The Worst Best Man Page 12

  “Talk specifics, please,” Viviane says.

  “Let’s start with your dress,” I say.

  Everyone who’s sitting—and I mean everyone—straightens up and leans back as though they want no part of this conversation. Traitors.

  Viviane throws her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with my dress?”

  I gulp before I speak. “It’s a little . . . loud.”

  And that’s an understatement. It’s a purple Lycra glitter bomb with flesh-tone mesh panels along the waist and hips. Think Real Housewives of New Jersey meets Dancing with the Stars meets the ladies of World Wrestling Entertainment. My mother and Izabel, for their part, are wearing neutral-toned dresses that complement the wedding palette.

  “It’s perfect for the reception,” Viviane counters. “It’s going to look great under the lights when I’m on the dance floor.”

  Natalia groans. “With the amount of sparkle on it, that dress will be the lights on the dance floor. Disco lights, more specifically. We’ll certainly save money on energy costs, at least.”

  Max chuckles.

  Viviane’s head nearly snaps off her neck as she swivels it in his direction. “You never get to laugh around here.” She slides a thumb across her throat, her expression menacing. “Nunca.”

  I lean back and look at Max over my shoulder. “That means ‘never.’”

  A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he casts a veiled glance my way. “I figured that out on my own, thanks.”

  I want to giggle so badly, but if my family sees us getting along, they might ease up on him, and this is way too much fun not to let it play out a bit more and see what they’re able to draw out of him.

  “Listen, Tia,” I say to Viviane, “you’re the mother of the bride, so you’re going to be a big part of Natalia and Paolo’s day, but the focus should be on them. As lovely as it is, your dress is a distraction.”

  “Is that how you feel?” Viviane asks Natalia.

  She nods. “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  Natalia sighs. “I did. On, like, five different occasions.”

  Viviane fusses with a napkin in her hand. “I must not have heard you.” After a few seconds, she says, “Fine. I’ll wear a different outfit.”

  I look over at my mother. “Mãe, you’ll help her?”

  “Sim, filha. I’ll take care of it.”

  I slap my hand on the table as if it’s a gavel. “Okay, next order of business. The strogonoff de frango on the menu.”

  “The stroganoff de what?” Max asks behind me.

  Rey bangs his hand on the counter and points a finger at Max. “Hey, you. Don’t talk. Observe.”

  Max crosses his arms over his chest and grumbles under his breath.

  Poor Max. I bet this is unfamiliar territory for him—taking a back seat and being forced to remain quiet. He probably hates it. As for me, I love, love, love it. “How you hanging in there, champ? Doing okay?”

  “How sweet of you to ask, ISTJ.”

  His reference to the fake Myers-Briggs personality type he assigned to me elicits the laughter he was probably shooting for. I turn my head over my shoulder. “A sense of humor even under pressure. I’m impressed. And just for that, I’ll help you keep up. Strogonoff de frango is chicken stroganoff. Brazilian-style stroganoff is very pink—from the tomatoes—and prone to stain your clothes.”

  “What’s wrong with the stroganoff?” Viviane asks, her forehead puckered in confusion.

  I can’t be around to mediate every situation between Natalia and my aunt, but I can show Natalia that it’s possible to do it on her own. “Nat, if you could ask the family for one thing that would make the process of planning your wedding easier, what would you ask for?”

  Natalia meets Paolo’s gaze, and he gives her a small nod.

  “I’d ask that everyone not add to our stress. That’s it.”

  I nod encouragingly. “Okay, and how is the stroganoff stressing you?”

  The words rush out of Natalia’s mouth like the release of steam from a pressure cooker. “It’s messy. And so I’m envisioning a disaster. Wedding photos with big pink splotches on everyone’s clothes. That stuff is like spilled ink in your purse, you know? It explodes everywhere. I just don’t want to worry that the flower girl is going to want a taste, or that a guest hugs me and gets it on my jumpsuit. It’s just a headache I don’t need.”

  “But it’s tradition,” Viviane whines.

  My mother stands and motions for my aunt to zip her mouth shut. “Pare de choramingar, Viviane. Ela não quer strogonoff de frango no casamento, então não vai ter. Ponto final!”

  Oh. Go, Mãe.

  Max leans forward and whispers in my ear, “What’d she say?”

  He’s way too close, the puffs of his minty breath floating against my neck like a dozen butterflies. I scoot forward and clear my throat. “She said Natalia doesn’t want stroganoff at her wedding so it won’t be there and that’s final.”

  “I love your mother,” Max says.

  Although I don’t want to, I smile at his earnest—and ridiculous—pronouncement, then quickly return to business mode. “Next, let’s talk about a Brazilian tradition we can incorporate into the wedding. Any ideas, Tia?”

  Viviane rubs her chin. “We could pass out bem-casados as people leave.” She juts her chin out at Max. “Before you ask, they’re sponge cake cookies. For good luck.”

  “Perfect,” I say. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Thirty minutes later, we’ve ironed out a host of differences and saved Natalia and Paolo’s wedding. “Okay, I think we’re in pretty good shape. The wedding’s only a month away, so if you have to-dos, please complete them as soon as you can.” I rise from my chair and stretch out my arms.

  “Not so fast,” my mother says. “We need to talk to that one over there.”

  Max, who’s still sitting, turns from side to side and looks around. “Who? Me?”

  “Yes, you,” my mother says.

  Izabel tuts at her. “Mariana, this isn’t necessary.”

  “I think it is,” my mother says stubbornly.

  Bahaha. This is perfect. My family will take it from here.

  Max

  Why don’t I just tell Rey to knock me out and be done with it? That would be better than having to answer to Lina’s mother.

  I stand and cross my hands in supplication. “May I remind you”—I glance at Rey, then look at Lina’s mother—“respectfully, of course, that I wasn’t the one to leave Lina at the altar? That was my brother, in case there’s any confusion on that point.”

  “But you encouraged him to?” Lina’s mother asks.

  “I suppose. Maybe this won’t make sense, but I was a jack—jerk, I was an immature jerk back then. Listen, let me say my piece and then you can pick me apart all you want. I’ll take it.”

  She nods and motions for me to come forward with a flick of her fingers, as though she’s a character in a martial arts movie challenging her next opponent. The gesture confirms what I suspected: If I don’t talk my way out of this, she will kick my ass.

  I take a deep breath and do what I do best—identify a theme and sell it. “I don’t see any point in rehashing the past. Suffice it to say that if my brother truly loved Lina, he either wouldn’t have left her at the metaphorical altar or he would have found his way back to her.” I swivel around to speak to Lina directly. “Assuming you would have wanted him back, that is.”

  To her mother, I say, “But here’s what I know today. My brother’s a decent guy. He isn’t mean, he’s rarely rude to anyone except me, and he doesn’t fuss. I expect he’ll make a fine father and husband one day. But being in this family’s presence for less than an hour tells me that my brother wouldn’t have been Lina’s perfect match. You’d want her to have someone full of life like all of you. You’d want someone who would absolutely adore her. Who’d make her take down her bun and forget herself even for just a few minutes. Who’d make her cry, but
only for the sappiest reasons.” I take a deep breath and shrug. “All I’m saying is, I’m sorry for the role I played in their breakup, but I don’t think my brother was right for her anyway.”

  Slowly, so as not to be obvious about it, I turn around to gauge Lina’s reaction to my monologue. Surprise, surprise, her face is blank. I’m gearing up to make a joke to ease the tension, but she excuses herself and brushes past me, heading to an area beyond the store’s front counter.

  Lina’s mother claps her hands together and smiles at her sisters.

  Rey rounds the counter and approaches, the bulk of his upper body propelling him to where I’m standing.

  I close my eyes. “If you’re going to deck me, do it quick and knock me unconscious. It’s the humane thing to do.”

  “I’m not going to hit you,” Rey says as his bear paws land on my shoulders like feathers. “Any man who speaks about my sister the way you just did can’t be all bad.” He gives my shoulders a light squeeze. “I’m a big believer in second chances. And the way you and Lina have been getting along, looks like she agrees. That’s enough for me.”

  It’s not enough for Natalia, though. Lina’s cousin shakes her head at me, a scowl on her face.

  “What did I do now?” I say, unable to moderate the frustration in my voice.

  “That hypothetical individual you described?” Natalia says. “The perfect person for Lina?”

  “Yeah? What about him? Or her. Them.” I shake my head. “You know what I mean.”

  Natalia gives me a sympathetic pat on my shoulder. “You just described her worst nightmare.”

  I can’t even begin to wrap my head around what that means. But this is Lina we’re talking about, so I shouldn’t be surprised. Another part of her personality that confounds me? Eh, sounds about right.

  I frown at Natalia. “Care to explain?”

  She shakes her head. “That’s the most you’ll get from me, friend.”

  “We’re friends now?” I ask, raising a brow.

  Natalia winks at me. “Correction. We’re acquaintances.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “You don’t have any choice but to live with that,” she singsongs as she pulls Paolo up from his chair and spins him to the beat of the music suddenly filling the store.

  If the universe liked me, I would fall for someone like Natalia. Someone who’s open and unafraid to say exactly what’s on her mind. But I’m thinking about the woman no longer in the room. Wondering if she’s okay. Wanting to see her reluctant smile again. I don’t know much, but I know this: The universe hates me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lina

  My elbow connects with the corner of the medicine cabinet as I try to splash water on my cheeks. Damn, this bathroom’s tiny. I’m probably only realizing it now because I have no reason to be here other than that it enables me to avoid everyone out there.

  How the hell did this evening become a guest lecture on The Man I’m Meant to Marry 101? Oh, that’s right. Max Hartley, visiting Distinguished Professor of Talking Out Your Ass, is in the building. Max doesn’t know me. He has no idea what makes me tick, and he’d never understand why I am who I am. And still, he has no problem mansplaining my love life to my family.

  Little does Max know, I once found that mythical creature he described. His name was Lincoln, and in my third and fourth years of college at UMD I believed we were destined to be together. I mean, even our nicknames—Linc and Lina—proved that fate was involved.

  Lincoln pursued me for months, but I was wary of getting serious with anyone, especially when most of my classmates switched partners as easily as they dropped early morning classes. Wasn’t that what college was all about? Shouldn’t I have been doing the same? Lincoln was persistent, though. He made me feel special. Doted on me in ways I’d never experienced. And so I fell hard.

  Which, coincidentally, is exactly when Lincoln decided I was no longer special. He began to play games. The kind that made me cry and scream. He’d disappear for days, forget my birthday, periodically ask me for space, then reappear when I gave him too much of it. I was a volatile person back then. And Lincoln loved it. Said my passion showed how much I cared and kept our relationship fresh.

  It took me a long time to realize Lincoln enjoyed provoking me; eventually, he even lost interest in doing that. He distanced himself in stages, until the day I entered a crowded campus dining hall and saw Lincoln kissing and caressing another woman. If I’d been a stronger person, I would have stormed out and never looked back. But as I stood there watching him make someone else feel special, my insides squeezing my heart until I thought it would pop out of my chest, I was overwhelmed by profound sadness. Not eat-my-weight-in-chocolate sadness. Or even lie-in-bed-and-stare-at-the-ceiling sadness. No, this was far worse. It was I-can’t-contain-any-of-this-inside-me sadness. So I crumbled. Made accusations as tears ran down my face. Wailed. Dropped to my knees like a melodramatic actress auditioning for a part as an extra in a B movie. It was ugly. And awkward. Painfully awkward. And when I looked up at the faces of my schoolmates, all I saw was pity. A loss of respect I’d never regain. And all because I couldn’t control my emotions. I vowed in that moment that I’d never let anyone or anything reduce me to that embarrassing state again. I’ve only experienced one slipup since then—which also happens to be the incident that got me fired from my job as a paralegal—but I can confidently say that I now control my emotions whereas in the past my emotions controlled me.

  It isn’t fair to expect Max to understand any of this. He’s uninformed. Still, I see no point in enlightening him; he can believe what he wants to believe.

  I leave my miniature sanctuary and return to the front of the store, where the air’s filled with laughter and the driving percussion of samba music. My gaze immediately lands on my mother, who’s popping a brigadeiro in Max’s mouth. He moans and rolls his eyes as he chews; my mother happily looks on as if meeting Max’s dietary needs is her priority in life. Rey shuffles over in search of water and playfully pokes Max in the ribs on his return. Everyone else is dancing samba in the center of the room. It’s official: They’re throwing Max a welcome-to-the-family party. Honestly, I can’t blame them. I’ve secretly enjoyed being with him, too.

  Tia Izabel gestures for me to join their dance circle. I’ve done it countless times, just not with Max around. When I realize I’m stalling, I strut over so I can prove to myself I’m not hesitating because he’s here. Rey and Natalia, always the loudest at any gathering, throw up their hands and shout their approval. My body eases into the familiar rapid-fire steps that require my feet, calves, butt, and hips to work together seamlessly. It took me years to perfect it, and now the dance comes to me as easily as walking does. I’m so lost in the music that I close my eyes and let my body swing and sway to the tempo, my arms above my head as I shimmy my torso.

  The next song is slower, but I make the necessary adjustment, rocking my hips in smaller circles, until I lift my lids—and spy Max standing by the counter watching me, his gaze traveling over my body and eventually resting on my face. My breath quickens, and my heart is banging around in my chest. I don’t look away. Neither does he. If we were alone, we’d close the distance between us—the pull is that strong.

  Natalia bumps me with her hip, throwing me off-balance. Before I can even right myself, Max leaves the store.

  I meet my mother’s gaze, a question in my eyes, but she merely shrugs and turns away, a hint of a smile tugging at her full lips. Since I asked him to join me this evening, I feel compelled to go after him and make sure he’s okay, so I push open the front door and peek outside. To my relief, he’s a few feet away, pacing between two parked cars.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, rubbing my arms to ward off the chill in the air.

  His head shoots up, but he doesn’t stop pacing. “I could use a smoke.”

  “What do you smoke? Cigarettes? Weed?”

  He shakes his head. “Neither. But tonight I’d recon
sider. I’m just feeling a little off.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to go if you need to. We’re done here.”

  Max turns to face me and rests his hands on the car between us. He looks a little paler than usual, but otherwise seems okay.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” he says. “Can you tell everyone I said goodbye? Explain I wasn’t feeling well?”

  “Of course. Don’t worry about it. Do you think something my mother gave you is messing with your stomach? The brigadeiros have condensed milk in them.”

  He shakes his head, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. I’m tired, that’s all. Makes it difficult to think clearly.” His gaze darts to mine, then it rests on a spot behind me. “Your family’s great, by the way. Intimidating but great.”

  I grin at him. “That’s a perfect description.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Not in the picture,” I say, shrugging. “We’re okay with that.”

  He nods, then lightly bangs his fist on the hood of the car. “Listen, about the things I said earlier: I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Your family knows how to put on the pressure, and I just said what I believe. I realize what I believe doesn’t mean jack shit, though, so let’s pretend I never said anything. Deal?”

  I could easily accept his peace offering, but my instinct is to reject it outright. Does that make me a bitch? God, I hope not. Even so, I give him a toothachingly sweet smile. “There are no do-overs in life, Max.” Wow, I am a bitch.

  He purses his lips as though my answer doesn’t surprise him. “Right.”

  What’s wrong with me? Why am I pushing him away when he’s obviously trying to fix the rift between us? I set out to get closure this evening, and now that it’s within my grasp, I’m lobbing it back at him as though it’ll burn me. Maybe it’s because I need this rift between us. Without a grudge to hold on to, what will I rely on to keep Max at arm’s length? I’m too aware of him for it to be good for me. Still, I can’t make him out to be the bad guy if he isn’t. It would be convenient, but it wouldn’t be true.