The Best Man

by Annabelle Costa

  A woman in a stewardess uniform approaches John and puts her hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay, sweetie? Can I get you some ice?”

  John shakes his head no. “I’m fine.”

  Although when I see how dark red his cheekbone is, I think he probably could have used some ice. He’s going to have a shiner for sure.

  Now that Ted is gone, it’s just the two of us. Well, and all the passengers in Gate 23, who are watching us so intently, I feel like we should charge admission. But John can’t seem to look at me anymore. His eyes are on the wall, on his lap—anywhere but looking at me.

  “I don’t want you to regret this, Kirby,” he finally says.

  Ted’s words are messing with him. Figures.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say.

  “He’s right about a lot of things,” John points out. “It’s easier to be with him than it will be with me. I… have issues.”

  And now I do sit on his lap, wrapping my arms around his shoulders gingerly, so I don’t hurt him. He hesitates for a second, then leans forward and kisses me. At first it’s a gentle kiss, but then we’re full-on making out in front of all the people in Gate 23. It feels so right, so perfect—like I could kiss him forever. For the rest of my life. As long as we both shall live.

  “Come on home with me,” I whisper in his ear. When his eyes widen, I say, “I’ve got cupcakes.”

  Gets them every time.

  Epilogue: Kirby

  One Year Later

  My best friend Amy is getting married in six months!

  Eeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkk!!!!!!!!!!!

  It’s a shorter “eek” than it was when I was getting married. I mean, I love Amy, but you can’t quite get as excited about your best friend’s wedding as you do about your own. Still. I’m ridiculously happy for Amy. So… eek!

  We’re doing a cake tasting at Minnie’s bakery. Well, it’s technically a cupcake tasting. As part of the bakery’s services, we started doing catering of cupcakes for weddings.

  It was John’s idea, actually. He got inspired by Cupcake Wars. In their final round, the contestants have to make a colorful display that holds a thousand cupcakes with multiple flavors. After watching an episode while entwined on John’s couch, he commented, “They should have those at weddings!”

  We started advertising. John spread the word at his company, and soon the word of mouth just took off. I’m doing a crazy number of weddings. So many that Minnie had to hire someone else at the bakery. Recently she confided in me that before my wedding cupcakes took off, she was on the verge of considering closing the bakery because she was nearly bankrupt.

  You know what the most requested variety of cupcake is?

  Bubble gum.

  I’ve got Amy and her betrothed seated at the one table we have in the bakery. Her betrothed is named Michelle. That was a huge shock. I can’t believe I considered Amy my best friend and she never told me that she was a lesbian—although to be fair, she never acted on her feelings before she met Michelle. It was that religious upbringing—she was terrified to admit that she didn’t find men attractive, both to me and even to herself. But everyone she’s told has been very supportive, including her religious Christian parents.

  I’ve never seen her look as happy as she does today. Or as beautiful.

  “What’s all this hype I’m hearing about a bubble gum cupcake?” Michelle asks me.

  “It’s so good,” Amy tells her, grabbing Michelle’s hand in her own. It’s still slightly weird to me to see Amy being affectionate like that with another woman. But I know I’ll adjust. “You have to taste it. It sounds disgusting, I know.”

  I roll my eyes at Amy, but slide one of the bubble gum cupcakes across the table to Michelle. She pulls down the wrapper and takes a bite of the pink cake. Her eyes widen. “Wow! I feel like I’m back in middle school again, chewing bubble gum.”

  “People still chew bubble gum,” I say.

  “No, they don’t!” I hear a voice yell from the back.

  I suppress a smile. John is in the back of the bakery, fielding a call from an interested bride. Usually I do that, but I’ve got a form and I trusted him to get most of the details right, although it’s up in the air whether his handwriting will be legible. I’m guessing the fact that he’s interrupting our conversation means he’s off the phone.

  Sure enough, John wheels out of the back to join us. His black hair got a little flour in it and so did his sweatshirt, but that’s par for the course in our back room. He’s got the form in his lap.

  Even though John and I have been together for a year now, I still feel a jolt of electricity every time I look at him. I still think he’s the hottest guy I know—the sight of him makes my knees weak. I still feel certain he’s my soulmate. He better be—we spend most non-working moments together.

  “When did you book them for?” I ask him.

  “I didn’t,” he says.

  I frown. “How come?”

  “Kirby,” he says, “you’re completely booked for the next six months. You’ve got to hire more help if you don’t want to turn people down.”

  “Don’t lie, John,” Amy snips. “You were probably just too lazy to take down the information.”

  “Be nice, Amy,” John says. “Or else you might find a special brown cupcake in your display, if you know what I mean.”

  Amy punches him in the shoulder, but I know that these days when Amy and John argue, there’s affection behind it. When he makes fun of Amy for sending back a fish sandwich for being “too fishy,” it’s more funny than angry. Amy’s accepted that John is perfect for me—and during rare moments, she’ll admit that she likes him quite a bit. Also, it’s really hilarious when the two of them argue over which one of them gives better cunnilingus. (It’s got to be John. Nobody could be better.)

  “You know,” John says, “I’m the one who inspired the bubble gum cupcake.”

  “It’s true,” I admit. “He did. He was talking about how bubble gum was passé and I got inspired.”

  “I also like this peppermint mocha one,” Michelle says, pointing to a version of the cupcake I first made in my kitchen with John timing me.

  “I inspired that one too,” John adds.

  Amy rolls her eyes. “Are you giving a portion of your profits to this guy, Kirby? He might sue you otherwise.”

  “I’m waiting for the business to get really big before I sue,” he says. “More publicity that way.”

  I stick out my tongue at John. He wheels over so that he’s sitting closer to me. His shoulder still bothers him, but he’s figured out a way to keep using his manual wheelchair out of the house. He found this device that’s a motor with a wheel on it that attaches to the back of his chair, and essentially turns his manual chair into a power chair for long distances. He ran into a few walls before he got the hang of it, but now he’s an expert. It’s great because he can still have the maneuverability of a manual chair, but he doesn’t have to push it as much.

  Around the house, he now has a power wheelchair that he uses. He decided that saving his shoulders is the most important thing, and I think he’s just as sexy, no matter what he’s sitting in.

  “What’s this cupcake?” Michelle asks, pointing with her multi-ringed finger to a green cupcake.

  “That’s my mint cupcake,” I say. “It’s all natural.”

  John crinkles his nose. He’s so cute, I want to jump onto his lap. For a moment, I’m tempted. “Isn’t that the cupcake that tastes like a tree covered in toothpaste?”

  “I perfected it,” I tell him.

  Michelle looks hesitant after John’s comment, but she peels back the wrapper and takes a bite. She smiles in surprise. “Wow, I love this cupcake. It’s perfect.”

  “Really?” John is astonished. “Let me taste that.”

  Michelle cuts him a piece, which he scoops off the table and pops in his mouth. His eyes widen. “Wow,” he says. “This isn’t terrible at all. You really did fix it, Kirby.”

  “Gee,
thanks,” I say, but I’m smiling. “I’m pretty good with cupcakes.”

  Amy’s eyes meet John’s. “You should snap this one up. Buy Kirby a ring.”

  “Amy!” I screech at her. “Don’t say that!” I glance at John nervously. “Ignore her.”

  “Why are you letting him off the hook?” Amy shoots back. “He claims to be crazy about you. You seem to think he’s your “soulmate,” whatever that means. Lord knows, neither of you are getting any younger.”

  My cheeks get hot. “We can’t all get engaged five minutes after our first date, Amy.”

  Amy and Michelle exchange affectionate looks. Michelle reaches for Amy’s hands and they peck on the lips. Even though it’s still new to me to see this, it makes me happy. They look so perfect together.

  “When you know, you know,” Michelle says.

  “We’re not in any rush,” John says.

  I nod vigorously, even though his words disappoint me ever so slightly. It’s not that I don’t want to get married. I’d love it if John surprised me with a ring. But we’ve both been through a lot, and he’s right—there’s no rush. God knows, it’s not like we want to have kids in the near future. I’m busy enough with my cupcake wedding business.

  Still, it would be nice if John gave me a ring.

  Because Amy and Michelle are being affectionate, it gives me license to slide into John’s lap. Amy makes a comment about how this is highly inappropriate for a wedding cake consultation, but we just laugh her off. I love sitting in John’s lap. I love everything about this man. I don’t care if we ever get married. I’m so happy just to be with him.

  Epilogue: John

  Don’t tell Kirby, but I bought her a ring.

  Dear readers,

  As an author, I love feedback. While good feedback is the best, of course, I like to hear it all—the good and the bad. You, the readers, are what keep me going as an author. So please tell me what you liked, what you loved, and even what you hated. I’d love to hear from you either way. You can write to me at razberripie@gmail.com or visit my website at http://annabellecosta.blogspot.com/.

  Finally, I need to ask you for a favor. A small favor. If you are inspired, I’d really love a review of The Best Man. Reviews are so important in publicizing a book, and you have the power to help me make or break my book. So if you’re so inclined, please help me!

  Thank you so much for reading The Best Man and getting to know my characters!

  Sincerely,

  Annabelle Costa

  P.S. Please enjoy an excerpt below from my last book, Crazy in Love, available now on Amazon!

  Acknowledgements

  Recently, my father read the acknowledgements of a book I wrote and yelled at me for it.

  “Why didn’t you mention me?” he demanded to know.

  “Because you didn’t help me with the book. You haven’t even read it.”

  “But you mentioned your mother! You wrote a whole paragraph about her!”

  “Yeah, because she read it four times.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said angrily. “You know, in every book I’ve written, I’ve mentioned you and your siblings.”

  “Right. In the dedication. Not the acknowledgements. The acknowledgements are for people who helped you.”

  “Fine. Then dedicate your book to me.”

  “Um…”

  He shook his head. “It’s clear that I didn’t raise you right. It’s always better to thank too many people than not enough people. Always err on the side of thanking too many people. Thank everyone. Life lesson.”

  I’d like to start out by thanking everyone who read this story on PD. Seriously, the comments and encouragement was what kept me going, and this book wouldn’t exist if not for you guys. Actually, none of my books would exist if not for you guys. So thank you for your support. So much. On that note, thank you to Lee and DG, without whom PD wouldn’t exist.

  I’d like to also specifically thank Molly Mirren and J. Saman for reading this story in an early draft and assuring me that it was worth salvaging, then helping me in the salvage efforts.

  Finally, I want to thank my father, who I love very much, even though he’ll never read this. Thank you for all the life lessons. Thank you for teaching me to ride a bike. Thank you for making me ask the waiters in the restaurants for more water to help me get over my childhood shyness. Also, big thanks for telling me exactly how much money I needed to give my brother when he got married ($1,000).

  Crazy in Love: Excerpt

  “Anna, this is completely unacceptable!”

  My boss, Peter Glassman, is yelling at me. This is status quo. I’ve worked at my current job for six years, and it’s hard to recall a day when Peter hasn’t yelled at me for something. I’m used to the sight of him with his brown eyes wide, his face slightly pink, and all the veins standing out in his neck. One day, Peter will be yelling at me and drop dead of a heart attack. He will be screaming the word “unacceptable,” and somewhere between the “un” and the “able,” he will clutch his chest, his beady eyes will roll up in his head, and that will be it. He will be dead.

  I will have killed Peter Glassman.

  Right now, Peter is maybe in his late forties. I figure at the rate his waistline is growing, he’s got maybe another five years before I kill him. Ten if he starts taking medications for his blood pressure or cholesterol, both of which are almost certainly high based on the lunches I’ve seen him consuming in the break room.

  “It’s unacceptable, and furthermore, it’s unprofessional.”

  I know from all the previous times that Peter has yelled at me that I just need to wait it out. At some point, his voice will start getting tired or he’ll grow hungry or he’ll be late for a meeting. Then I’ll be off the hook. Even though I actually haven’t done anything wrong. As usual.

  You might be wondering why my boss is screaming at me, and I wouldn’t blame you. The reason this time is because of the can collection that I keep in my cubicle.

  I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself: Okay, Anna, I was with you until you said you collected cans. Yes, I know it’s not the usual thing to collect cans. I’m aware of that. But my retort is: Why not? What do normal people collect? Stamps? Matchboxes? Coins? Why are cans worse than any of that?

  When I’m at the grocery store shopping, sometimes I see a can and it looks special to me in some way. I can’t say why. But I know it’s something I want to have and keep. So I add that can to my collection.

  Right now I’ve got twenty-one cans in my cubicle. It isn’t that many. They’re neatly stacked. Honestly, my cubicle is far more organized and cleaner than the vast majority of my coworkers’ cubicles. But somehow, nobody can wrap their head around my cans.

  I had zoned out on the conversation when I recognize Peter has asked me a question and is waiting for a response. I grasp at the recording thread in my brain, trying to rewind the last few seconds and remember what he asked me. I can’t. It’s been deleted, or else, it was never recorded in the first place. But he’s staring at me, so I recognize that I have to say something.

  “This wouldn’t be a problem if I had an office,” I finally blurt out.

  Peter just gapes at me. His teeth are bad too. I know he drinks lots of soda, which is awful for the teeth. Every time I come into his office, he has a can of Coca Cola open on his desk. Somehow that’s acceptable but my collection of closed, clean cans is not.

  “So if you had an office, you’d stop?” Peter has a furrow between his brows. He seems desperate. Maybe he’s caught a glimpse of his impending coronary in my cubicle. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  I would love an office. That would solve so many of my problems. But I hope he doesn’t think that would mean giving up my can collection. “No, I’m saying that if I had an office, nobody would see. So it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  I hear a loud snort from the cubicle next to mine. That would be Matt. Matt Harper. Matt has occupied the cubicle next to mine for the last three years
, four months, five days, six hours, and… well, about seven minutes, give or take a few seconds. It’s hard to be completely precise with these things.

  I’m not what you would call a people person. I don’t like most people. In fact, I would say that I actively dislike the majority of people I meet. But I don’t dislike Matt Harper. He’s a difficult person to dislike. He is approximately five feet eleven inches tall, which makes him just above the average height for a man in this country, which is tall enough that he commands respect but not so tall as to be intimidating. He also has brown eyes, which is the most common eye color in this country, and he always looks me straight in my own eyes when he speaks to me. He has brown hair that is trimmed short, in a professional manner. His solid, athletic build indicates that he clearly takes good care of himself, which is verified by his white teeth. There is nothing I respect more than good oral hygiene.

  Even more importantly, I believe that Matt Harper is a genuinely nice person. Which is not something I can say about many of my other coworkers.

  Matt is friends with most people who work in our office. He and I are not friends—I will not delude myself that he considers me a friend, despite the fact that he invited me to a New Year’s Eve party at his house last year. (I did not attend.) He and I are friendly. He smiles at me when we exchange pleasantries. He doesn’t make fun of me within earshot, which is more than I can say for most people who work here.

  “Look, Anna,” Peter says to me, his face close enough to mine that I instinctively take a step back. I can smell his breath. He ate something with pickles for lunch—likely a cheeseburger. “I mean, doesn’t it bother you that everyone is making fun of these cans? You know what people call you, don’t you?”

  Yes. I know what they call me.

  They call me Crazy Anna.