The Best Man

by Annabelle Costa

  The Best Man

  a novel by

  Annabelle Costa

  The Best Man

  © 2017 by Annabelle Costa. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the authors’ imagination, and are not to be construed as real. None of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Kirby

  Chapter 1: Kirby

  Chapter 2: John

  Chapter 3: Kirby

  Chapter 4: John

  Chapter 5: Kirby

  Chapter 6: John

  Chapter 7: Kirby

  Chapter 8: John

  Chapter 9: Kirby

  Chapter 10: John

  Chapter 11: Kirby

  Chapter 12: John

  Chapter 13: Kirby

  Chapter 14: John

  Chapter 15: Kirby

  Chapter 16: John

  Chapter 17: Kirby

  Chapter 18: John

  Chapter 19: Kirby

  Chapter 20: Kirby

  Chapter 21: John

  Chapter 22: Kirby

  Chapter 23: John

  Chapter 24: Kirby

  Chapter 25: John

  Chapter 26: Kirby

  Chapter 27: John

  Chapter 28: Kirby

  Chapter 29: Kirby

  Chapter 30: Kirby

  Chapter 31: John

  Chapter 32: Kirby

  Chapter 33: Kirby

  Chapter 34: John

  Chapter 35: Kirby

  Chapter 36: John

  Chapter 37: Kirby

  Chapter 38: John

  Chapter 39: Kirby

  Chapter 40: John

  Chapter 41: Kirby

  Chapter 42: John

  Chapter 43: John

  Chapter 44: Kirby

  Chapter 45: Kirby

  Chapter 46: John

  Chapter 47: Kirby

  Chapter 48: John

  Chapter 49: Kirby

  Epilogue: Kirby

  Epilogue: John

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue: Kirby

  I am at a wedding right now, hiding in the bathroom. I’ve been here for twenty minutes.

  You might wonder why a grown woman would have locked herself in a bathroom stall, and is currently sitting on the tank of the toilet with my feet on the toilet seat so that nobody knows I’m in here. I’m starting to wonder the same thing myself, to be honest.

  It started out innocently enough. I was at my friend Brianna’s wedding, and I was having a moderately good time. The ceremony was short and sweet, and the salmon I ordered was melt-in-your-mouth good. Although I tried not to eat too much, considering the bridesmaid dress I got fitted for a few months ago just barely zipped up this morning. Cake was not an option.

  Then the comments started:

  “Kirby, I’m sure it will be your turn next.”

  “Kirby, don’t get discouraged. You just have to lay down an ultimatum for that boyfriend of yours.”

  “Oh, Kirby, I think your dress has split a seam!”

  I took it with a smile. Prior to this wedding, I thought I was fine with the fact that almost all my friends are now married and engaged. I was fine with the fact that I’m almost thirty and I don’t have a ring on my finger. I like being single. I like my freedom.

  But then when they announced they were throwing the bouquet, I ran for the bathroom.

  All I could think was that I didn’t want to be one of those pathetic single girls standing in front of all the guests, jumping for the bouquet, hoping that it would be my turn next. It’s humiliating. I’ve done it more times than I can count and I won’t do it again. I won’t.

  At first, I was just checking my makeup in the bathroom mirror. But then when I heard someone coming, I ran for a stall. And there I stayed. Hiding.

  I pull out my phone. I recognize there’s a real danger of my phone falling into the toilet, but I can’t help myself. I’m bored out of my mind. I’m just sitting in a bathroom stall.

  There’s a text message from my boyfriend Ted: Having a good time at the wedding?

  My boyfriend, Ted Foster, regretfully can’t be here today. He can’t be here most days, because he lives in California. Silicon Valley, to be specific. I live in Jersey City, which is about as far from California as you can get and still be in the continental United States. I really know how to pick ‘em.

  We met on Facebook. I know—we’re so trendy. It’s an adorable story though. Ted was the friend of a friend, and he started posting these cute, funny cartoons every week. Before I knew it, I had started “liking” and commenting on his cartoons. And then one week, he posted one with the caption: “A cartoon just for Kirby.”

  At that point, I checked out his photos. Ted Foster was a hottie—no arguing that. Shaggy blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and an even, perfect tan that you just can’t get here in Jersey. Around here, you either burn or you’re pale as a ghost. I tend to the latter—I’ve got the pale complexion with freckles that come out with even the slightest hint of sun.

  Ted and I started chatting online. It was nothing serious, but Ted’s originally from Jersey, so about a month later when he was visiting his parents, he suggested we meet up. Needless to say, we hit it off. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other the entire week he was visiting.

  Fast forward to a year later. I adore Ted—I really do. He comes out here whenever he can, and I’ve been to Silicon Valley several times, but the distance is crazy hard. It’s hard that I never have a date to bring along when my couple friends (which is practically all my friends lately) go out together. It’s hard that I have to go to weddings alone. It’s hard that I see Ted more on a screen than I do in real life. It’s just hard.

  Ted is on the same page. When we were talking a few days ago, he mentioned that one of his good friends proposed to his girlfriend the day before. “We all went out to celebrate,” Ted told me. “I really missed you. I was the only one in the whole group who was alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, also wishing I could have been there.

  “It’s not your fault—it’s just the situation,” he said, and I could hear the frustration in his voice. I got the message. Ted’s got a lot of really great qualities, and it’s not like he’d have any trouble finding a local girl to date. We had a lot of fun together, but it’s not like we’re soulmates. I’m sure a break-up is on the horizon. I’ve already resigned myself to it.

  I look at the text message from Ted, wondering how to respond. I can’t honestly tell him that I’m having a good time at this wedding. Then again, I probably shouldn’t tell him that I’m hiding in the bathroom. That might make me sound a little cray-cray.

  Finally, I write: It’s fine. Wish you were here.

  He instantly writes back: Me too.

  I smile. I wish Ted lived around here. That would change everything. If Ted were here, I definitely wouldn’t be hiding in a bathroom right now.

  “Kirby?”

  I suck in a breath at the sound of my friend Mandy’s voice. Oh my God, have I been in here so long that they’ve sent out a search party?

  “Kirby, are you in here?”

  I look at the lock on the stall door. They’re going to figure out someone is in here eventually. The longer I pretend not to be in here, the more embarrassing it will be. Besides, the bouquet toss has got to be long over by now. It’s surely safe to come out.

  I unlock the stall and b
reeze out, like I was coming out anyway. Mandy, who got engaged six months ago and has a blinding rock on her finger, blinks at me in surprise. “Oh!” she chirps. “There you are!”

  “Here I am,” I confirm.

  “Well, come on!” Mandy holds out her arm to me. “We’ve been waiting for you to do the bouquet toss!”

  She’s got to be kidding me.

  “You could have gone ahead without me,” I say weakly.

  “Oh, no!” Mandy says. “You’re one of only two single girls here! Well, except for the children.”

  Great.

  I trudge after Mandy like she’s leading me to my execution. I can’t believe they waited for me. This is the worst.

  When I get back to the reception hall, everyone is seated except for Brianna, the bride, who is at the front of the room with her bouquet. She waves excitedly at me when I enter the room. I suppress the urge to run for the bathroom again.

  Joining me to catch the bouquet is a woman I’ve never met before, who is in her mid-thirties, as well as a teenaged girl who seems rather indifferent to the whole thing. The DJ plays Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” as we all dutifully line up behind Brianna as the wedding guests pause their conversation to gawk at us.

  The woman next to me gives me the stink eye. “The bouquet is mine,” she snaps at me as she tugs on the hem of her short black dress.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I’ve been with my boyfriend for three years,” she says. “He needs to propose.”

  “It’s all yours,” I tell her. “Really.”

  She squints at me. “Don’t you want to get married? You’re not exactly young.”

  Well, gee. Thanks.

  I think about it for a minute. Do I want to get married? Well, yes. Of course I do. But I’m more excited about meeting a guy that I want to be married to. I don’t want to be married just for the sake of being married. It has to be the right guy. He has to be The One.

  “Okay!” Brianna calls out. She’s supposed to be turned away, but instead she’s facing us. And she winks at me, which is very unsettling. “Here we go!”

  Brianna flings her brightly colored bouquet into the air. I stand still as a statue, my hands at my sides, in a concerted effort to not catch the bouquet. But by luck or a breeze or Brianna’s scheming, the bouquet flies squarely in my direction. It whacks me in the chest and I instinctively reach out my arms.

  Damn. I’ve caught it.

  The woman standing next to me looks like she wants to claw my eyes out. I look down at the bouquet, wondering if I drop it on the floor, it will still count. If I drop it, would that be a foul? Can I then give it to that woman?

  “Kirby caught it!” Brianna calls out. She’s more excited than anyone should rightfully be over catching a bouquet.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “That means you’re next!” she says gleefully.

  I bite my lip, looking around at the guests, who are watching me in rapt attention. “I… I don’t think…”

  “Kirby.”

  The voice from behind me makes my heart skip a beat. No. No. It can’t be. He’s supposed to be three-thousand miles away.

  I whirl around and see him standing there. Ted. His blond hair is disheveled and his shirt is wrinkled like he just got in from the red eye to Newark. But he looks gorgeous. I nearly burst into tears at the sight of him. I race over to him and fling my arms around his neck.

  “Ted!” I cry. “What are you doing here?”

  “I missed you,” he says simply.

  I can’t believe this. I can’t believe he’s here.

  Ted looks down at the bunch of flowers still in my hand. “Looks like you caught the bouquet.”

  My cheeks grow warm and I look away from him. “Yeah.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “So doesn’t that mean you’re next?”

  My cheeks are on fire now. The last thing you want is to put pressure on your boyfriend of a year. “I… I mean, I don’t…”

  And that’s when something really surprising happens. Ted takes my hand in his and gets down on one knee. I look up at Brianna, who is beaming at me, and I realize that my catching the bouquet was no fluke. Ted fumbles in his pocket until he pulls out a blue velvet box. My breath catches in my throat.

  “I love you so much, Kirby,” he says. “When I’m not with you, I’m always missing you. All I want is to be with you.” He opens up the small box and I see the diamond gleaming inside. I feel so dizzy that I’m scared I’ll faint dead away in front of all these guests. I’d never live that down. I always expected some cheesy proposal with the ring inside my wine glass or something like that, but this is a complete shock.

  “Will you marry me, Kirby?”

  I think this might be the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life.

  Chapter 1: Kirby

  I’m getting married.

  Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Fine, I know I’m way too old to be running around yelling and shrieking just because I recently got engaged. But you only get engaged once (hopefully), and I’ve already been a bridesmaid four times, so I feel like I’m due. It’s my turn, gosh darn it!

  Ted and I are continuing to make this long distance thing work for just a little while longer. Right after he proposed to me, he stuck around another week, and I’ve made it out to Mountain View once since then. We do FaceTime every day. We watch movies together while talking on the phone. And every month, he sends me these adorable care packages filled with cookies and stuffed animals holding hearts that sing to me.

  And of course, it’s not like this is a permanent situation. We’re not going to have to FaceTime our baby’s birth. Ted has feelers out, and he’s going to relocate to New York or New Jersey as soon as he gets a decent opportunity out here. Which shouldn’t be long, because he’s amazing at what he does.

  Honestly, he’s the best fiancé I could possibly ask for.

  Last night, Ted called me to let me know that he put down a deposit for six months from now on a location for the wedding in Niagara Falls—my dream location. It’s supposed to be a beautiful place to get married. We argued about this, because most of Ted’s friends are on the west coast, and obviously, Niagara Falls is on the east coast. But Ted’s family is all on the east coast, and all of my family and friends are on the east coast.

  “So that’s three-quarters of our guests who are on the east coast,” I pointed out to Ted during a recent FaceTime chat.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but doesn’t that mean we should pick a place to get married that’s three-quarters of the way between California and New Jersey?”

  So we looked at a map to see where three-quarters of the way between California and New Jersey was, and we ended up with Indiana. Nothing against Indiana, but neither of us were particularly excited about getting married there. So… Niagara Falls it was. And Ted is now completely on board with it.

  Because Ted has compromised so much, I have been trying to acquiesce to all his requests. Such as the one he made when we were chatting on the phone a few nights ago.

  “So, listen, Kirby,” he began.

  I could already tell from Ted’s voice that he was going to ask a favor of me. That’s how well I know him, even though we’ve never lived within a two-thousand mile radius of one another.

  “So you know how I told you that my best man John doesn’t live too far away from you?” Ted said.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  “I was just wondering,” he said, “if you might be willing to go help him out with some of the best man duties.”

  I crinkled my nose. This did not sound like a fun request, like when he asked me if I’d pick out some edible lingerie for the next time we got together. “Like what?”

  “Like picking out a stripper for my bachelor party,” Ted joked. (I think he was joking. Hmm, maybe not.) “Seriously though, he might appreciate the help. Anyway, you ought to meet Johnny. He’s my best friend in the whole world
since we were eight years old.”

  I had to admit, I was curious to meet John. Even though I’d never even spoken to the guy, I felt like I knew him after hearing Ted’s stories about how the two guys went kayaking or camping together, or hilarious stories about their failed attempts to pick up girls. (“John’s an even worse nerd than I am!”) I didn’t see any way I could not like the guy.

  So that, in case you’re wondering, is why I’m wandering around a Barnes and Noble in east Jersey, searching for John, who assured me on the phone that he’d be wearing a Mets cap. I didn’t see him in the café when I first came in, so I started walking around the bookstore, briefly getting distracted by the 30% rack, and now I’m back at the café and still no Mets cap.

  I’m nervous as all hell. We may be engaged, but technically, Ted and I have only been together a year, and it would mean a lot to get the Best Friend Stamp of Approval. How awesome would it be if John texted Ted after our meeting and told him how cool I am? That is, if he ever shows up.

  I swear, if he doesn’t come soon, I’m going to have to buy this rustic apple tart I keep eying and then my jeans won’t fit me anymore.

  While I’m doing my best to not buy the apple tart (don’t do it, Kirby!), I notice that there’s this guy slouched forward slightly in a wheelchair who keeps staring at me. The wheelchair isn’t the kind you see at the hospital, with the giant handles on the back and clunky metal footrests. This one is smaller and sleeker, although the backrest goes up to his shoulder blades. I always think of old people as needing wheelchairs, but this guy isn’t old at all—he looks a little older than I am, maybe early thirties. And he isn’t bad looking—just the opposite. He’s crazy hot. Not conventionally handsome the way Ted is, but in a more exotic way, with high cheekbones and deep brown, slightly slanted almond-shaped eyes. Even though his skin is as white as mine, it’s clear his relatives came from somewhere more interesting than England and Ireland, like mine.

  I have no idea why this guy is staring at me, but it occurs to me that while it is not really okay for him to stare at me, it’s really not okay for me to stare at him. I mean, I’m not four years old.