See you next month.
Cainan
A prenuptial agreement?
And what exactly had they talked about …
“Brie?” Grant’s velvet voice from behind sends a shock to my heart, and I grab at my chest, sucking in a startled breath before turning to face him. “Everything okay?”
Once I compose myself, I take the papers off the counter and hand them over. “What’s this?”
He accepts them, folding them in half. “Just trying to protect us both. Everyone does it. Especially people like us.”
“People like us?”
“You know, professionals who are established in their careers and have a lot to lose should things go south.” He places the stack aside and pulls me against him. “I know it’s not the most romantic thing in the world to talk about, but it’s in both of our best interests. No one ever gets married thinking things are going to blow up in their faces.”
I pull away.
I’m not upset about the prenup.
And I agree it’s smart and necessary.
But shouldn’t he be discussing clauses and specifics with me first?
“What did he mean by adding some clauses based on what you two had talked about?” I ask.
Grant’s full mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “Standard stuff. Retirement accounts. Assets. Those kinds of things. You’ll see the contract when it’s finished and you’re welcome to take it to your attorney. Have her go through it with a fine-tooth comb.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I lift my hand to my temple, which is beginning to throb. I haven’t had a tension headache in months, but lately I’m getting them every other day. “Should probably go to bed … we’ve got that hike in the morning and then brunch with my sister and her husband.”
“Babe, please don’t sweat it. We can talk about it more tomorrow if you want.”
Grant hits the light switch and follows me to his room, where we burrow under the covers in a pitch-black room, beneath a whirring ceiling fan.
“Next September, okay?” I ask before I drift off.
“What?”
“I want to wait a year. At least.” Maybe longer …
“I’d elope with you tomorrow if you gave me the word,” he says. “And I’d also wait for you forever if I had to. Anything you want, okay? I want you to enjoy this.”
I nuzzle into his arm and press my cheek against his muscled shoulder, wondering if I’d miss this—miss him—if it were all gone tomorrow. Within minutes, his breathing slows and steadies. He’s out cold, not a care in the world, I presume. But me? I’m wide awake. Alone with my thoughts.
With the truth.
Am I delaying the wedding?
Or am I delaying calling the wedding off?
10
Cainan
“Did you finish those conflict checks?” I ask Paloma Wednesday morning.
She cups the receiver of her phone with her left hand—revealing a humble diamond engagement ring on her fourth finger.
“When did that happen?” I point.
“Yes,” she says, “And three months ago. Oh, and Claire’s on her way here.”
Paloma returns to her phone call and I head to my office, digging my keys from my pocket. Before I have a chance to unlock my door, the sound of a baby cooing echoes from down the hall. I abandon my post and investigate, partially out of boredom but mostly out of curiosity.
Four doors down, one of our junior partners is bouncing a pink-clad infant on his knee. His wife—whose name escapes me—turns to give me a dainty finger wave.
I hadn’t the slightest idea they were expecting, and judging by the age of the infant, it was clearly born while I was out.
“Cain, you want to meet the future partner of DuVall, James, and Renato PC?” he turns her to face me, and I’m met with two blinking blue eyes with a spray of dark lashes—followed promptly by an impressive stream of white projectile that misses me by mere inches.
His wife makes a grab for a flower-covered diaper bag, grabbing wet wipes by the handful, dabbing up ivory vomit from the navy blue carpet, and the junior partner looks horrified, holding his daughter out as if she’s contagious.
“I’ll let you two tend to this … we’ll catch up later. Congrats on the new addition.” I show myself out, and on the way to my office, I’m reminded as to why I’ve never wanted children in the first place.
It’s ironic when I think about that dream with the wife and kids—how protective I felt of them, how proud I was watching them. How natural it all seemed.
Perhaps I’ve given that dream too much credence these past several months. Or maybe something in me truly changed when I hit my head in that accident. I’ve always been pragmatic, a man who knows exactly what he wants and makes no apologies for it. But now I find myself daydreaming more than a man should, searching faces in crowds for a woman who likely doesn’t even exist.
I’ve got to let this go.
I need to get my life back.
Within five minutes of getting settled, Paloma rings my phone.
“Your sister’s here,” she says.
“Send her back. Thank you.” I clear a couple of junk emails while I wait and scan the conflicts checks Paloma sent me this morning. Six new client appointments this afternoon. Twice as many as yesterday. And thank God. At this rate, I’ll be back to my old pace by the end of next week.
“Knock, knock …” Claire sing-songs from the doorway, a three-ring canvas-covered binder tucked beneath her arm and two coffees in hand. “Ready to go over the details of your big night?”
“Only if you agree to stop calling it my big night …”
She shuts the door and takes a seat across from me, splaying the binder across the middle of my desk and flipping to a section with my name on the tab.
“Fine, we can call it your little shindig. Is that better?” Claire sits taller, legs crossed and hands daintily resting on the top of her knee.
“Smartass.” I sniff. “Hey, did you know there was some woman at the hospital after my accident?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
“Grant said the woman who called 9-1-1 also came to the hospital and waited in the waiting room.”
“Yeah. Now that you mention it. I think there was someone there, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to them. It was all so crazy. But how would Grant know her?” Claire wrinkles her nose.
“Because he got her number and now he’s marrying her …”
She bursts into laughter. “What? Say that again? I don’t think I understood you.”
“It’s weird, right?”
“Which part?” she asks. “Grant getting married or some random woman waiting in the hospital for you?”
“All of it.” I slump back into my chair. “It’s all fucking weird as hell.”
Not unlike what my life has become since that fateful night …
“Grant’s going to make the worst husband ever. Does he realize that?” she asks.
“I tried to tell him. Then I got accused of not being happy for him.” I shrug. “He’s bringing her to the party.”
“Yeah, I saw he RSVP’d for two, but I just assumed he was bringing Serena …”
We marinate in silence, though I’m positive we’re thinking matching thoughts. “Anyway, enough about your mentally-insane best friend. I’ve got another meeting right after this, so let’s get down to it.” She clears her throat and flips to the next page. “So the venue I got us is in the East Village. It’s called The LaGrange Experience. Brand-new upscale casual hybrid restaurant with outdoor space and a private dining room that can hold up to a hundred people. Just opened two months ago. I held a wedding reception there last month and it was breathtaking. You’re not going to find anything nicer than this at a month’s notice, so the fact that they’re working us in is incredible.”
“How many people did you invite?”
She lifts a finger before flipping to the next page.
“Which brings me to the next item—the guest list. So far we’re at a hundred and five RSVPs”
“Claire.” I exhale and bury my face in my hands. “A hundred and fucking five? You said it was going to be a few friends …”
“I’m sure not everyone will show up. You always need to account for the flaky ones. Anyway, it’s not my fault you have so many friends.”
“I have a lot of acquaintances. I have a handful of people I’d actually consider true friends.”
“Well apparently dozens of people feel differently about you, so maybe you should reexamine some of those relationships before you go writing them off …”
I lean back in my chair. “Whatever. Go on.”
“The bar is crafting a special drink menu in honor of the occasion. I gave them a list of your favorites. I think it’s only fitting that we celebrate your life by drinking your go-to cocktails.”
“Claire … this sounds more like a funeral after-party than—”
“—Cainan.” She tilts her head. “Hear me out. Six months ago, we were almost planning your funeral. Your friends, your family … we could’ve lost you. Why can’t we celebrate the fact that you’re alive? There are people flying in from San Jose, Seattle, Houston, Ontario, Liverpool … they want to show that you mean something to them, that they’re glad you’re alive. Don’t rob them of that opportunity.”
“You’re fucking nuts. And I say that with love.”
“Thank you.” She winks and then sticks her tongue out. She’s a James and that means she doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of her. We’re cut from the same cloth that way. “For the record, when you were in the hospital, my phone was constantly buzzing and chiming and ringing. Texts, calls, emails. Everyone was worried sick. Praying, rooting, whatever. Believe it or not, for some insane reason, people give a shit about you, Cain.”
I lift my brows.
“I know. I was shocked too,” she chuckles. “But seriously, thank you for letting me put this little thing together for you.”
I’ve known my sister all of her twenty-six years, which means when she initially approached me about doing this, I should’ve known damn well that “little thing” was code for “big-ass party” and “handful of people” was Claire-speak for “you, me, and everyone we know.”
“You’re literally a walking miracle.” She leans close, placing her hand on mine. “You could have died. And honestly, except for the fact that you’ve got the tiniest scar above your right eyebrow, it’s like nothing happened.”
She neglects to mention the small limp in my walk—the one I’m still working five days a week to eliminate with the help of a physical therapist and personal trainer. Another month and it’ll be practically gone, they tell me. Like it was never there at all. Two more months, and I’ll be bench-pressing more than I could before the accident.
But I’m keeping the scar.
“I’m sorry, I need to take this.” Claire digs into her bag and retrieves her vibrating iPhone. “Hey, yes, I’m leaving here shortly and I’ll be headed that way. I wanted to tell you, I wasn’t able to get a hold of …”
I rise from my chair and head to the window, watching the people below trail up and down the sidewalk like ants on a farm. I think about Paloma and her engagement ring. The junior partner down the hall and his new baby. Fucking Grant getting engaged completely out of the blue.
It’s like everyone’s leveling up, moving forward in life, and I’m treading the same waters I was six months ago—only instead of the waters being tropical and the color of lapis lazuli, it’s murky, brown, and void of human life.
Never have I wanted to “settle down” or live any kind of life that consists of mowing the lawn on Saturdays or waking up in the middle of the night to change diapers.
But I don’t know that I want this life anymore … either.
“Earth to Cainan …” Claire’s sharp tone pulls me out of my reverie. “Whatcha doing over there? Anything interesting?”
I’m less than a week back into my old routine, and already I’m dying on the inside a little more with each passing day because something is missing.
I thought it was the woman from my dream.
Now I’m not so sure she exists.
For all I know, I was clinging onto that shred of hope like a crazy person, believing she was out there somewhere because being with her was the first time I truly felt alive.
Or loved, for that matter.
Something’s got to give.
I can’t wade these stale waters forever.
I won’t.
“What’s this?” She reaches for a Post-It next to my computer mouse before I have a chance to snatch it out of her hands. “Is this that tattoo from your dream?”
I made the mistake of telling her about the dream in full detail shortly after I woke in the hospital, when I wasn’t one-hundred percent lucid and still refusing to believe it was a dream. I described my wife and kids in vivid detail, and then I scribbled the tattoo on a napkin with a teal gel pen Claire fished out of her bag.
Claire assured me I wasn’t married, swore on her life that I didn’t have any kids (that she was aware of anyway), and then confirmed with my doctor that these kinds of high-def dreams are completely normal and commonplace with patients in my circumstances.
In the weeks that followed, whenever I’d try to bring up the dream, she’d laugh it off, tell me to let it go.
And she was right, I suppose.
It’s done me no good to ruminate, to obsess, to mourn the loss of someone whose name I can’t even conjure despite knowing every minute detail about her.
“Why did you draw this?” she asks.
I steal it back, crumple it, and drop it in the waste basket beneath my desk.
“Cainan … answer me,” she says.
“What’s it matter?”
“You haven’t mentioned that dream since you were in the hospital. Do you still think about it?”
Every second of every fucking day.
“No,” I lie. “Rarely.” I lie again.
She examines me through half-squinted eyes, and she appears to be mere seconds from calling bullshit on me when her phone vibrates.
“Ugh. I have to take this. I’ll call you later.” Claire answers her phone, gathers her things, and shows herself the door.
And it’s for the best. I don’t know how I could possibly explain something to her that I can’t even explain to myself.
I pull up my calendar and enter the location of the party while it’s fresh in my mind. I’m nothing if not organized. While this isn’t the sort of thing I’d ordinarily subject myself to, I remind myself that I’m a lucky son of a bitch to have this many people want to celebrate the fact that I didn’t die.
They say everything happens for a reason.
Before the accident, once a month, I’d rent a car for the sole purpose of getting out of the city. Breathing fresh air. Driving through winding roads and cruising through scenic country valleys. Losing myself on unknown roads. Listening to music at top volume—or sometimes not listening to anything at all. I’d never have a destination. I’d simply drive until I got tired and then I’d book a nearby hotel, catch some sleep, and start again first thing the next morning. Occasionally I’d pick a location and stay there for the weekend.
What are the odds that out of all the roads and bridges and highways, of all the millions of cars, it was mine that got hit at that exact moment on that exact road in that exact city?
I blew through a yellow light earlier that night.
What if I’d slammed on the brakes?
What if I’d waited another two minutes?
It’s easier to stomach everything I’ve been through if I tell myself it happened for a reason. But until I know that reason, nothing makes sense.
11
Brie
“Can I tell you something?” I ask my oldest sister on a comfortably warm Monday afternoon. Her kids are at school, and I took the afternoon off to pack for
my flight tomorrow. She begged me to come over for prickly pear margaritas by the pool, which is usually code for Carly-Needs-to-Vent-About-Her-Husband.
“Brie, don’t ask if you can tell someone something … just tell them.” She sips her half-finished drink. “But go on.”
“I want to call off the engagement.” I clear my throat. “I’m going to call off the engagement.”
She slides her legs off her Newport-style pool lounge and swings around to face me. “No.”
“What?”
“Don’t do it. You can’t. Dad will be devastated. I’ll be devastated. My dimwit husband who can’t start a load of towels without breaking the washing machine will be devastated.” She slides her oversized sunglasses down. “Grant is per-fec-tion. I don’t think you realize how lucky you are. You have what most women only dream of. Postpone the damned thing, but don’t call it off. It’ll be the biggest mistake of your life.”
Carly rises, straightens her black sarong, and struts toward the mini bar to grab the pitcher of margaritas. She returns and tops us off.
“Brie, for as long as I can remember, you’ve been … how do I put this nicely?” She exhales. “A risk-averse fraidy cat. You let everything and anything scare you. Rollercoasters? Not a chance. Sleep-away camp? Terrified you. Boyfriends? Good God, if they started to like you too much, you went running for the hills.” Carly takes a seat and a sip.
“Okay, but I was a child then. I’m not afraid of everything anymore …”
“You read the same books over and over. You watch the same movies a hundred times. When you travel for work, you book the same hotel and the same kind of rental car and you eat at the same restaurants. You gravitate toward what’s safe and familiar. But since you met Grant, you’ve stepped out of your sheltered little box. You’re trying new things, abandoning your old routines. You smile more than you have since …” her voice falters. “Since we lost Kari.”
“I’m not saying Grant isn’t great.”
“So you’re saying he isn’t great … enough?”
The dog next door barks, and the lush palm trees filling her backyard oasis sway in a gentle breeze.
The Best Man Page 6
