The Worst Best Man

by M. J. O'Shea

  Then he remembered he was supposed to be going to the pub with Will, Weezy, and Louise. He laughed when he realized it sounded like Weezy was some strange combination of Will and Louise, like one of those ship names his two teenaged cousins were always babbling about on Facebook. Definitely losing it. Christopher had finally driven him insane.

  He looked up to see Will and Louise watching him gingerly from a safe distance.

  “You all right, mate?”

  “Hey. I need to get my coat.” August had learned years ago that Will never actually wanted to know when he asked that.

  “No, seriously. You look like you’re about to liquefy. Are you doing okay?”

  “Not really.” August realized then and there that he seriously didn’t want to get into his long and pathetic past with the Helena Preston staff, even if they were two of his closest friends in the world. He decided to brush the last unreal twenty minutes from his mind. “It’s just been a long day. I might head home and get some sleep.”

  “Fuck off, you twat, you’re not going home.”

  Sometimes August was surprised that Will could hold it together long enough to talk to their clients without swearing at them.

  “Weezy’s saved us a table. It’s quiz night.”

  “I’m tired,” August said. He figured he might as well try one more time. He had to admit that the thought of getting wasted out of his head did sort of appeal. Maybe it would make him forget that Christopher goddamn Burke was back in his life, however temporarily.

  “Right. We’ll fix that.” Will tossed his coat over. “Coat sorted. Here’s your scarf.” He tossed that at August as well. “Let the Christmas holidays commence.”

  A HALF an hour later, August was squished into a booth between Louise and a boisterously drunk Weezy, who usually smelled like a combination of weed and Bleu de Chanel. He’d found a shockingly respectable job as a record label promoter but somehow still managed to look and act like he’d never quite made it out of secondary school. They were between rounds on trivia, and August had already downed two shots of Fireball in hopes of forgetting Christopher’s hesitant smile.

  “What’s up with you tonight?” Weezy asked. He slung an arm around August’s shoulder.

  Since they usually had to coerce him into drinking at least his first three drinks before he got into it himself, he understood the confusion.

  “I hate everything,” August groaned. The Fireball was burning pleasantly in his belly, but he was far too lucid still.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?” Will asked. “You were your normal pain in the arse self before that last client, and now you look like someone pissed in your Cheerios.”

  Understatement of the millennium.

  “I just…. The Pritt-Shackleton wedding is going to be a pain in my ass, and I wish we could cancel on them.”

  “Hey,” Louise said rather loudly. She was always rather loud after a few drinks, and her Scottish brogue got to the point where August couldn’t understand her after about five. “No shop talk. Pub rule.”

  “Unless Weez wants to tell us about that time he met Jennifer Lopez,” August said. Anything to distract Will.

  “I told you, man. NDA. I don’t want to get fired.” Weezy shrugged.

  “Why is nobody any fun anymore?” Will said with a sigh. “I’m getting us another round. We need to liven this damn table up. You all are a bunch of pathetic sods.”

  “Tell it like it is, William,” Weezy crowed.

  “Thanks.”

  August cheersed the air with his empty shot glass. He was a pathetic sod, after all. A pathetic sod who was still far too sober to deal with how angry he was. He could still see Christopher’s face that day, the day he’d told August it wasn’t going to work out between them, that they were from two different places and would never be on the same page. Page, place, he’d used every damn cliché there was. Let me guess. It’s not me, it’s you, August had sneered. He’d been angry through his tears. Angry at Christopher for stringing him along if he clearly hadn’t meant all the promises he’d made, angry at himself for thinking he’d managed to find his forever at such a young age, for letting himself get so settled and happy in a life that turned out to be a mirage.

  Shit never worked out that way. He should’ve known better.

  So yes. August was a bitter, pathetic sod. A bitter, pathetic sod who really needed another shot of whiskey.

  “Here you go, mate. Quiz is about to start again,” Will said.

  August shrugged and threw back another shot of Fireball. “It’s sports this round. You guys know I don’t know dick about soccer. I’m out.”

  Weezy sighed like someone had just insulted his loving mother. “It’s football, you dirty American. When are you going to get it right?”

  “Don’t start, Weez. I’m not in the mood.”

  August got an inebriated, offended snort in reply.

  Chapter Three

  JUST the way to start a brand-new day—with the hangover from hell and an international flight looming on the horizon. Plus it seemed like his heating had gone on the fritz, because he could see his breath in the frigid air of his flat. Time to call the letting agent again. Hopefully it would take less than the three months it took last time for them to actually do something about his complaint.

  He had to pack for two weeks. August had figured it would be no problem to do that in an entire day, since he didn’t need to leave for Heathrow until five. Of course he hadn’t pictured himself hungover at noon with an empty suitcase when he’d decided that would be an easy task. He retched a little every time he leaned over to get something out of a lower drawer, and by the time he was showered, packed, and ready for his car to come pick him up, he thought he was going to pass out.

  It was a miracle he made it onto the airplane without throwing up, and an even bigger miracle that he seemed to have his entire row to himself. August wasn’t quite at the level of buying himself first class seats, but a long flight in coach with someone right next to him was not his favorite way to spend the night. As it was, he put up all the armrests, stretched his legs out, and tried to get some rest, since he’d probably have a hard time sleeping when he got home.

  The worst part about flying? Too much time to think. Especially on a day when the only thing he really had to think about was Christopher. The exact thing, no person, he’d been trying not to think about for nearly eight years. August jammed his earbuds into his ears and focused on the screen in the seat in front of him. He had three free movies to choose from. If it distracted him from thinking about Christopher, he’d keep them on until the airplane landed.

  It felt like the longest flight of his life, despite the comfort of his own row, and August was very happy to get off the plane when it landed at Logan. It took a while to deal with customs and baggage claim, but finally he was standing out in the frigid cold, waiting for his brother JJ. He’d messaged him from the customs line, so it probably would only be a few more minutes.

  Even after only a little bit standing out in the cold, August was more than happy to see JJ’s Bronco barreling through the near-deserted arrivals area. August jumped up and down a little and waved until JJ saw him. His brother pulled over, hopped out of the car, and wrapped August in a tight hug.

  “Thanks for coming to get me, man,” August said.

  “Like I wouldn’t.” JJ rolled his eyes and grabbed August’s suitcase. “Get in the truck, Bro. It’s wicked cold tonight.”

  August grinned. It might have been a pain in the ass sitting on the plane for so long, but it was good to be home.

  AUGUST should’ve realized the entire family would not only be awake but waiting at his parents’ house to greet him. Two brothers in addition to JJ, a sister, three cousins, a few spouses, assorted children, and his parents, of course, were all crowded around the front hallway to welcome him in. August was exhausted and already fighting off the beginnings of jet lag, so it choked him up a little to find that many people excited to see
him.

  The house wasn’t any bigger than it had been last time he came by. He was so used to dealing with huge spaces and people whose houses were the size of the high school he went to. Even though he fell asleep every night in his shoebox flat, the world had turned into a different place for August. It was always a bit of a head trip to be back in the house he’d grown up in, with dated wallpaper and hallways lined with semi-embarrassing family portraits. He wished he could help his parents renovate a little at least. A million kids had to have been expensive to raise on a plumber’s salary and some part-time secretarial work. It had been years since the two of them had done much for themselves.

  “Baby.” His mom wrapped him in a big hug before anyone else could get to him. August hugged her back and breathed in the smell of her hair. That was one of the things he missed most about home—his mom’s hugs. His dad, gruffer and a bit less tactile, still managed to pat him on the back and ruffle his hair. That was high affection from Robert O’Leary. Most of the time, an approving nod and a smile was about all he did to show he cared. August loved both of them more than anything.

  “Hey, Ma. Dad. It’s good to be home.”

  “You must be exhausted, sweetheart. Hungry too.”

  He was both of those things, so he followed his parents through a gauntlet of hugs and kisses from various family members until he collapsed onto one of the dining room chairs where he used to sit and do homework when he was growing up.

  “Sandwich?” his mom asked.

  “I’ll make it, Ma,” August protested. He went to stand, and about five sets of hands pushed him back into his seat.

  “We’ve got it. You want some tea too?” his sister Siobhan asked.

  She was four years older than him. She’d made him his after-school tea for years when his mom was still working and knew exactly how he liked it.

  “That would be great, Shiv. Thanks.”

  She leaned over and kissed the top of his head before weaving her way through the crowd to help their mom in the kitchen.

  “Are you liking England still?” his dad asked. August had always gotten the impression that his father wasn’t all that impressed with August’s choice to live in the UK. He usually grunted, noncommittal and annoyed when the subject was brought up, and August had only managed to get him out to visit once in eleven years. God, had it really been that long?

  “I like it still. Work’s great.”

  He didn’t want to tell his parents that he’d been starting to think about looking for work at home. He certainly didn’t want to tell them that Christopher had waltzed back into his life. His mom had dealt with the fallout from that all the way from Boston. She nearly got on a plane to come and murder Christopher herself after everything he’d said and done. It was easier to leave that whole situation right where it belonged. In England.

  His father grunted. At least that was back to normal.

  August finished his tea and sandwich and gave everyone another round of hugs before he was shown to his old room—although it was painted a soft pinky beige and had a queen-size bed with a rose-printed quilt on it rather than his old ratty comforter cover that was a patchwork of his high school colors.

  It had been a shock the first time when he’d come home to find his old room guestified. He was long since used to it.

  “Sleep as long as you want, sweetie,” his mom said. “Nobody will come wake you up.”

  August hoped to sleep all night, since he hadn’t nodded off even once on the airplane. His luck, he’d wake up in the middle of the night with only his thoughts to keep him company. Think positive thoughts of sleeping….

  “Night, Ma. It’s good to see you. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  August bent over and kissed his mom’s cheek before closing the guest room door and collapsing onto the bed.

  CHRISTOPHER wasn’t looking forward to making the drive home for Christmas. He’d waited until the afternoon of Christmas Eve rather than driving down two days ago with Libby and Edward because he was dreading it that much. And he was dreading it.

  He’d always looked forward to the holidays when he was a kid, but that had all changed when his relationship with his parents had been forever scarred by their fight over August. It had never been one big blowout, rather three years of a subtle cold war effort on his mother’s behalf to convince Christopher that August wasn’t the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He’d thought she was wrong when he was eighteen, he’d thought she was wrong at twenty-one, and now that he only had months before his thirtieth birthday, he still thought she’d been wrong, since he had never felt even a fraction of what he’d felt for August for any other man. And it wasn’t for lack of trying, even though that had gotten old after a couple of years.

  After university he’d moved around, never once returning to help his family run the estate and properties—Cannes, Monte Carlo, Ibiza, Mykonos. It was a four-year blur of alcohol, parties, yachts, and expensive people. Eventually even the most distracting of running didn’t work anymore, so he’d come back to London, gotten a serious job of sorts, and settled down not too far from Libby and Edward. Still didn’t like going to Longwick. Still came up with as many reasons as he could to avoid it.

  If he hadn’t promised Libby he’d go to her family’s Boxing Day dinner, he’d have found a reason to avoid it once again.

  He packed a small weekend bag—he had no intention of staying past the twenty-seventh—and crawled into the back of his car with a coffee, a book, and his laptop to distract him for the nearly five-hour drive. He only hoped there wasn’t loads of holiday traffic.

  CHRISTMAS at Longwick had always been extravagant, to say the least. It was dark by the time Christopher’s car pulled into the long estate drive, and Christopher was reminded of just how beautiful his childhood home was. Some of his friends had found it creepy. The structure itself had been around since Elizabethan times. It was made from patina-coated red brick with loads of patterned chimneys, two main towers at the corners, and a diamond pattern across the front made from white stone. Christopher supposed he could see how the place looked like something out of a ghost story to someone seeing it for the first time, but it felt like home. At least it would have, if his parents hadn’t made him feel supremely uncomfortable there.

  Someone, definitely not any of his family members, had festooned all the trees along the drive with thousands of tiny white fairy lights. It had always been one of his favorite times of year at Longwick, that and long summers racing his horse around the property with Libby and Edward hot on his heels.

  Christopher’s belly tied into a knot when they pulled up in front of the main door of the house. He waited for the driver to open the door and then walked to where Hughes was standing with the door open to greet him. Poor Hughes had suffered through many years of rambunctious Christopher. He’d still treated him like a son and was to that day the person from Longwick who Christopher kept in touch with the most.

  “Hughes,” Christopher said with a smile. “Happy Christmas.”

  “Happy Christmas to you too, sir.”

  Christopher rolled his eyes. “I’m not even thirty yet. Christopher is just fine.”

  Hughes made a disapproving face. He was a stickler for doing things the proper way. Christopher didn’t laugh. He’d never been a fan of mocking people’s beliefs.

  “It’s good to see you. You’ll have to stop in for tea next time Father drags you to London.”

  Hughes smiled and gave Christopher a short nod. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Is anybody here?” he asked.

  “You’ve just missed them. They’ve left for midnight mass.”

  “Well, it’s just a damn shame I’ve missed that.” Christopher winked at Hughes. “Do you know if Mrs. Bell is still in the kitchen? I’d love some tea.”

  Bless anyone who ruined the sanctity of Mrs. Bell’s kitchen without her express permission. Christopher had learned that lesson the hard way on multiple occasions gr
owing up. Hughes nodded.

  “I think she’s in there planning tomorrow’s meal. She’d be happy to make you a snack.”

  “Lovely.”

  Christopher started off toward the back of the house and the cavernous tiled kitchens. He took a deep breath and inhaled the scents of history and old wood and home. At least while the house was still his and empty of guilt and resentment, it felt really very good to be there. He’d still never learned to love London.

  THE next day dawned snowy and cold. Christmas. The day seemed to have so many expectations surrounding it—the right gifts, the right clothing, comments kept to polite topics, long stretches of slightly uncomfortable silence. Christopher wondered how long he could stay in his rooms and not be missed. His family had to know he was there. His car was in the garages where his driver had left it before taking a short train ride to visit his own family a few towns over. His sister Briony and her two boys were usually up before everyone else. He hadn’t seen them since Easter, so he knew he needed to make the effort. It wasn’t his nephews’ fault that he didn’t want to deal with his parents.

  Christopher showered in his big marble shower and then dressed in a burgundy jumper, his leather boots, and a pair of black slacks. His mother had never been a fan of jeans, no matter how much he tried to sway her back when he was at school.

  He was correct about who was awake. Briony, Jasper, and Alfie were in the dining room with large plates of eggs and sausages.

  “Uncle Christopher!” Alfie crowed. He was only five, but he knew how to screech like a champion. Christopher grinned as the two little dark-haired moppets crowded him and wrapped their thin tentacle-like arms around his thighs. Everyone in their family had the same signature chocolate hair, big dark brown eyes, and pale skin. His sister’s sons were no exception.