I remove my jacket and hook it over the back of my chair as Claire takes her seat, bouncing with glee with the most ridiculous smile on her face. The woman will find any reason to celebrate anything. I blame it on the fact that we never had birthday parties growing up. And holidays like Christmas and Valentine’s Day were forbidden in the James household. Now Claire will turn just about anything into a party if you let her.
“How was the first day?” Luke asks.
“Boring as fuck.” I reach for my beer. “Would’ve been nice if they’d saved me some work to do …”
I’ve been partners with Trey Renato and Graeme Dumont since we were wide-eyed sharks, fresh out of law school. We founded our practice together with the mindset that everything would be equally divided. But when I was decommissioned by the accident, the other guys happily stepped up to the plate. My caseloads were chum and those two wasted no time helping themselves to an easy feast, leaving nothing behind for me when I returned. Not even a crumb.
I don’t hold it against them, though. My clients needed their services. Divorcing couples don’t like to be kept waiting. God knows the New York courts make them wait long enough anyway.
“You look good,” Claire says. A tea light candle flickers between us. It’s dark in here, like the strange, cozy nightmare that has become my life.
“You saw me a week ago,” I say.
“Yeah, but this is the first time I’ve seen you in a suit since before …” She squints. “And you got your hair cut.”
“I get my hair cut every three weeks.” I take a bigger sip, scanning the room. If this was before, I’d be looking for a long-legged beauty to eye-fuck, but the mere thought of doing so holds zero appeal.
“Babe, try this.” Luke slides his tumbler toward my sister, who takes a sip.
“Love it.” She pushes it back before shooting him a lucky-in-love grin. “Want to try mine?”
I look away.
Those two have been impossibly in love, obsessed with one another since the moment he solicited her event-planning expertise to throw some gala for one of his charities.
Luke is one of those.
The silver-spooned trust fund kind.
The ones who used to try to kick my ass in high school, only to have me hand it right back to them with a side of never fucking go near me again.
The ones with more money than God, who’ve never known what it’s like to go to bed with a growling stomach or to use the same backpack five years in a row at school. He’ll never know the satisfaction of organic ambition, of wanting to rise from the ashes and become a self-made man.
I don’t fault him for it—we can’t help the families we’re born into or the cards we’re dealt.
We are who we are.
And at least he’s doing something with his life, even if it involves traveling to exotic places to throw his money at the less fortunate. I imagine it makes him feel better. I hope it puts things into perspective.
I’m happy for my sister though. I’m relieved she’ll never have to want for anything in her life—and she’s got a guy who gets dreamy-eyed every time she walks in the room.
We weren’t born with silver spoons. We were born with rusty, tetanus-infected nails to parents who shunned the word “love” and screamed at one another so often the neighbors would call the cops just to make sure no one was getting murdered.
I suppose, in some ways, Luke is the antithesis of everything Claire was taught about love. He’s gentle with her. I’ve never heard him raise his voice … not with her or with anyone. Every time he looks at her, he’s got stars for eyes. And the man can’t take his hands off her for more than two seconds at a time, always brushing her hair out of her eyes or slipping his arm around her shoulders when they walk.
I’d be suffocated with someone like that.
But not Claire.
He makes her happy. And he’s good to her.
We should all be so lucky.
“Oh, we didn’t cheers!” Claire lifts her half-empty cocktail in my direction. Luke does the same. I swear those two are in full synchronicity ninety-five percent of the time.
I lift my glass against theirs. We drink in unison.
Scanning the room, I spot a handsy couple to my left. A bickering couple to my right. And a table full of middle-aged married couples on some kind of quadruple date.
I’ve never believed in love, never loved anyone, never wanted or needed or so much as considered pursuing anything remotely in that vein—but lately I wonder if there’s something everyone else knows that I don’t.
The only kind of love I’d consider would be the kind that knocks me to my knees and fills me with that indescribable fullness I get any time I think of the woman from the dream. I don’t know what actual love feels like, but I can only imagine it feels something like that.
“I want to set you up with this new girl who moved into my building.” Claire wears a twinkle in her eyes, and she squares her shoulders as she slicks her palms together.
“Hard pass.” I exhale, ears tuned into the still-bickering couple. It would appear they’re fighting over finances. If it were an appropriate thing to do, I’d slip them a business card as, clearly, they’ll be needing my services in the near future. Sex and money are the top reasons people split. Speaking from professional experience, if the two of them don’t rush home after this and have steamy makeup sex, their marriage is fucked.
“Her name is Hannah,” Claire continues. “She’s an accountant. She just moved here from Idaho. And she’s super, super nice.”
“You also claimed Lexie was super, super nice.” I shoot her a look, dropping the name of the woman she tried to fix me up with several years back—the woman who tried to fucking trap me with a fake pregnancy when she sensed I was pulling away. And I was pulling away … because she was batshit-fucking-crazy. Things were fine at first … but they started going downhill the day I caught her going through my phone when I stepped out of the room. The next day, I caught her spraying my cologne on her clothes before she left one morning. I later found out she took it upon herself to make a copy of my apartment key without permission so she could hang out at my place while I was at work because she “missed” me. Six months after I ended things with her, she tried hacking into one of my social media accounts. And when that didn’t work, she messaged every attractive female on my friends’ lists and spread malicious lies about me. After slapping her with a cease-and-desist and threat of a restraining order, I shut down all of my accounts and haven’t looked back since.
“In my defense, Lexie was really good at acting normal.” Claire rolls her eyes. “But Hannah is really sweet. Promise.”
“No.” I take another drink. The fighting couple are attempting to settle their bill with their server, only now the two of them refuse to make eye contact. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say makeup sex isn’t in the cards tonight.
Claire bites her lip. “Don’t be mad …”
“What?” I squint. “Why would you say that?”
“I kind of … sort of … already invited her to meet us here.” She shrugs her shoulders, winces, and laughs. “And she just walked in, so act cool.”
Before I get a chance to respond, Claire stands and waves the guest of honor to our table.
“Hannah!” Claire traipses out from behind the table and hugs a girl with mousy brown hair and shifty eyes partially obscured by oversized, thick-rimmed glasses. She’s tall, thin, flat as a board on all sides. The instant our gazes meet, her pale complexion turns ruddy, and her stare flicks to the candle centerpiece.
I haven’t said a word, and already I make her nervous.
Doesn’t matter how “sweet” someone is, a severe lack of confidence is a deal breaker.
“Hannah, this is my brother, Cainan,” Claire introduces us when Hannah takes the seat next to me. She smells like baby powder and drugstore perfume marketed to teenagers—a peculiar combination. “Cainan, this is Hannah. She just moved into our building las
t month.”
“What’s your drink?” I ask, but only because the girl is fucking trembling and she clearly needs something to calm her nerves. Hell, I need something extra to calm my nerves with all this shaking-poodle energy she’s putting off.
“Oh. Um. Water is fine. I don’t drink alcohol.” Her voice is barely audible in the crowded bar.
“You don’t want to jazz it up a bit? Maybe make it sparkling water? Add a lime or something?” Claire teases.
Luke flags down a server and holds up four fingers. “Can we get a round of waters?”
He’s trying to make her more comfortable, but this entire thing is getting more painful by the second.
Hannah reaches for a napkin on the table and begins shredding it into tiny pieces.
Luke, Claire, and I exchange looks.
“Hannah’s from Boise,” Claire announces out of the blue. “She came here because she wanted a change of pace, isn’t that right?”
Hannah nods.
“You went to Idaho State,” Claire says to her, though this information is directed at me. “Studied finance and accounting.”
Hannah nods. Again.
“You can talk, Han. He doesn’t bite,” Luke flashes a wide grin.
Han? Are they on a nickname basis?
Hannah’s gaze flicks up at him, then back to the pile of napkin shreds on the table. I don’t know what my sister was thinking inviting her here tonight, but I have to admit, it’s amusing watching Claire try to salvage this shit show.
“Hannah’s cousin is the director of that musical … The Emerald Canary,” Claire says. “The one that’s impossible to get tickets to. I think they’re going to make it into a movie, right?”
“Y … yes,” Hannah finally speaks.
“They’re roommates,” Claire adds. “I’ve been dying to meet him, but his work schedule is insane. Hannah says she doesn’t even see him half the time.”
Good God, this is agonizing.
I have to get the fuck out of here.
“Could you … excuse me for a moment?” Hannah sweeps the pile of shredded paper into her hand, grabs her purse, and scurries off to the bathroom like the shivering mouse that she is.
The instant she disappears inside, I grab my coat.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Claire reaches across the table, a feeble attempt to stop me. “You can’t just leave. What are we supposed to tell Hannah when she comes back?”
I shrug. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. This is your mess to clean up, not mine. And please, for the love of God, stop trying to set me up. It never ends well for anyone involved.”
Retrieving a twenty from my wallet, I place it in the center of the table.
Claire sighs, turning to her husband, and they exchange a wordless look, like I’m the asshole here.
I’d do anything for my sister—she’s the only family I give a damn about. And while she can be a thorn in my side, she’s my thorn. But I won’t suffer through another minute of this.
If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past six months, it’s that life is too short. It shouldn’t be wasted. And if you’re going to waste it, at least waste it with the right person.
Sorry, Hannah …
You’re not her.
Ten minutes later, I’m two blocks from my apartment when I spot Serena McQuiston waiting at a crosswalk.
“Serena,” I call out. She turns toward my voice, and I wave her down. “What are you doing all the way up here?”
I’ve known Serena since my freshman year at Montclair, when she spotted my best friend, Grant, and decided she had to have him. Grant, ever the opportunist, decided to make her his official fuck buddy.
“Just met some friends for dinner. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since …” her voice trails and her gaze averts. “You doing okay?”
“Better than ever,” I lie. There are people who deserve to hear the truth and then there are people like Serena who pretend to care but only truly give a shit about things that involve them. “You seeing Grant when he comes this week?”
Her overfilled lips curl into a sly smile. “Always do.”
The crosswalk sign flicks to white and she leaves with a wave and a wink.
7
Brie
"Can’t wait to tell Cain the big news.” Grant zips his suitcase and slides it off his bed, chuckling to himself as if he’s privy to some inside joke. Outside, the blazing September sun scorches through an open window, baking this room ten degrees too hot. “The look on his face will be priceless.”
“You haven’t told him yet?”
It’s been a week since we got engaged—the fact that he hasn’t shared the news with his supposed best friend strikes me as strange considering the fact that he goes to New York for work once a month.
He laughs under his breath. “Actually, he doesn’t even know you exist.”
“Wait, what?”
“He’s going to be shocked, I can tell you that.”
“I’m confused.” I perch on the edge of his neatly-made bed with its tucked corners and wrinkle-free coverlet. Grant is nothing if not pristine in every facet of his life. He’s a details man, which is great, because I’m a details woman. “Why wouldn’t you tell him about us?”
“Brie, love... he’s gone through pure hell the last six months. Last thing he needed to hear was that I’d met the love of my life and was happier than ever. I didn’t want to make the visits about me.”
“Okay, but given the fact that we met because of his accident … I don’t think sharing that news with him would detract from his recovery …”
“You’re overthinking this, Miss White.” He’s trying to be playful, attempting to lighten this exchange. “Or should I say, future Mrs. Forsythe?”
He makes his way closer and dips to kiss the top of my forehead, cupping my face in his warm hand. “You’ll meet him next month at the party. We’ll give him the whole story then.”
Ah, yes. The party celebrating the fact that Cainan didn’t die. Grant said Cainan’s sister is an event planner and wanted to get all of his friends and family in one room, sort of like an anti-funeral. He rolled his eyes at the concept, but I found it brilliant.
“All right,” I tell him as I lie on my back and tuck my hands behind my neck. The ceiling fan above spins on low, its blades shiny and polished. The diamond on my left finger digs into my nape, so I readjust my position. “Wish I was going with.”
As often as the two of us travel to New York for work, not once have our work schedules aligned.
Grant stands at the foot of the bed. “I know, babe. But you can’t miss your sister’s baby shower.”
“Yes, I can. It’s her fifth kid in eight years. She shouldn’t be having baby showers at this point.” I roll my eyes and sit up. “Send me pictures, will you?”
He makes a face, one I’ve never seen before. “What, like selfies? Of the two of us?”
“Yeah, why not?”
He chuckles. “Guys don’t do that, babe.”
When I discovered Grant was the friend of the man whose life I helped save, I wanted so badly to be able to put a face to his name. A non-bloodied face. After I learned his name, I performed a string of fruitless social media searches. Later, when I brought him up to Grant, he mentioned Cainan had some weird stalker situation several years back and closed down all of his accounts. Besides, he was hardly on them. He was too busy working hard, and when he wasn’t working, he was playing harder.
I didn’t press the photo thing after that.
I didn’t want to seem weird or pushy or obsessed when it was nothing more than an innocent bout of curiosity.
“Walk me out?” He glides his hand up my arm before interlacing his fingers with mine, and then he helps me up.
With his suitcase in tow, we head out, locking up, and ride the elevator to the main floor of his condo building, which is so new I can still smell the heady aroma of fresh paint on the wall and the pungent tang of the grout between th
e marble tiles.
Growing up, my father got his start as a local homebuilder, putting up half a dozen houses a year until he bankrolled himself into bigger and better projects. It took him less than twenty years to become one of the wealthiest real estate tycoons in the greater Phoenix area. Seemed like every couple of years, my mother would have my father build us another home, always bigger, always better. She loved change. My father loved her.
The scent of new construction, in a strange way, reminds me of home.
“I’ll text when I land.” He kisses me, and then he pops the trunk of his car open. “I love you.”
I repeat the sentiment as I always do, secretly hoping one of these times I might feel it when I say it. So far, when I say those three little words, all I feel is a hopeful little ping … that quickly morphs into guilt.
If I could just make myself fall head over heels for him, everything else could fall into place. Instead, I’m stuck in neutral. Tires spinning. Waiting for a push that may or may not ever come …
I think the world of Grant. I do. He’s a good man. He works hard. He’s clever and energetic, and his mind is constantly churning. He’s a people person. He’s tremendously easy on the eyes. Beyond generous in bed. Cultured. Self-aware. Considerate. The man wields a larger-than-life persona that walks into the room long before he does. Impressive, truly.
And my family loves him. No—scratch that—they adore him. And everyone’s been so proud of me for getting out of my comfort zone, for “finally living.” My oldest sister even teased me once that they had a running bet about which one of us would be more likely to wind up a spinster and the money was all on me … until now.
Even my father, who doesn’t much care for anyone, is all but obsessed with him.
They golf together.
Get drinks on Friday afternoons.
Talk shop (money matters mostly).
I’ve even caught them texting each other, like they’re good pals. It’s cute and it’s strange and it’s funny and it also complicates things … because if I change my mind about marrying Grant, it’s going to devastate my father.
The Best Man Page 4
