The Worst Best Man Read online

  I’m tempted to note that she could have briefed us over email, but I just don’t have the energy to be the troublemaker today. Instead, I simply salute her on the way out of the office. “See you tomorrow.”

  I’m almost at the elevators when Andrew jogs up behind me. “Hey, M. Hang on a minute.”

  I slow my steps. “What’s up?”

  When he reaches me, he plants his legs wide and pushes up the sleeves of his beige cashmere sweater. I’m in a fucking hoodie. I’m also itching to point out the pilling on the left side of his sweater, likely caused by his favorite designer messenger bag rubbing against it, but that’s the kind of minor shit that would fuck with his day and I’m trying not to be a jerk.

  Andrew cocks his head as he studies me. Then he says, “Listen, I know the client might want us to work on different projects, but we’ll still brainstorm together, right? I think that’ll be a good thing for whatever final product we present.”

  Ideally, we’d do the exact opposite of what he’s suggesting. I want to work on my own and show the client that, between Andrew and me, I’m the better bet. How else am I going to set myself apart from him?

  We eye each other in silence as he waits for my answer, until the ding of the arriving elevator breaks the awkward spell. Before I step on, I say, “I figure that’ll depend on what the client wants, and we’ll know that soon enough. You coming?”

  He takes a step back. “No, I’m going to answer a few emails before I go.” Smiling smugly, he taps a finger against his temple. “Might as well get some work done since I’m already here.” Unable to help himself, he adds, “That’s not your first instinct, though, is it? Being industrious.”

  I ignore the jab. Be the better man, Max. “I’m going to shoot some hoops. Sure you don’t want to join me?”

  His reaction is priceless. He shudders and scrunches his face like a pug’s.

  Yeah, I didn’t think so, but hey, it was decent of me to ask.

  “I’ll pass,” he says on a chuckle—make that a chortle. Andrew’s definitely the kind of guy who chortles.

  “Fine. See you in”—I look down at my wristwatch—“less than twenty-four hours, then.”

  Giving me a half-assed wave, he says, “Yeah. Sure.” When the elevator doors slide shut, he’s still standing in the same spot.

  I wish Andrew and I were closer, but we don’t have the same interests, and we’ve never been friends. It would be great if we interacted on some level other than a competitive one, but the more my parents shoved us together, the more we tried to pull ourselves apart. Okay, that last bit’s mostly my fault. I’m mature enough to own the blame.

  Who knows? Maybe this project will give Andrew and me the separation we need to connect in other ways. Or maybe we’ll kill each other. Admittedly, it could go either way.

  Chapter Three

  Lina

  Bliss and Ian are somewhere over the Atlantic, heading to their honeymoon destination, so I’m officially off the clock for the rest of the weekend. Today’s to-do list is short: restock the fridge, live in my sweats, and binge on Netflix. But first . . . pão com manteiga and cafezinho.

  By unanimous consent, Brazilians must consume two items—and only two items—for breakfast each day: buttered bread and coffee. If a person deviates from this menu, they’re probably staging a coup. Or they’re first-generation Brazilian Americans like me, in which case, bring on the bacon-and-egg sandwich. This morning, though, I woke up craving a traditional Brazilian breakfast, and my favorite place to get one is Rio de Wheaton, the grocery store my mother and aunts operate out of a strip mall just off Georgia Avenue in Wheaton, Maryland. Side note: For years, I’ve begged them to change the name. For just as many years, they’ve ignored me.

  It doesn’t take me long to get to the store from my apartment in College Park. The bell affixed to the door jingles when I enter, and everyone inside stops in mid-motion to inspect the newest arrival. Passing a display of Havaianas flip-flops wedged between the cassava flour and masking tape, I breathe in the sweet and buttery aroma of freshly baked bread permeating the air. A third of the store’s space is dedicated to a tiny café—literally consisting of three round tables and not enough chairs—where the sisters serve cafezinho brasileiro, or the equivalent of Starbucks on steroids, and pão, in this case, a warm, flaky roll served fresh throughout the day.

  “Bom dia,” I call out. “Como vai?”

  “Filha, um minuto,” my mother says with a smile before she returns her attention to the customer at the register. As she hands the man his change, she winks at him. “Obrigada.”

  Hang on. Is my mother flirting? That’s a first, and I’d love to see more of it. I don’t think she’s dated anyone after divorcing my father over ten years ago. The flush on her cheeks is promising, though, and the way she’s leaning forward, her head cocked to the side, suggests she’s into this guy. Hallelujah! As far as I’m concerned, my mother deserves all the booty calls her heart desires to make up for my father’s lack of affection during their marriage.

  Lugging a twenty-four-pack of Guaraná Brazilia in her hands, Viviane, my mother’s oldest sister and our family’s matriarch, marches my way and gives me a hurried kiss on each cheek. Tia Viviane operates in two modes: “busy” and “on overdrive.” Her body already moving in the direction of her next destination, she looks at me over her shoulder. “Tudo bem?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I tell her. For a few seconds, I’m rooted to the spot in the center aisle as people shuffle past me without any real sense of direction. They don’t appear to be interested in buying anything; they’re just . . . here. Jaslene says Puerto Rican storeowners have bodega cats. Well, Brazilian storeowners tend to attract bodega people. Such as the guy from the neighborhood who’s enamored with my younger cousin Natalia. He’s currently pretending to watch futebol on the TV suspended from the corner of the café’s ceiling, while the object of his unrequited love, who is very engaged to be married, is wiping down the salgadinhos display. Coincidence? I think not.

  “Oi mulher!” Natalia says as she drapes the dish towel over her shoulder. “Scrounging for free food again?”

  “Respect your elders, brat.”

  At warp speed, she grabs the dish towel, flicks it at my chest, and leans in, lowering her voice so only I can hear what she says next. “You have a white ring around your mouth. What is it? Pastry residue? Pre-come?”

  I jump back and quickly wipe at my face before I realize she’s doubled over in glee. “Har-har. Hilarious as always.”

  “Why was my observation even plausible, prima?” she asks through her laughter. “I mean, what the hell have you been doing in your spare time?”

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The truth is, if there were a white ring around my mouth, there’d be no chance it came from a blowjob, considering I haven’t been with anyone for well over a year. And since my livelihood depends on working most weekends from March through September, I don’t have time to meet potential partners in any case. These days, my orgasms are self-induced, battery-powered, and delivered in under five minutes—if I’m really feeling sassy, I’ll stretch it to ten. So, yeah, no way it’s pre-come. Remnants of a powdered doughnut, though? Entirely possible. “Whatever, Natalia. My love life, or lack of it, isn’t open for discussion—or dissection.” I snap my fingers at her. “Now get me coffee and bread and make it quick.”

  “Pfft. Get it yourself. It’s break time, and I need to call Paolo.” She removes her apron and hands it over, giving me her ever-present smirk. “You’re welcome to take my place for a bit. If you want to make yourself useful, that is.” A loud pop of her glossy lips punctuates her point, and then she waves goodbye as she saunters toward the door.

  “Don’t forget we have an appointment on Wednesday,” I call after her.

  “It’s my dress fitting. Of course I’ll be there,” she shouts back before she slips outside.

  I throw the apron over my head, tie it around my waist, and wait for it in . . . t
hree, two, one . . .

  “Wash your hands,” my mother warns.

  Every. Time. As if I don’t know better. But do I snap back at her? Of course not. I value my life as much as the next person. “Will do, Mãe.” I look around the store for my other aunt’s short, springy curls. “Where’s Tia Izabel?”

  My mother’s other older sister is the quietest of the bunch—and the least interested in running the store.

  “She went to run a few errands,” my mother says.

  Mãe’s still busy at the register, so I sneak a kiss on her cheek, then stride to the back. After my hands are properly washed and sanitized, I return to the counter and use tongs to swipe a bread roll; I pop a piece into my mouth and sigh in contentment. Definitely worth the drive.

  My mother finally breaks free of her register duties and slips a hand around my waist. “How was the wedding? This was the one with the green dress, right?”

  She takes great joy in living vicariously through the people who hire me, and she has an excellent memory, too.

  “It went well,” I tell her after I finish chewing the bread. “The dress was as interesting as you thought it would be. Oh, and the groom’s friends shaved off his eyebrows the night before.”

  My mother looks up at me, her dark eyes growing wide as saucers. “Wow. I didn’t see that one coming. But you handled it?”

  I give her a do-you-even-know-who-I-am look, my face screwed up playfully. “Of course I handled it.”

  She nods, pulling me closer to her side. “I’m proud of you, filha.”

  “Thanks, Mãe.” Her words make me stand a little taller. That’s all I’ve ever wanted—to make Mãe and my tias proud. When each of their marriages imploded, the sisters banded together to raise their children, taking turns cooking, babysitting, and driving to and from school and extracurriculars. They spent their remaining time cleaning other people’s homes, until they saved enough to open this store. Because of them, I’m a college graduate; my older brother, Rey, is a physician’s assistant; and Natalia’s in heavy demand as a self-employed makeup artist. Bringing up the rear and no less impressive is Tia Izabel’s daughter, Solange, who’s completing graduate school and preparing to change the world.

  “Think you’ll get any more work out of this one?” my mother asks.

  “More work? Maybe. It all depends on timing. If someone’s engaged and hasn’t booked a planner, they’ll probably call to feel me out.”

  And then there’s Rebecca Cartwright. She mentioned a proposition, and I’m curious to know what it is. I make a mental note to call her first thing Monday morning and set a time for us to meet. At the very least, I can add her to my growing list of contacts in the area. Even a loose connection with the CEO of a hotel as highly regarded as the Cartwright could be useful someday.

  An actual paying customer with goods in her hands shuffles to the counter. My mother wanders off to help her, allowing me to return to my love affair with the bread in my hand. I’m happily chomping on said bread when in walks Marcelo, a family friend and the owner of Something Fabulous, the boutique dress shop where I rent space for my business.

  “Olá, pessoal,” he says grandly, his voice booming over the crowd’s cheers on the TV screen. “Tudo bem?”

  “Tudo,” Tia Viviane says, half of her body hidden behind the reach-in beverage cooler she’s stocking. “E você?”

  He gestures with one hand to indicate he’s so-so, then he saunters over to Tia Viviane and drops a kiss on her forehead. They’ve been friends for ages, having met decades ago through the extensive social network that helps Brazilian immigrants in Maryland acclimate to life in America. That same network found all three sisters their husbands, none of whom stuck around after the marriages ended.

  As for Marcelo and Viviane, I suspect their friendship comes with benefits, but I’ve never been bold enough to confirm my suspicions. Tia Viviane’s lethal when a pair of Havaianas are within reach.

  Marcelo sees me and his eyes dim, causing me to question the truth of his next words. “Carolina, I was hoping I’d see you here. I have news.”

  My chewing slows as I place the rest of my bread on a napkin and brush the crumbs off the front of my T-shirt. “What’s up, Marcelo?”

  He casually rests his forearms on the counter. “The real estate company gave notice Friday afternoon that they’re increasing the rent for the next leasing period. By seven percent.” Sighing, he steps back and motions as though he’s wiping his hands of the situation. “And as far as I’m concerned, that’s it. I can’t keep up anymore. Not with everyone buying wedding dresses online. Or renting them. So I’m going to join my daughter in Florida and find a little shop there to sell my inventory for a few more years. Eventually, I’ll retire and spend all day fishing. It’s time.” Marcelo reaches over and covers my hand. “I know this affects you, too. And if I could afford it, I’d stay, but I was struggling already, and this will make it worse.”

  I force my words past the massive lump of disappointment clogging my throat. “When does the lease end again?” I already know the answer, but hearing the expiration date out loud will force me to confront the reality of my situation rather than bury it.

  “Sixty days,” he says on a sigh.

  Well, that’s real enough for me, and it’s no small thing. An office in the District is essential to my business. Most of my clients are busy professionals who appreciate the convenience of meeting in a central location where they can also go to other shops and restaurants as part of their evening plans. A home base just off Connecticut Avenue communicates stability, a certain gravitas that doesn’t need to be explained. Any charlatan can whip up some business cards at a local copy shop and call themselves a wedding planner; a registered business address assures a couple their coordinator won’t pack up her portable office and run off with their money.

  I don’t require a lot, really—an office and a cubicle are enough—which is why my arrangement with Marcelo met my needs perfectly. Because I didn’t take up much square footage, he could afford not to charge me market price for it. I know from my own abandoned efforts to find office space a few years ago that leasing even a closet in the District will make it almost impossible for me to pay the rent on my own apartment. And even if I can find an affordable alternative, it’ll probably be a step down from my current location, so the optics of the transition won’t do me any favors, either.

  Dammit. I can’t screw up. Not again.

  Marcelo’s decision has knocked me off-kilter, and I don’t know what to do to right myself. Tears threaten to fall, but a glance between Viviane and my mother, the former of whom is wearing a stern expression, dries my eyes instantly. Right. Having learned my own harsh lessons when I was a wide-eyed innocent, I now know the rules well: We must never let our emotions get the better of us; doing so is either a sign of weakness, one that diminishes our well-earned respect, or a mark of combativeness, which will cause people to say we’re irrational. And as women—women of color, more specifically—we simply can’t afford to be perceived in those terms.

  Too bad I’m a softie. Apt to cry or sob the moment anyone manages to draw the slightest bit of emotion out of me. When I was younger, my brother and cousins teased me about it mercilessly. Bebê chorão, they’d chant. Crybaby. It didn’t bother me much then; how much harm could come from that pesky trait, really? As an adult, however, I discovered the answer was plenty—certainly more than I could handle. So I developed a persona over the years, to manage my feelings. I’m no-nonsense. A badass. Made of Teflon and impervious to minor insult or offense. I’ll never again be that woman who made a blubbering fool of herself over a guy. Never again be that person who crumbled in a professional setting and lost the respect of her peers. Strength is a state of mind, and I’m willing it into existence, dammit.

  I straighten and give Marcelo a tight smile. “None of this is your fault, Marcelo. You couldn’t have predicted a rent hike this ugly. I’m sure I’ll be able to find something else. So don’t w
orry about me. Everything will be fine.”

  He studies my face—undoubtedly detecting my bullshit but not calling me on it—his mouth pressed into a deep frown. “You’re sure, querida?”

  The endearment tries to slip through my defenses, but I mentally build a barricade against showing any emotion. “Certa.”

  Everyone around me—Marcelo, Tia Viviane, my mother, even the guy pretending to watch soccer who’s eavesdropping on the conversation—visibly relaxes, the tension of the moment cut by my assurances that all will end well. And it must. End well, that is. Because I have no other choice—my career and livelihood are at stake.

  Sighing on the inside at the detour in my day, I make a last-minute addition to my to-do list: eat my feelings. My gaze lands on the half-eaten roll of bread. No, that just won’t do; it’s way too basic. I need fat, and carbs, and tons of sugar. Where’s a goddamn powdered doughnut when you need one?

  Chapter Four

  Lina

  Note to self: A dozen glazed doughnut holes can work wonders on your disposition.

  After an evening of bingeing on TV and sweets, I greet the new week with optimism and a plan, one that includes an early-morning meeting with Rebecca Cartwright. Now more than ever, I need to cultivate my contacts and keep my eyes peeled for new business opportunities, so when I contacted her last night and she offered to see me first thing this morning, I jumped at the chance.

  According to the quick research I did during the Metro ride here, the Cartwright is one of three boutique hotels owned by the Cartwright Group. The flagship location is in the District; the other two properties are in Northern Virginia. In another life, this building housed a bank, and remnants of its austere beginnings, such as the large white columns that flank its breathtaking entrance, complement the simple yet eclectic interior design. Thanks to a massive skylight in the center of the circular lobby, the marble floors gleam, and the sun’s rays highlight every detail, from the abstract art adorning the textured walls to the steel lines of the contemporary furniture. It all comes together to give the hotel an upscale yet unpretentious vibe.