother would kill you. If she knew Lina was back in the picture, she’d be telling Andrew to get her back pronto. Three, you’d wreck your already tenuous relationship with your brother. Now, maybe that’s not a big deal, but it could make for some uncomfortable times in the Hartley family. Four, you’re trying to escape your brother’s shadow. Pursuing his old girlfriend is exactly the opposite of that. Does the name Emily ring any this-is-bound-to-be-fucked-up bells? Five, as much as you compete with your brother, would you ever be able to satisfy yourself that you’re not pursuing her because of some messed-up notion that you could win her? And what about Lina? Wouldn’t she wonder the same thing? And finally, maybe it’s all in your head and she freaked out because it’s an awkward situation. I’m saying this as your best and most intelligent friend. There are hundreds of women in this city who’d be happy to marry, date, or one-night-stand you. Pursue them instead and leave this particular woman alone. I’m begging you.”

  I agree with every point he’s making. Hell, he’s echoing the thoughts I had on the bike ride over. But I’d prefer a longer bulleted list. Pocket-size and laminated. A handy guide I can pull out if I’m ever foolish enough to let Lina take up too much of my mental real estate. “What else?”

  Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

  “You said you’d give me a dozen reasons.”

  He whistles. “Damn, if you need more reasons than the ones I gave you, San Antonio, we have a problem.”

  Now I’m the one furrowing my brows. “You mean ‘Houston, we have a problem.’”

  “Nah, my last girlfriend was from that city. Refuse to say it on principle.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Just when I decide you’re the brightest person I know, you say some ridiculous shit like that.”

  Dean shrugs and takes another swig of his beer. “Anyway, don’t think I haven’t noticed that you didn’t respond to my compelling case for dismissing whatever you think you felt while you were coming down from your sugar high.”

  Okay, that’s a good point. I wasn’t thinking clearly earlier, and whatever spark of attraction I felt was probably influenced by cake-induced pheromones. I need to let this go and focus on the tasks at hand: helping Lina make her pitch and gaining Rebecca’s favor. “You’re one hundred percent correct on all fronts. I’m deleting that data from the mainframe.”

  Dean clinks his bottle against mine. “Excellent. Now tell me how I can help. Do you want me to set you up on a few dates?”

  I shake my head vigorously. “No need. I go on plenty of dates.”

  “A hundred first dates isn’t dating, Max. It’s hiding.”

  “I’m not hiding. I’m just not tying myself down with any one person. You can’t force a match, you know.”

  Dean sighs. “Emily’s got you thinking you’re not long-term material. You think a woman’s going to always choose someone else over you, is that it?”

  I chuckle at Dean’s poor attempt at psychoanalyzing me. I’ll admit Emily’s reason for breaking up with me messed with my head for a while, but I’m over it now. Sure, she thought Andrew was the better catch, but honestly, if she preferred my brother over me, then that was her problem, not mine. “Buddy, it’s not that deep. I’m just not in a rush to get serious about any one person, that’s all.”

  “Because if you don’t get serious with anyone, then you don’t have to wonder if they’re stringing you along until another person enters the picture.”

  Fucking Dean. Always focusing on the shit I’d rather not think about. I bend over, rest my forearms on my thighs, and clasp my hands together. “This is probably why I should steer clear of Lina, right? If there’s anyone who’s going to make me wonder if I’m just a poor substitute for my brother, it’s her.”

  “Actually, I’d give Lina more credit than that. This is about you, not her.” He peers at me, his expression unreadable, until the oven timer goes off and saves me.

  “Pizza’s ready,” I say.

  We both jump up from the couch and make our way to the kitchen. Dean’s throwing on an oven mitt when my phone buzzes in my front pocket. I pull it out and unlock the screen, my smile widening as I read Lina’s text:

  Lina: Hey, there. Meeting clients for a wedding rehearsal Friday evening. Another opportunity to get a feel for what I do. These folks are putting everything on social media. You could probably record it. Game? There won’t be any cake, I promise.

  The idea that Lina’s somewhere in the universe thinking about me—even if it’s just for the few seconds it took her to fire off this text—improves my day a fraction. And there’s no earthly reason why that should be the case. Damn, I’m in trouble.

  “Hang on,” I tell Dean. “Let me just shoot her a reply real quick.”

  With one hand constrained by the oven mitt, Dean uses his other to snatch the phone away from me. He glances at Lina’s text and rolls his eyes. “Don’t respond. It’s after-hours. Wait until tomorrow.”

  I tackle him, attempting to get my phone back, but he holds it above his head and out of reach. “Pull yourself together, Max. Desperation does not become you.”

  I plop onto a stool at the kitchen island. “I’m not desperate. Just being professional.”

  “It’s not unprofessional to wait until business hours to respond to a colleague. Try again.” He places my phone in his back pocket. “And just in case this pizza and my stimulating company aren’t enough to distract you, I’ll keep your cell until you leave. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Still, I’m itching to reclaim my phone and reply to Lina’s text. Which is precisely why I won’t. Not until tomorrow morning, at least. Whatever “this” is, it ends now.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lina

  I cover the phone receiver and clear my throat to get Jaslene’s attention. “I think I may have found a promising lead.”

  She mouths yay and pretends to high-five me.

  We’re both on the phone, investigating potential office space, before the city’s business districts shut down for the weekend. The realtor I’m speaking with now, who’s put me on hold to grab the details of the listing, says their client’s just reduced the price per square footage, and I’m anxiously awaiting more information about the amenities. If I had a choice, I’d move my and Jaslene’s belongings to the Cartwright today, but there’s no guarantee I’ll get the job, so I need to investigate alternatives.

  The agent returns to the phone and mutters to himself as papers crinkle in the background. Why isn’t the info in a computer database, for God’s sake?

  “Let’s see, let’s see,” he says. “Ah, here it is. This is class B space just off New York Avenue. Very close to the convention center. Two hundred and fifty-three square feet. Possibility of changing the floor plan to accommodate two lessees. Includes a restroom adjacent to the space. Working sink. You’ve seen the pictures?”

  “Yes,” I say. The possibility of sharing the space, and thus the rent, is key. But he hasn’t told me the price per square footage yet, so I’m trying to temper my excitement. “And the PPSF?”

  “Forty-two dollars for a one-year lease. Thirty-eight dollars if you agree to a three-year lease.”

  My shoulders drop and I squeeze my eyes shut. No way can I afford that and my own rent. I suppose I could move in with my mother and aunts, but that still won’t be enough to pay the lease and have any disposable income. Securing more clients would be another route, but I’m already busy as it is, and since many weddings are scheduled on weekends, that’s only fi
fty-two weekends a year to work with anyway.

  “Oh, there are a few things you should know,” the agent advises. “The sprinkler system and one of the office doors are noncompliant. You’ll need to make those changes as part of the lease agreement. Would you like to tour the space?”

  Well, this one’s another dud. I’m not signing up for a lease I can’t afford and agreeing to make renovations on my own dime. “Thanks for the info. I’m going to make some more inquiries before scheduling any tour appointments.”

  After I hang up, I look at Jaslene, who’s massaging her temples.

  “That bad?” I ask her.

  She nods. “Class A. Fifty-seven dollars per square foot.”

  I wince at the thought of spending that much money on an office for my business. The situation’s looking direr with each passing day. If I can’t convince Rebecca that I’m the superior person to act as wedding coordinator for her hotels, I’m screwed.

  “We’re not going to resolve this tonight, though,” Jaslene observes. “And you’re due across town in thirty minutes.”

  I jump up from my chair. “Shit. Time flies when you’re getting your ass handed to you by DC’s commercial real estate market.”

  “The Lyft should be arriving in five minutes. The Josephine Butler Parks Center, right?”

  I nod and grab my purse. “What would I do without you, Jaslene?”

  She blows me a kiss. “Shrivel up and die, probably.”

  Twenty minutes later, I arrive at the center, a historic house in Columbia Heights with breathtaking grounds, elegant staircases perfect for wedding photos, and indoor accommodations in case the weather doesn’t cooperate. The couple, Brent Sales and Terrence Ramsey, met in medical school. They’re low maintenance, easy to please, and focused on two goals: making their special day festive and serving scrumptious food. Clients like Brent and Terrence make my job a breeze. It doesn’t hurt that they’re also the nicest couple I’ve ever worked with. Oh, and they’re striking, both tall and broad-shouldered and too cute for words.

  The wedding party is small, consisting of three of their closest friends and Brent’s younger sister. The couple, their officiant, and all but one of their attendants are standing in the garden when I arrive.

  “Fingers crossed we have weather like this on the actual day,” I say by way of greeting.

  Brent and Terrence cross their fingers; the officiant, a friend who applied for a license to perform weddings solely for this occasion, raises her hands in prayer. After we all exchange hellos, the couple and I stroll to the top of the cascading walkway, where the procession will begin.

  “Fair warning,” Terrence says, waving his pager in the air. “I’m the on-call hospital doc for my practice this weekend, so I might be pulled away through no fault of my own.”

  “Oh, it’s your fault, all right,” Brent says with a smile. “You’re just so skilled at what you do, people need your advice at all times.”

  “That’s no problem,” I tell them. “We’ll work around your schedule if need be. The photographer and videographer should be here soon to get the lay of the land. They’ll want to see where you’ll be standing during the ceremony so they can plan their shots and figure out the best location to set up shop. In the meantime, let’s gather everyone and work on the procession. The band will be here for the actual ceremony obviously, but I’ve got your song cued up on my phone.”

  Brent and Terrence have decided to walk down the aisle side by side, preceded by their attendants, who will each walk alone. We’re a few minutes into our first practice round when Max and the vendors arrive.

  Max is wearing black chinos and a gray merino V-neck sweater over his button down. There’s no tie to be found. There’s also no way to ignore that he looks damn good, and because I wish I hadn’t noticed, I’m now hyperaware of him.

  I speak briefly with the photographer—I suppose he’s wearing clothes, too—and then he shuffles off to examine his eventual workspace, the videographer following closely behind him.

  Max stands off to the side, waiting for us to finish. The shades he’s wearing aren’t dark enough to hide that he’s gazing directly at me, and I busy myself instructing everyone on the finer points of walking—yes, walking—to prolong the moment when I’ll be forced to talk to him. I shouldn’t be thrown off by his presence, but I am.

  Brent and Terrence, in keeping with their personalities, draw Max into a friendship circle and introduce themselves, while I throw up a weak hand to acknowledge that he’s here. I can’t help noticing that Max is just as tall and broad-shouldered as Brent and Terrence. They’re casually standing around and laughing as though they’re shooting candids for a spread in GQ; it would be nice if I could photoshop Max out of my mental image, but no, he’s there to stay. Ugh.

  The photographer emerges from behind a set of bushes, making me yelp in surprise and causing everyone else to search for the source of the sound.

  My ears grow hot and I seriously contemplate jumping behind the same bushes the photographer just came from.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, camera in hand. “Can we get the happy couple in the exact spot where they’ll be exchanging vows? I want to see where the sun hits and figure out my angles.”

  I eagerly take the opportunity to do something other than stare at Max. “They’ll stop at the end of the walkway,” I explain to the photographer, “and then they’ll land here and face each other. The chairs will be set up so that the guests will watch them descend.”

  Brent and Terrence take their places—and that’s when Terrence’s pager goes off. He pulls it out and walks off, apologizing but also telling everyone he needs to take the call. After a minute, when it’s clear from Terrence’s apologetic grimace that the call won’t be quick, the photographer sighs and turns to me. “Lina, can you stand in for him? It’ll be only a minute. It’s just . . . I have another engagement after this.”

  I don’t think twice about it. Of course I’ll help my clients get the best photographs possible. That’s in my job description. “Sure. Tell me what you need.”

  The photographer points at my hands. “May I?”

  I nod.

  He arranges Brent and me so that we’re facing each other and holding hands. “Okay, this should work out fine.”

  The videographer walks up to us. “Can you two maybe say something so I can check the sound?”

  “I can recite my vows,” Brent says. “I know them by heart.”

  The videographer nods as he adjusts the camera’s tripod. “Perfect. Just keep talking. And Lina”—he points at me—“don’t be afraid to talk as well. I’ll need to hear you both.”

  Brent fixes his face into a serious expression, then gazes at me adoringly. “So this is it. The big day. We’re finally getting married. I’d begun to think this day would never come, but then I met you. I never imagined I’d find the perfect person for me, but that’s exactly what I found in you. I never dreamed anyone would want me as much as I want them, but you do.”

  My client’s speaking from the heart, his words simple but wonderfully impactful, and I can’t help remembering the vows I’d written for my own wedding—the ones I never shared because the groom decided I wasn’t what he wanted. It’s not that I’m still pining for Andrew. Getting over him was extraordinarily easy. It’s not even about a wedding. Or marriage. Those aren’t necessary precursors to fulfillment. But I want companionship, the security of knowing someone has my back, the ability to comfort and be comforted. Friendship. Vacations. Maybe even kids one day. Someone solid. Predictable. A person who doesn’t need passion and sparks to build a lasting relationship. I don’t know that I’ll ever find that individual—and that makes me extraordinarily sad.

  I can feel the tears welling up, and to my horror, I realize it’s too late to will them away. If only I were stronger than this. If only my stupid emotions didn’t get the best of me every damn time.

  A hand holding a handkerchief appears in front of my face. I look up to fi
nd Max staring at me. There’s empathy in his gaze as he waves the cloth.

  “Allergies?” he asks. “It’s a brutal time of the year. I can hardly keep the tears out of my eyes, too.”

  I take the handkerchief and dab at my eyes. “Yeah. I’m always a mess in the spring.”

  He nods. “That’s what I thought.”

  We stare at each other. He knows. Somehow he knew I was overcome with emotion and stepped in to help me save face. I really don’t want to like the man, but he’s giving me no other choice.

  Max turns to the photographer. “I think she needs a second to collect herself. How about I take her place? You just need me to hold Brent’s hands and pretend to be smitten, right? I can do that. Easily.”

  I’m floored by his offer. He’s here to shadow me, yet he’s willing to jump in so I don’t embarrass myself. I don’t want to appreciate the gesture, but I do. More than I could ever tell him.

  The photographer nods enthusiastically. “That’d be even better. You’re the perfect height.”

  “Let’s do it, then,” Brent says.

  I shuffle off to the side as Max and Brent turn to each other and hold hands. They’re grinning as though they’re in on a secret, and Brent and Terrence’s attendants are goofing around as they watch them.

  Brent gives Max a smoldering look that makes Max double over.

  “Children . . .” the photographer says with a good-natured smile.

  Max cracks his neck. “Okay, okay. I can do this.” He clears his face and stares at Brent.