The Worst Best Man Read online

  I plop onto my chair. Got it. She’s probably plotting my demise. Or she’s planning to share an embarrassing fact about me. The cake incident, maybe? And I wouldn’t be surprised if she makes up a few unflattering stories. I’d be powerless to defend myself. Frankly, given what I’ve done here, I deserve all that and more. So I sit and watch her—and wait for what’s rightfully coming to me.

  Lina’s still wearing the couples retreat T-shirt, and she’s knotted it on the side so that I can see a sliver of her stomach. It’s as if I’m looking at a gift that’s been on my wish list and I’ve finally made the first tear in the wrapping paper covering said gift. Only problem: Lina would deck me if I tore up the rest of her shirt.

  She wipes her hands down the fronts of her thighs and clears her throat. “Three things I wish you wouldn’t do or would do less of. Okay, here goes. First, I wish you would be less oblivious to what you’re asking of me when you say I’m closed off. You want to know if I cry? If I ever get angry? Of course I do. But I need a safe space to do that, and there aren’t a lot of those around. I’m a woman, Max. Afro-Latinx, too. Being emotional isn’t exactly something I can do freely, not without repercussions.”

  “Girl, preach,” Wanda says.

  “A Black woman isn’t justifiably upset, she’s angry. A Latinx person confronts someone, they’re fiery or feisty. I don’t like raising my voice in public, Max. There’s too much baggage associated with it. A woman gets emotional in the workplace, she’s irrational and not fit for leadership. I was fired for being overly emotional in a male-dominated space.”

  This is real life we’re talking about. She’s plainly taking this exercise seriously, and there’s no way I won’t take it seriously, too. And because the urge to ask is overwhelmingly strong, I give in to it despite my reservations. “What happened, Lina? Why were you fired?”

  She closes her eyes for a few seconds, opens them, then lifts her chin. “Before I was a wedding planner, I was a paralegal at a prestigious law firm.” Her gaze travels over everyone’s faces. “I loved that job. I was young, not even three years out of college, and all I wanted to do was prove that I deserved to be there. When I got my first chance assisting a partner during a trial, it was a big deal. Unfortunately, I screwed up. Royally. I numbered the exhibits incorrectly. I don’t know if it was exhaustion or what. Anyway, the judge was confused. The partner was confused. I was confused. The jury didn’t have any exhibits to look at. And all of that would have been fine. The judge would have given us time to correct the exhibits. But I was so overcome with emotion, so disappointed in myself that I cried. And I don’t mean the pretty tears you see in movies. I mean the kind of big ugly tears that come with bawling your eyes out. And afterward, I was totally ineffective in fixing my mistake because I was embarrassed. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone that the partner lost confidence in me.”

  It’s hard to picture the version of herself Lina’s describing to us, but I don’t doubt her story. She’s plainly changed since then, though.

  “Getting fired isn’t the worst thing that can happen to someone,” she says. “I know this. But getting fired for being an emotional wreck was tough to swallow. Still is. Especially when I think about my mother’s strength in difficult times. I hate that I couldn’t rise to the challenge. Anyway, after that, none of my colleagues really wanted to work with me, so they eventually let me go. And without a glowing recommendation, I struggled to find a new job. My friend, knowing I was feeling down about the situation, asked me to help her plan her wedding, and the rest, as they say, is history. I just don’t want to be the person who went through that ever again. So when you ask me to show you more emotions, it’s not as easy as you’re making it out to be.”

  Shit. I’m a White man, and I’m embarrassed to realize that none of this would have occurred to me if Lina hadn’t forced me to see it. It’s a privilege I take for granted—the ability to be who I want and say what I want no matter the space I’m in. How many times have I watched a male colleague get red in the face because of some perceived slight and stomp around in a conference room because of it? Did I ever look at him with derision? No. But a woman’s tears in that same conference room? Yeah, I have to admit they made me uncomfortable. Is that why my mother insists that Andrew and I forget we’re her sons when we walk into the office? So she’s not viewed as our emotional caretaker? Or as a weak leader? It’s hard to say. As for Lina, though, it all makes sense now. Lina’s built walls around herself because she needs them. “I’m sorry you went through that. And I want to be a safe space for you. Whether as a friend or . . . something else is obviously up to you.”

  “That means a lot,” she says, giving me a faint smile. “Thank you.”

  Wanda slaps a sheet of paper on her thigh. “You two are doing exactly what James and I hoped for. Being open. Communicating.” She reaches out and grabs Lina’s hand. “And I’m proud of you, baby girl. You spoke your truth, and you made him listen. Anything else? If you want to stop there, you can.”

  Lina sighs. “Yeah, it’s been a day, and I’m tired and hungry, so I think I’ll wrap this up soon.”

  I collapse farther into my chair, exhausted for us both. If I could do anything to alleviate the emotional overload she’s experiencing, I would.

  “Another thing I wish you wouldn’t do,” Lina says.

  I straighten in my seat, my gaze snapping to hers.

  She ponders what she’s going to say, as though she’s trying to formulate a diplomatic way of approaching the subject. “I wish you wouldn’t use other people as the yardstick for your own success. Even in the short time I’ve known you, I can see that you’re an incredible person in your own right. Competing with someone else isn’t going to help you find what you’re searching for. You need to compete with yourself. When you’re looking to improve, refer to the last and best thing you did and go from there.”

  She’s talking about Andrew. We both know it. And she’s unwittingly stumbled upon the issue that makes me wary of my feelings for her. Does she compare me to Andrew? Does she use him as the yardstick by which she measures my worth? I suspect not. Otherwise why would she advise me not to do the very same thing? Still, I’d be lying if I said it isn’t a concern. “It isn’t easy. I’m dealing with a lifetime of being compared with someone else. But I promise I’ll work on that.”

  “Good,” she says.

  “Anything else?” Wanda asks.

  Lina shakes her head and sits.

  I can’t deny that I’m disappointed. She ignored the part where I asked her to give us a chance. But what did I expect, exactly? That my brother’s former fiancée would admit to being attracted to me? That she’d want to explore the possibility of more between us?

  I can’t recall any of the reasons Dean said Lina and I wouldn’t make sense. But that doesn’t matter. Lina’s a levelheaded woman and won’t entertain my ridiculous fantasies anyway.

  Lina

  James announces a fifteen-minute break. Before a single person files out of the room, Max and I pounce on him. Plainly, we’ve both had enough of this farce.

  “We’re wiped out—” I say.

  “We’re hungry—” Max says.

  Max and I stop talking and exchange knowing grins.

  James rolls his eyes. “Get out of here, you two. You’ve earned the rest of the evening off.” He leans into us and speaks under his breath: “Rumor has it they’re setting up a buffet dinner in the kitchen. You might be able to grab something there.”

  As we race to the sliding doors, James calls after us, “I’ll still want your course evaluations in the morning.”

  “Sure,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Will do,” Max adds, following close behind me.

  While everyone else shuffles outside for fresh air, Max and I hoof it to the kitchen, where a man and a woman are covering aluminum chafing dishes with foil.

  The man, who’s middle-aged, looks up and smiles. “You’re a little early, folks. Dinner won’t
be served for another half hour or so.”

  Max groans—or maybe that’s his stomach. “Any chance we could grab a couple of pieces of bread? Porridge? A slice of cheese? I’m not picky.”

  The woman laughs. “Well, we can’t let any of our guests go hungry, can we?” She hands us large white dinner plates. “We’ve got lemon pepper brined chicken, a tomato and green bean salad, a sweet potato hash, and warm rolls. You’re welcome to start.” She looks down the hall leading to the kitchen. “But don’t eat in the common areas. I wouldn’t want to start a stampede.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” I say. “You’re saving me from fainting.”

  Max and I work together to uncover the foil sheets and serve ourselves. After our plates are filled, we juggle our spoils—utensils, napkins, glasses of lemonade, and heaping plates of food—and tiptoe past the front door.

  “Should we go up to the room?” I whisper.

  Max nods. “Lead the way.”

  We settle into the armchairs by the fireplace and wolf the food down.

  “Oh my God, this is hitting the spot,” I say as I chew. “I’m sorry. I have no manners right now.”

  Max lifts a leg of chicken with his thumb and forefinger and bites into it like a dog attacking a bone. “S’okay. I’m not the picture of refinement, either.”

  Minutes later, after we’ve demolished dinner and taken turns using the hall bathroom, we find ourselves back in the armchairs, unable to resist their plushness.

  Max’s voice pulls me out of my food coma. “You know, there’s no reason we couldn’t take a nap on the bed. Unless you don’t trust yourself. I mean, I know I’m hot as fuck, but if you can control yourself, we’d enjoy a firm mattress and I wouldn’t get a kink in my neck.”

  I want to side-eye him so hard, but my brain disagrees and forces me to smile instead. “I’m not sure all three of us would fit on the bed.”

  “Three of us?” he asks.

  I open one eye and wink at him. “You, me, and your ego.”

  He chuckles as he stands, then he offers his hand—which I take despite my reservations—and he pulls me up easily. This was the plan, so why am I suddenly hesitant to share a bed with him? His declaration of interest during the retreat doesn’t need to mean anything unless I want it to . . . but maybe I want it to. I need space to think, and I can’t do that with Max inches away. I dive for my travel bag as though it’s a life jacket that’ll save me from drowning. “I’m sweaty and grimy. I think I’ll take a shower before everyone else decides to do the same thing.”

  “Good idea,” he says. “I’ll take one after you.”

  Knowing he’s going to take a shower after me shouldn’t spark dirty thoughts, but nothing’s making much sense today, so of course it does. I picture him soaping up his body and stroking himself as puffs of steam swirl around him and water runs down his torso and legs. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to erase the image in my mind, but it only becomes more vivid, as though I’m peering at it on a computer screen and the pixels are sharpening as the download progresses. What the hell, brain? Stop it. “Okay, I won’t be long.”

  Once I’m safely inside the bathroom, I turn on the water and peel off my clothes. To my utter horror, I discover grass stains on one of my favorite pairs of panties, a La Perla limited edition I’d splurged on for the wedding night that never was. I probably should have tossed them years ago, but fuck that—these panties weren’t cheap. Hoping I can remove the marks before they set in, I use a trial-size liquid detergent from my emergency kit and scrub them mostly clean, then I let them soak in one of the paper cups meant for guests of the inn. This is the upside of being a planner by nature: I’m always prepared.

  Yes, the memory of Max barking at me about my car begs to differ, but whatever. No one’s perfect.

  I shower and freshen up in minutes, humming as I throw my bra back on—my breasts shall not go unharnessed with Max nearby—and then I search for underwear and Max’s oversize retreat T-shirt, which he let me borrow because my own T-shirt is dirty. I find the tee in seconds, but after searching every nook and cranny of my bag for the one article of clothing always on hand, I face the fact that I forgot to pack a spare pair of underwear, at which point I walk to the sink and stare at the only panties I do have: a pair that’s soaking wet and balled up in a cup. Channeling Eartha Kitt’s Lady Eloise character in Boomerang, I look in the mirror and sum up my predicament in a breathy whisper: “I don’t have any panties on.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lina

  It’ll be fine. The T-shirt ends just above the knee so it’s not as though I’m going to flash anyone. Still, this isn’t an ideal situation: I’m keeping a potentially sexy secret at the precise moment when I shouldn’t be thinking about sex at all.

  I puff out an encouraging breath and reenter the room.

  Max pulls himself out of the armchair, his gaze hovering above my shoulders. “Good shower?”

  With the traitorous travel bag hoisted on my shoulder, I tug at the hem of the shirt. “It was great. Really great. Never better. The best shower I’ve ever had.”

  He cocks his head, his right eyebrow shooting up. “Wow. That’s quite an endorsement.”

  I’m rotating my head like a ceiling fan as gibberish spews from my mouth. “Yeah, just wait till you try it. So invigorating. Beyond refreshing. You’re gonna love it. Gua-ran-teed.”

  He eyes me curiously. “Hmmm. Can’t wait.”

  I salute him as he walks out the door, his own bag in hand. “Enjoy!”

  When he’s gone, I groan and fall back onto the bed. I should close my eyes and succumb to this heady mix of anxiousness and exhaustion. And I almost do—until I remember my panties are still in the bathroom.

  Soaking in a cup.

  And Max is in there, too.

  That’s when I shake out the blanket at the foot of the bed and throw it over my head. Apparently I don’t even need sleep to conjure my nightmares.

  A few minutes later, my heart trips when the room’s door clicks shut. I slowly press my thighs together, my face still buried under the blanket; this way, I’ll avoid Max’s gaze and he won’t be burned by the flames of embarrassment blazing across my cheeks.

  The mattress shifts as he climbs onto the bed, but he remains silent, perhaps assuming I’ve drifted off to sleep.

  “How was the shower?” I ask from under my anti-mortification cloak.

  He laughs. “Wasn’t sure if you were up.” After a pause, he says, “It was decent. Good pressure. Not anything special, though.”

  “You must be a more discerning shower taker than I am, then.”

  “Can you breathe under there?” he asks.

  I let out a soft laugh, come out from hiding, and turn on my side. Oh Jesus. Max is sprawled on top of the bed in the same jeans he was wearing earlier, his dark hair almost inky black now that it’s damp. He’s changed into a different T-shirt—same style, different color. And his lips are plumper and pinker than usual. A pleasant side effect of a steamy shower, maybe? Regardless of the reason, he’s exuding Big Lick Energy, and I’m into it.

  “Sorry about the car,” I blurt out, desperately needing to fill the silence with non–sexually related conversation, no matter how inane it is. “You’re stuck here because of me, and I feel bad about that.”

  He turns on his side and peruses my face before he meets my gaze. “I’m not feeling stuck, so no apologies necessary. I do have an apology for you, though.”

  I lift my head off the pillow and lean on my elbow, raising a brow in surprise. “You do?”

  He nods. “Yeah.” Sighing, he drops onto his back and closes his eyes.

  Taking his cue, I do the same.

  “I’m sorry about what went down earlier,” he says, his voice a level up from a whisper. “You didn’t sign up to have your life dissected like that. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation. I can be impulsive from time to time, and the results aren’t always pretty.”

  I snicker
, recalling my own uncharacteristically impulsive behavior in the last two weeks. “Max, I pretended not to know you or your brother during a job interview and convinced you to go along with the ruse. I growled at you in a restaurant. I almost drop-kicked you in a capoeira class. I think I’ve got you beat on impulsiveness this month. Besides, you gave me an out, and I didn’t take it, so obviously I wanted to talk about some of that stuff.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a long while, then he asks, “But not all of it, right?”

  I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. He’s right. I wasn’t ready to discuss all of it. Not with an audience. Here, I can try.

  He asked me to see the potential in us, but there isn’t any. Max is the exact opposite of his brother in so many ways—and that’s why we’re incompatible. I don’t want someone who makes me weak in the knees. I hate the idea of being with someone who’ll poke and prod to get a reaction from me. I’m not interested in thinking about someone way more than I should. All that’s happened with Max—and we aren’t even dating. Besides, what future could we possibly have together? I can’t imagine going to dinner with his parents and staring at my ex-fiancé’s face across the table. I’d probably beat him with a baguette.

  But maybe, just maybe, Max is the perfect person to have an affair with precisely because he’s unequivocally the wrong person for me. If I already know Max and I can never build a long-term relationship, wouldn’t that prevent me from falling hard?

  Would that be unfair to Max, though? Yes—if he’s looking for more than I’m willing to give. Part of the problem is, I don’t know what he wants.

  Before I can ask, he jumps off the bed.

  I sit up and scoot to the edge of the mattress, making sure to keep my legs closed. “What’s wrong?”

  He grabs the hem of his T-shirt and pulls the fabric away from his body, fanning himself, as if it’s suddenly too stuffy in the room. “I’m going to head outside. Take some time to enjoy the country air.”