I climb into my car as Grant drives off and blast the AC. My radio plays on low, some melancholy Bon Iver song, though if I’m being fair, that could describe ninety percent of their songs.
I’ve been missing Kari lately, thinking of her more than usual. Wondering if she’d like Grant or what kind of advice she’d have for me. She was always the best at giving it to me straight, at not projecting her life goals and expectations onto me (unlike the rest of my well-meaning sisters).
My ring shimmers aggressively in the blinding midday sun as I grip the steering wheel. Grant said it’s three carats. I told him he didn’t need to go all out. But he said he had a thing for the number three because it represented the past, present, and future. That and the day we had our first date was March the third … 3/3.
I still can’t help but think about that study that correlates ring size with divorce rates.
But, as with any study, there are always, always outliers.
I pull into traffic and come to a slow stop at a red light. A text from my oldest sister, Carly, dings from my phone. I don’t need to read it to know that she’s probably asking if I’ve picked up the cake for Alana’s shower yet.
Another text comes through, this one from my mom. I imagine if this one isn’t about the shower, it’s about the appointment she made at Bridal Atelier downtown for ten AM tomorrow morning.
My mother is full speed ahead with the wedding planning, and she’s tickled pink at the fact that my father doubled the wedding budget. Thought I can’t help but wonder if he’s giving me what would’ve been Kari’s budget …
The light blinks to green, and I head the three miles to my townhouse, the one my father’s company built for me at cost when I passed my tenth and final actuary exam.
I pull into the garage seven minutes later and kill the engine.
When Grant gets back from his trip, we’re supposed to set a date. Last night at dinner, he mentioned a New Year’s Eve wedding.
I laughed at first because I thought he was kidding.
It’s August now …
I told him we should wait a year, minimum.
But he kept citing Cainan’s accident, raving on about how short life is and how when you know what you want, why wait? And then he went on about babies and family vacations and all the memories we’d make together. He painted the loveliest of pictures that quelled my nerves for the remainder of the night.
But the next morning, the thought continued to loop through my head.
Grant Forsythe is perfect for me in every sense of the word.
I couldn’t have dreamed a more ideal man into my life if I tried—and for the first time, I am living, truly living, and it’s because of him.
So why, then, does all of this feel so wrong?
8
Cainan
“You have no idea how good it is to see you … walking around, looking healthy again.” Grant gives me a half-handshake-hug sort of thing, the greeting we’ve been using since we were inseparable six-year-olds living on Copper Street in one of the worst neighborhoods of Jersey City. “You’re back, baby.”
“You just saw me last month, asshole. Come in. You want a beer?” I change the subject.
As kids we dreamed of making it big in the city, running this town and taking names. Then the traitor bastard up and moved to Phoenix fucking Arizona several years back, taking a lucrative gig with some connection of his uncle’s. Now he claims he never wants to leave, and every time he comes back for a visit, he sports a golfer’s tan and hiker’s calves. Any time he tries to convince me to trade my concrete jungle for palm trees, sunshine, and desert, I give him two words: translucent scorpions.
No. Fucking. Thank. You.
I grab him an IPA in a squat brown bottle with a skeleton on the label, pop the cap, and hand it off, stealing one for myself before we settle at my bar. Earlier I’d asked over text if he wanted to go out tonight to some of our old haunts seeing how it was a Saturday night and it’s been a long time since we properly hit the town together, but he shockingly declined. Said he had something he wanted to talk to me about.
“How long you back in the city?” I take another swig.
“Just until Tuesday.” He picks at the label on his beer—an old habit of his when he’s got something on his mind.
“Here for work?”
“Psh.” His dark gaze flicks up. “Nah. I’m here to see my best friend.”
“Bullshit.”
He laughs. “And there might be a conference at the Times Square Hilton …”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Grant. You know I catch you every time.” I tip my bottle and take a swig.
“You feeling good though?” he asks.
I roll my eyes at the question I’ve had to answer at least fifty-nine times in the past thirty-six hours.
“Like a million bucks,” I lie. He’s in a good mood. I’m in a good mood. I’d like it to stay that way.
“You gave us quite the scare.” He studies me the strange way most people do these days, like they’re lost in thought or having a profound internal moment. And then he sucks in a long breath, lets it go, and takes an even longer drink.
“What? What’s wrong?”
He drags his hand along the top of his thigh.
Sweaty palms on Mr. Confident is never a good sign.
“You’re freaking me out here. What is it?” I ask.
“There’s actually, uh, something I need to tell you.” He squints, biting his lower lip.
“What? Spit it out.”
Silence weighs between us for far too fucking long.
“I’m getting married.” A careful smile spreads across his mouth.
“Jesus.” I exhale, and then I exhale a laugh. “You scared the hell out of me, prick. Good one. Now what’d you really want to talk about tonight anyway?”
His grin vanishes. “I’m being serious, Cain. I’m getting married.”
“To whom?” I have no doubt my face is wincing and twisted, melded in disbelief. “Last month you were here for a week and you didn’t mention you were even seeing anyone. And you were texting with Serena … Serena … I just ran into her a couple of days ago. She said she sees you every time you’re in town. Said she was going to see you this time too …”
“Dude.” He throws his hands in the air as if I’m being too harsh on him.
Grant is a lot of things, but a man who turns down easy pussy attached to a beautiful woman … is not one of them.
I only hope the married version of him feels otherwise.
He shrugs. “Yeah, well, you were going through so much with your recovery and all of that. I didn’t want to make it about me. And the last time I hooked up with Serena, was the last time. Now that I’m officially engaged, I’m done with that. Planning to break that to her this weekend actually.”
“Grant, I fucking love you, but you’re not the marrying type. You’re going to hate every damn second of it. Trust me. I see this on a daily basis. And you’ve never been faithful to a single girlfriend in your entire life, starting with Stacy Westrick in sixth grade.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He shakes his head, lifting the rim of his beer to his lips. “Why do I get the sense that you’re upset about this? I thought you’d be happy for me?”
“I’m just trying to wrap my head around this,” I say. “Think we can both agree this is a little out of the left field, especially for you.”
“People change … you don’t think I’m capable of changing?” He lifts a hand and lets it slap on his thigh.
“You always used to say marriage was a trap. Next you’re going to tell me that you want a house in the ‘burbs with five kids and a golden doodle.”
Grant shrugs, fighting a signature smartass smirk. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing …”
“Who … even … are you right now?” I rake my fingers through my hair. “And how long have you known this girl anyway?”
“Long enough to know she’s The One.”
He rests his chin on his hand, his mouth curling into one of those lovey-dovey smiles Luke always gets whenever Claire walks into the room. This marks the first time I’ve ever seen it on Grant. “And if it doesn’t work out … that’s what prenups are for.”
All of this is fifty shades of fucking wrong, but it’s on him—not me. He’s never told me how to live my life, I’m not about to start telling him how to live his.
“Did she come with you on the trip?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, she had a family thing this weekend back in Scottsdale. But she’s coming to your party next month. You’ll meet her then.”
I grab myself another beer, and I get one for him too.
“Any other questions, counselor?” he asks.
“Yeah. What prompted this?” I ask when I come back.
“You almost dying, that’s what,” he says. “Made me realize that life is fragile. That money, cars, status … none of that stuff matters. You can’t take it with you. People are what matter. Love is what matters. Nothing else.”
I point to the diamond Rolex on his wrist.
He covers it with his palm. “Bought it two years ago.”
“Fine.”
“You want to hear the craziest thing?” he asks.
“There’s something even crazier than you getting married?”
“I met her at the hospital, the day after your accident. The minute I found out what happened to you, I booked a redeye to Newark. Got there as soon as I could. You were in and out of surgeries, so they had a bunch of us in the waiting room. Anyway, in walks this hot-as-hell woman with the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen and an ASU sweatshirt on. She sits across from me. Grabs a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. Clearly she was bored as hell. So I struck up a conversation with her. Turns out she was from Phoenix, in town for work—and get this … she’s the one who saw your accident and called 9-1-1. Crazy, huh? Anyway, we exchanged numbers. Got together the next month. I’m telling you, the connection was—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” I lift a hand. “No one ever told me that the person who called 9-1-1 went to the hospital with me.”
He squints, like he doesn’t follow.
“Most people would’ve done their due diligence and went on their way,” I say.
“Yeah, well, this woman isn’t most people. That’s why I’ve got to lock this down before someone else does.”
“If my near-death experience led you to your soulmate, it will have been worth it.”
“Smartass.”
“Seriously though, if she makes you happy, congrats.” I exhale, biting my tongue instead of pointing out the fact that he’s only been seeing her for five months. “And I look forward to meeting her so I can personally thank her for saving my life.”
He lifts a hand to his chest, fisting the fabric of his pristine button down and biting his lower lip. “God, you have no idea how happy she makes me. I’ve never met anyone like her, Cain. It’s like she walked out of my dreams and into my life. Wicked sense of humor. Outspoken. Honest. Intelligent. Ridiculously hot, and she doesn’t even know it. It’s like we were destined to meet that day at the hospital.”
“Do you hear yourself right now?”
“Yes. I do. And I know how I sound, but I don’t care. I’m in fucking love with this woman, and I’m going to make her my wife. Just thinking about the life we’re going to have together …” His eyes roll to the back of his head and he pretends to salivate.
If I told him about my dream, that I haven’t stopped thinking about some fantasy wife for the last six months, I’d sound just as crazy—so I keep my mouth shut. We don’t talk about sappy shit like that. We don’t discuss our love lives—imaginary or otherwise—on any sort of level beyond the surface.
Besides, this moment is all his, as insane as it is.
“All kidding aside, I’m happy for you.” I reach across the bar top and give his shoulder a squeeze. “And I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Thanks, man. That means a lot,” he says. “But there was one other thing I wanted to say. Or ask, rather.”
“Shoot.”
“Would you be my best man?” His dark brows lift as he waits. “Can’t imagine anyone else standing next to me on the biggest day of my life. Besides, if it weren’t for you, I never would’ve met her.”
“You don’t have to sell me on it … I’d be honored.”
9
Brie
“What do you think of a September wedding?” I dry my face on a hand towel. Or am I hiding it? Grant’s been back from New York three days now and we’ve yet to discuss the wedding date.
“September … as in next year?” He swipes a squirt of toothpaste across his ultrasonic toothbrush and meets my gaze in the mirror.
“Or even the year after that.” I’m teasing.
Kind of …
I retrieve my travel bag of toiletries from the drawer he gave me shortly after we started dating, and then I uncap a tube of moisturizer. We spent a rare quiet night in: pajamas, pinot, pizza, and a Pay-Per-View movie. But the wedding date topic has been on the tip of my tongue since I walked in the door tonight.
He rests his toothbrush aside. “What’s going on?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I … I love how excited you are to marry me. I love that you’re so sure about what you want … I just … I feel like we’re rushing things.”
“Babe.” He exhales, smiles, and places a hand on my shoulder. “Tell me what you’re worried about and then let me quash those concerns for you. I love you, Brie. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
“What’s my favorite movie?”
“What?” He half-laughs.
“What’s my favorite movie?”
Grant’s brows intersect. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to this particular discussion, but okay. Um … your favorite movie is Die Hard.”
“Grant.”
He smirks. “I’m kidding. It’s Splendor in the Grass.”
“Okay. What’s my favorite book?”
“The Bluest Eye,” he answers without hesitation. “Your favorite color is indigo. Your favorite day of the week is Sunday. Your favorite lipstick is called Crimson Crush. You’re a Gemini. Fittingly. And your favorite childhood vacation was when your grandparents took you and Kari to Mackinac Island for a week, just the four of you. Next question …”
“You proved your point,” I say. “I just … don’t you want to get to know each other at least a little more before we make it official? I’ve only met your parents once.”
“And wasn’t once enough?” He winks.
“Stop.” I swat at him. “Your parents are wonderful.”
And they are. His father tells the corniest jokes and complains about how expensive everything is, and his mother carries a knitting bag with her everywhere she goes, working on blankets she sells on Etsy and donates to local church fundraisers.
They’re wholesome, perfectly imperfect.
And they love their son more than all the stars in the sky.
“Look,” he says. “I get that you’re scared. You’re an intelligent, self-made woman. You’re independent. You don’t need me, and I love that about you. Brie … for the first time in my life, I feel like I’ve met my match. If I made a list of all the things I wanted in an ideal partner, it would describe you right down to the way you laugh in your sleep and the to-die-for omelets you make on Sunday mornings. Your family? They’re amazing. I know your sisters can be a little much sometimes, but your mom is like this … glam hippie. And your dad is this badass businessman that encompasses all the things I want to be as a father someday. God willing. Your family is the loud, crazy, thick-as-thieves family I never had. And if I can’t have you, can’t have this … I don’t want it at all.”
“Grant …”
“Now, I know I just rambled on about all the things I’m getting out of this.” He takes my hands in his and turns me to face him. “So let me tell you all the reasons I’m going to make this the b
est decision you’ll ever make in your life …”
My phone chimes from the kitchen, where it’s been resting on the charger for the better part of the night.
“I’m so sorry,” I cut him off. “It’s probably work. I’ll be right back …”
Ordinarily I wouldn’t take a work call in the middle of a heartfelt speech given by my soon-to-be-husband, but my company is in the process of hiring a temporary CEO after the board voted out the last one unexpectedly earlier this week, and I’ve been tasked with leading the hiring committee.
I trot down the hall and jerk my phone off the charger just in time to catch the call before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Miss White? This is Barb at Fairway Recruiting. You have a moment?” the woman asks.
“Of course.”
“I found you two highly competitive contenders. Both interested. Both highly qualified. Neither of which are able to fly to Phoenix in the next week. Conveniently, they’re both located in New York. I know you have a satellite office out there. I could have them come in and interview with someone on location there or you could do a Skype interview … let me know what you prefer.”
“Actually, I’m headed east next week. I could fit in a couple of interviews while I’m there.” I swipe a pen off the counter as well as an envelope from a nearby pile of mail and flip it over. “What are their names?”
So I can Google them …
“Lucinda Meyers and Robert Goldberg. I’ll send you everything in an email,” she says.
“Great. Thank you, Barb.” I place the pen aside and return the envelope to the stack of mail, only something catches my eye—an unfolded contract on DuVall, James, and Renato PC letterhead.
Grant—
This is our boilerplate prenup. I took liberties and added in a few fitting clauses based on what we’d talked about. If everything looks good, give me a call and we’ll finish the rest. I’ll need your future wife’s identifying information at that time as well.
The Best Man Page 5
