Best Man

by Katy Evans

  “Tough. I’m not letting you go alone.”

  He’s got to be kidding me. “But we hate each other. We’ll probably murder each other before we get over the mountain, careen off one of the cliffsides, and the next time they find us, we’ll be nothing but a pair of skeletons with our bony hands wrapped around each other’s necks.”

  He nods, agreeing. “Possible. But your fiancé asked me to take care of you. I’m sure I can put aside my homicidal desires where you’re concerned for ten hours.”

  “Good for you,” I mutter, spinning away from him and hoisting my purse onto my shoulder. “But I’m not sure I can.”

  10:23 AM December 6

  One-night stands are really a huge mistake.

  Not that I’m an expert in them.

  I’ve only had one in my life.

  I’d been a freshman at CU, staying in the dorms, and aside from a couple of acquaintances I’d gone to high school with, I knew no one. I’d gotten the course catalogue, with the hundreds of majors to choose from. So many possibilities. It struck me at once that I didn’t have to be Dahlia Ripley, the massive bookworm with the hopelessly mediocre SAT scores, the solid B-average, and the life resume that showed I’d done absolutely nothing meaningful or stand-out within the first eighteen years of my existence.

  I could be anyone.

  Spurred on by that thrilling prospect, during the first week of school, I really put myself out there, adopting Eva’s modus operandi. I was the social butterfly. As uncomfortable as it was at first, I got to know every one of the girls on my floor in the all-girls dorm.

  That first week of school, I did a lot of firsts.

  When they started doing shots of Everclear, I was right there with them.

  Smoking pot? Did that, too.

  And (probably because of the Everclear and the pot), when word went around about the first frat party of the season that August, I was all-in for that little adventure, as well.

  Delta Phi, right there on the corner of fraternity row, was the biggest, most imposing mansion on the block. When the school was founded, the university president had lived there, so it still bore symbols of late nineteenth-century elegance. According to the sophomores on my floor, it had the reputation for the best parties and the most gorgeous guys.

  No kidding.

  I felt like a kid in a candy store when I stepped down those crumbling stairs, into the crowd. The brothers at D-Phi were hot. Each one more gorgeous than the next. Older, too. They’d been around the college block before and now were masters of this domain. They stood lined up behind the dark, smoky basement bar, Solo cups of beer in hand, surveying each fresh-meat prospect as she walked in. Their gazes were nothing short of possessive, like, You know you’re not leaving here until you’ve sucked one of our dicks tonight.

  Well, all except one of them.

  He was back farther than the rest, at the beer pong table. I didn’t see him at first. I think if I had, I wouldn’t have noticed anyone else.

  But the other men gobbled us up as soon as we walked in. We were preening peacocks, a gaggle of shiny, nice-smelling hair, bare midriffs, short shorts, and girlish, drunken giggles. We’d soon learn we’d dressed too high school for college—that is, we cared too much about our appearance. Really, the only thing these men were looking for? Who would fall on her back and spread her legs the quickest.

  The lines started.

  What’s your name? What’s your major? You a freshman?

  I answered those same questions about a thousand times, loving college. Loving life. Loving frat parties. Loving the attention.

  Oh, the attention.

  The wallflower at school, I’d have killed to be noticed by all the cute guys who walked the hallways. And I was being noticed here, under that dim cellar light, hands up in the air, slowly rotating my hips to some barely audible Chainsmokers song.

  The attention brought out the monster in me. I felt invincible. I smiled seductively at all the men, looking at me, wanting me…

  That was when I saw him.

  He wasn’t looking at me.

  Which, of course, made me insanely curious.

  The first thing I noticed was his dark hair, because he was almost directly under the bulb above him, and he was so tall that it cast what could only be called a supernatural aura, a halo, over the chiseled lines of his face. He arched one dark eyebrow in a skeptical way and his lips were pursed in thought. His light eyes narrowed in deep concentration at something in front of him. He was pitched forward a little, stroking his strong jaw pensively. Back then, he was clean-shaven.

  He was beautiful.

  All I knew was that I wanted to be whatever he was looking at. I craned my neck, hoping to see what amazing thing was holding him so rapt.

  The place was too crowded, and more guys were surrounding me. What’s your major where you living how old are you?

  I swatted them away like flies. I was no longer interested in any of that.

  As I shifted back and forth, I caught more glimpses. Broad shoulders, but not too broad. Athletic, but not brawny. He had more style than the hordes of guys in their rumpled, esoteric band t-shirts. He was wearing a plaid button-down shirt, wrinkle free. Somehow, he looked older, more mature.

  He didn’t belong down there, with them.

  And suddenly, I didn’t want to belong, either.

  That’s when the crowd parted a little, and I saw what was holding his attention.

  Beer pong.

  Oh.

  But he was totally immersed in the game. He looked like he was trying to decode some cryptic message that the fate of the free world rested on, and yet…no. Just lame beer pong.

  I remember being a little disappointed by that. He didn’t look like the drinking game type. More like the Debate Club President, National Honor Society type.

  He was watching one of the other guys, a cute—but totally lackluster—brother with a beer-stained D-Phi t-shirt, playing the game. The beautiful god leaned over and said something to the shorter guy, pointing out something on the board. The shorter guy nodded, threw the ball, and the place erupted in cheers. Some pathetic—and already too drunk—girl had to chug her beer.

  I broke free of the crowd of brothers and headed to the edge of the table. I kept looking at the tall guy, but he never even blinked my way, even when I was standing just a few feet away. The shorter guy in the D-Phi shirt did, though.

  He grinned. “I think we’ve got a new challenger.”

  Never having played beer pong in my life, I stepped back. “Oh, no! I’m just watching.”

  D-Phi Shirt Guy gave me a smirk. “Well. That’s no fun. What’s your name?”

  “Lia.”

  He extended his hand. “I’m Aaron.” He nudged the tall guy. “That’s Miles.”

  Miles was still studying the beer pong table. Either he was really drunk or in some kind of zone. I started to say hi to him, but realized he wasn’t paying attention.

  Something inside me twisted. I desperately wanted him to look at me. The Everclear wasn’t doing its job, because I wasn’t as drunk as I needed to be, drunk enough not to care.

  Aaron snapped his finger in Miles’ face. Miles blinked, his eyebrows narrowing in annoyance, and caught sight of me. His gaze was so hot, I swear it sucked the air out of the room.

  He ran a scrutinizing eye over me, his upper lip curled in a disgusted snarl. Suddenly, I felt like I was too insignificant to be breathing his air. “What’s your name again?”

  “Lia.”

  He let out a “hm” and went back to the game.

  All right.

  Fine.

  Deflated, I looked at Aaron.

  Aaron gave me a friendly smile that made up for his friend’s lack of manners and muttered, “They don’t call him Sergeant Shitface for nothing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. We get names when we pledge. I’m Guppy.”

  He went into this story about how he’d come to be known as Guppy, and I only half
-listened. I tried to keep my eyes on Aaron, but I was still annoyed by his stuck-up, asshole of a friend. Really, what was his problem?

  Where Miles wasn’t a talker, his friend made up for it. Our first five minutes of conversation, I knew almost everything there was to know about Aaron. I knew that he was majoring in engineering, president of the fraternity and, based on the way people kept nudging him and giving him high-fives, the most popular guy in the place.

  And he clearly liked me. “Hey. You want another beer? Let me get you a beer,” he’d said, heading off toward the keg.

  He left me with sullen, quiet, beer-pong-obsessed, but incredibly hot Miles.

  And Miles didn’t say a fucking word to me. He didn’t even regard me like a piece of shit on the bottom of his shoe…because that would’ve required him to at least acknowledge my presence.

  At that moment, I’d decided that I hated Miles Foster.

  If only I’d spent all of that night thinking that.

  Unfortunately, the beer was flowing and things wore on until dawn, and somehow—I’m trying to block out how—I ended up between the sheets in Miles’ impeccable shrine-slash-bedroom.

  Why oh why did I do that? If only I’d gone with my first instinct, which was that he was a total douchebucket.

  Maybe then, this wouldn’t be so totally uncomfortable.

  Me. Miles. In my way-too-small Mini Cooper for the next ten hours. This time, though, I’m in total agreement with him. I don’t want to say a word. Not a fucking syllable.

  So I might as well go on record by saying this now: one-night stands are a huge mistake.

  We’re barely half a mile away from the Midnight Lodge. I can still see it in my rearview mirror. And Miles is already annoying me. His body fills up the passenger seat of the car, and because he’s so tall, he’s pushed the seat way back, meaning he’s probably crushed all the stuff I keep in the back. He’s popping his chewing gum and holding on to the strap over the window, giving me the distinct impression that he thinks I’m a bad driver. And he’s wearing mirrored sunglasses in order to shut out the world he thinks he’s better than.

  At the exit of the lodge, it’s nothing but flat earth as far as the eye can see, so I have good visibility down the highway as I come to the T intersection. There’s a stop sign there, but because there are no cars coming either way, I make the left and ease out onto the highway without coming to a full stop.

  He shakes his head.

  Backseat driver.

  “I’m a very good driver,” I point out, trying to be cheerful.

  “About as good as you are at chess.”

  Hmm. I’m a very good chess player, too. The problem is, he’s better than I am. Not that we’ve played in a while. Not since my freshman year in college. We used to, all the time, in the library of the frat house, while everyone else was getting drunk. He beat me, every time. “Well…I’m not as obsessively competitive about it as you are. Freak.”

  “Riiight. Translation: You don’t have a strategic mind.”

  I click my tongue. “You know, you were lucky you had me. I was too stupid to realize none of your brothers wanted to play against you because you were such a gloating asshole. Have you really found someone in Denver to willingly sign up for the torture?”

  “Is that your way of asking if I have a girlfriend?”

  I suck in my cheeks. “It’s my way of asking if you have any friends whatsoever, or if you’ve managed to alienate the entire population of Denver.”

  He doesn’t answer. So, yeah. Sergeant Shitface Did Denver, and no one there likes him, either.

  Sometimes I’m amazed Aaron even made it into his small circle of friends. Actually, you can’t really form a circle with one person. As far as I know, Aaron’s the only person who likes Miles, probably because Aaron is so easy-going and likes everyone. Miles makes no secret of the fact that he likes absolutely no one, and so the feeling winds up being mutual.

  “You play against the computer, don’t you?” I laugh at him. “I bet even your computer can’t stand your company. I bet you read dorky books about it in solitude. I bet you also bought a pipe so you can sit in front of the fireplace in your Denver apartment and watch Masterpiece Theater with a glass of sherry.”

  He’s quiet for a while. But I haven’t insulted him. He actually likes being a total oddball.

  “I don’t have a fireplace in my apartment.”

  “Hmm. I wouldn’t know, considering how many times you’ve invited us there.”

  That shuts him up. It was a bone of contention for about three years, why he never asked us to visit him at his place, but now we just joke about it.

  I have a country station on, blasting Thomas Rhett. I, like Aaron, love country music.

  As I’m starting to bop my head and get into it, without asking, Miles leans over and switches the station. To—get this—some talk station. Some know-it-all guy, yammering on about the upcoming presidential election.

  I switch it back. “I’m sorry. Did I say you could touch my radio?”

  “It’s not your radio,” he says, switching it back to Mr. Boredom. “Didn’t your daddy pay for this piece of shit?”

  “Yes, but it was my graduation present, so the papers are in my name. And it’s not a piece of shit.”

  “Fuck yes it is. It’s a clown car. It’s half a car.”

  “It’s all I need.”

  “You? Judging from the circus back there at the lodge, you need a hell of a lot.”

  “I am not high-maintenance,” I mumble. “Look at my nails, for god’s sake.”

  “Trust me, I have.” He picks a bit of imaginary dust off the dashboard, powers down the window, and flicks it out. “What does this car get? Like three miles to the gallon? And I bet it’s shit in the snow.”

  “It’s not. And we’re not going to find out today. Because what did I tell you about the S word?” I switch it back to the country station with force and when he reaches for it again, I hold up a finger. “Touch that again and I’ll kill you.”

  He reaches over like he’s trying to caress it, getting me all tense. He moves his hand a hair away from every little button, but never actually touches them. He’s doing this to play with me. What a fuckhead. “It is a piece of shit. Did you pick it out or did you lose a bet with your dad? I thought we were going in Aaron’s Jeep.”

  I would swerve over to the shoulder and drop his ass there without a hint of regret, but that would waste precious time that I don’t have.

  “Listen to me. I don’t like you. You don’t like me. So just stay there, on the other side of the car, be quiet, and don’t touch anything. Okay? And maybe we’ll both survive this.”

  He snorts and crosses his arms. “Okay, Bridezilla. But the other side of the car in this piece of shit still has me almost in your lap.”

  “For the last time, I am not Bridezilla. And if I ever had the misfortune of you sitting in my lap, I would fucking gouge your eyes out.”

  “Whatever you say,” he says flatly, looking out the window at the mountains in the distance, the ones we’ll have to climb over in order to get to Aaron’s apartment. The sun is so strong, it’s making it really hot in the cabin, so I turn up the dial for the fan.

  I will not attribute any of the heat to the man next to me. He may have been the source of some extremely…adequate sex, but that was in another lifetime. He’s a douche squared, now.

  When the fan’s blowing, it’s nice. I roll the window down a little, too. Right now, there isn’t a cloud in the sky.

  There’s a squall due to arrive in a few hours? Right. The weathermen can go suck it.

  He catches me looking at the sky and says, “It’s coming.”

  “You’re so wrong. Like I said, the S-word is not invited to this wedding.”

  “Yeah? So who made you God? I think the S-word at a wedding would be cool.”

  “Not my wedding. It’s not happening. I fucking hate the S-word.”

  He lets out a short laugh. “It’s a go
od thing you live in Colorado, then.”

  “Colorado isn’t just about winter sports.”

  “Sure it is. The best skiing in the entire country is here. Have you ever put your feet in skis?”

  I frown. “Ohhhh just shut up already.”

  The answer is no. I’ve never wanted to. My skin does weird shit in the cold. I hate the cold. Hate sports. But more than that, I was born with two left feet. When my dreams of becoming an Olympic ice-skating champion were dashed because I could barely stand upright in skates after a year of lessons, I figured there was no point in attempting skiing.

  Unfortunately, the big ass next to me doesn’t know the struggle. He was a killer rugby player in college, and nearly made the Olympic skiing and swim teams when he was at UC. And those are just the talents I know of, since I try not to pay attention. He’s all sorts of special. I bet he’s one of those people who excels at everything he tries.

  As I’m thinking chicken wire might not be so bad an idea, he looks up from his phone. “So what I want to know is, whose genius idea was it for you two to get married on D-Day?”

  Annnnd he’s talking again. What about this whole thing about keeping quiet? I shush him.

  Then his words suddenly hit me. “Wait, what?”

  He smirks. “Do you even know that you’re getting married on the day that will live in infamy?”

  I give him a confused look over my sunglasses.

  “Sleeping during high school history class, were you?” One eyebrow goes up in a superior way. “December seventh, 1941. Pearl Harbor? Ring a bell?”

  It does, of course, but I didn’t realize it mattered. “Well, duh. But big deal. That happened like, forever ago. I prefer to look forward. Not behind me.”

  “So you’re condemned to repeat history, is that it?”

  I scowl. I know one piece of history I’ll never repeat, and it happened precisely the night of my first college frat party. “Believe it or not, every day on the calendar is the anniversary of something awful that happened in history. I mean, September eleventh, the Kennedy assassination, the Challenger explosion… If people went by that, they’d never be able to have any happy events in their lives.”