The Best Man

by Renshaw, Winter

  At least it did for me.

  “Grant told me he asked you to keep tabs on me while I’m here,” I say.

  “He did.”

  Wow. Just like that, he isn’t even going to try to deny it.

  The wind is knocked from my lungs. My hand grips the mug until my palm burns.

  “It all makes sense now,” I say. “Why you’ve been so helpful. So readily available. So willing to sacrifice your weekends keeping me entertained. Shame on me for thinking we had a connection.”

  I take a sip and taste nothing but bitterness.

  I don’t drink my coffee black, but I’m too grounded in the moment to flit about the kitchen grabbing sugar and creamer like some effervescent cool girl who doesn’t give a damn—because I do give a damn.

  I liked him.

  A lot.

  And now I feel like a fool.

  “We did have a connection,” he says. “We do.”

  “How do you expect me to believe you when you just admitted Grant asked you to keep an eye on me?”

  “Because he asked me,” Cainan says. “But I never agreed to do it.”

  “So all that time we spent together, you did it because you wanted to?” Half of me wants to believe him. The other half has her heels in the ground.

  His loyalty is to his lifelong best friend—not me.

  For all I know, he’s trying his damnedest to keep this whole thing going for Grant’s sake.

  He nods. “Yes.”

  “How did you know about my chipped tooth?” I ask while it’s still fresh in my spinning mind.

  He almost says something. And then he stops himself. “It’s … it’s going to sound crazy.”

  I hook a hand on my hip, drinking my coffee. “Try me …”

  “I’m going to need you to have an open mind.” He narrows his gaze at me, his tone colored in reluctance.

  “Okay.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, he begins, “Remember when you asked me about the craziest thing I ever did?”

  I narrow my gaze, nodding.

  “After my accident, I dreamt of you. I don’t know if that counts because I didn’t do it on purpose. It just … happened. But I did it. Technically speaking. I dreamt of you, Brie.” He watches me, maybe searching for a reaction. But I give him nothing. I need to see where he’s going with this. “We were on this beach together. We had two kids. We were married. And when I woke up, I knew things about you. Little things. Things I couldn’t explain. Your favorite authors, for instance. I knew them before you told me that day on the sidewalk.”

  I draw in a slow sip of coffee before exhaling and wrapping both hands around the mug. “When you were in your accident … when we were waiting for the paramedics and you were clinging to your life … I held your hand and talked to you. I told you a bunch of random things about me … which is probably why you saw me in your dream and how you knew those things about me when you woke up. But that doesn’t explain how you knew about my chipped tooth … I didn’t tell you that.”

  He doesn’t blink. “I told you. It sounds crazy.”

  “It sounds crazy because it is crazy.”

  “Give me a pen and paper.”

  “Why?”

  He motions his hand like he wants to draw something. “There was something else in my dream. Maybe you can make sense of it.”

  I tug open the junk drawer, retrieving a small legal pad and a blue gel pen for him.

  Without wasting a second, he sketches a small drawing, rips the paper from the binding, and hands it to me.

  “Oh my God.” I take a step back.

  “You need to go,” I tell him.

  “What does it mean?” His hazel eyes widen.

  “Now.” I point to the door. “Please. Go.”

  “Brie … if you know what this means. You have to tell me …”

  I blink through tear-clouded vision and swallow the lump in my throat, though I don’t particularly feel like I owe him an explanation. “My sister’s name was Karielle. My name is Brielle. A few months before she died, we were supposed to get matching ‘elle’ tattoos. I chickened out. She didn’t.”

  My sister’s final Facebook photo comes to mind—Kari grinning, her cheek resting against the inside of her hand, her wrist facing the camera and her tattoo displayed in perfect detail.

  I’ll never forget that image … or the pangs of guilt I feel over never following through with my end of our agreement.

  My stomach twists. I’m going to be sick.

  “I can’t believe you would do something like that,” I speak through clenched teeth and fight the wave of tears that threaten to fall. “After everything I told you …”

  I think back to the night of his party, sharing with him my confession about wasting thousands of dollars on so-called psychics as an attempt to connect with my dead sister.

  I was conned by each and every one of them.

  And now I’ve been conned by him—the biggest con of them all.

  “Leave.” I can’t look at him anymore.

  “Brie, if—”

  “Get out.” I don’t recognize this shrill, pain-filled version of my voice, not at first.

  By the time I do … he’s gone.

  40

  Cainan

  I trudge home with a hammering headache. In a mental fog. Numb. Replaying Brie’s reaction to the tattoo again and again in my mind and growing more confused each time.

  The tears in her eyes.

  The pain in her voice.

  “I can’t believe you would do something like that …” her words are fresh in my ears—and they make zero sense.

  Does she think I knew about the tattoo somehow? That I’m attempting to manipulate her like some con man trying to scam his way into her heart?

  I never should have told her about the dream. I never should have believed her when she said she’d have an open mind. My own sister couldn’t even have an open mind when I told her about it.

  By the time I’m home, I’m deflated and empty. I imagine this is what it feels like when you bet the house and lose your entire life savings. It was a calculated risk, sharing the dream with her and knowing damn well I was going to sound like a crazy person, but I was so sure it would pay off that I just went for it.

  I kick my shoes off, draw the curtains, and collapse in a heap on the sofa. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I drag in a ragged breath.

  I knew I couldn’t be with her before, but at least I could’ve kept her in my life.

  Now I can’t have her at all.

  I close my eyes and try to force myself back to sleep. I can’t stand to be awake another minute with these thoughts.

  Or my new reality.

  41

  Brie

  “Guess who’s golfing with Dad right now?” Megan asks Saturday morning.

  Moments after I sent Cainan packing, she rang my phone and told me she’s coming into town next weekend to visit.

  A divine intervention.

  I didn’t tell her what had happened. I didn’t tell her about the tattoo or the chipped tooth. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it and make sense of it. Still wondering if I overreacted or if my inclinations that he was attempting to scam me were spot on.

  “Sounds like I need to have another talk with both of them.” I sip my coffee, which is now cold. I stick it in the microwave for thirty seconds. When it’s done, I pour it down the drain. I don’t want that cup anymore.

  “Honestly, it’s getting to be a little much. It’s like Carly and Alana’s husbands are chopped liver and Grant’s the son he never had.” She exhales. “And Mom invites him over for dinner at least once a week …”

  I groan.

  “Please. Make it stop,” she begs.

  “I had a talk with him last week at the hospital.” To be fair, it was more of a verbal lashing than a talk. But after all the pestering, the man had it coming. And I thought it’d worked. I thought I’d gotten through to him … because I haven’t heard from him
since. “I guess I can talk to him again?”

  “Also, I didn’t want to tell you this … and I’m still a little weirded out by it … but I ran into him a few weeks ago at this nightclub downtown. We said hi. Whatever. Then he bought me a drink. And from the rest of the night on, he was hanging all over me.”

  “Hanging all over you?”

  “Yeah. Putting his hand on the small of my back. Leaning close. Trying to flirt.” She sounds like she’s about to gag. “The whole thing left this really bad taste in my mouth. He was definitely trying to take things beyond … where they needed to be.”

  “Ugh. Megs. I’m so sorry. I’ll talk to him again. And I’ll talk to Mom. And Dad.” I slide onto a counter stool and rest my cheek against my hand.

  “There’s more.”

  “There’s more?” I sit straighter.

  “I overheard Mom and Dad talking, and it sounds like Dad’s about to transfer a bunch of his accounts to Grant’s firm.”

  My blood turns to ice, and I almost drop the phone.

  Is that all he wanted? All this time? My father’s accounts? Did he research me before our first date and figure out exactly who my father was? Anyone with half a brain cell in the Phoenix area has heard of him, has seen his billboards, has lived in one of his custom homes or apartments, or leased an office building.

  My father has secured a place on the Forbes 500 every year for the past decade—it’s public knowledge. And for someone like Grant, working in the financial sector, it’s likely common knowledge, too.

  “Brie? You still there?” Meg asks.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m still here. Just thinking …”

  Everything makes sense now—how perfect Grant seemed. The way he treated me like a queen. Proposing to me so quickly, desperate to lock me down as soon as possible. The prenup.

  Oh my God.

  The prenup that Cainan drafted for him.

  The letter mentioned clauses they’d discussed … was Cainan in on this too?

  Was this entire thing nothing more than a way to access my family’s money? To swindle me any way they could? Did they run extensive background checks? Dig up every convincing detail they could find?

  My throat constricts and my mouth is dry. A wave of emotions floods through me, but I force it away because if Meg hears one hitch in my voice, she’ll demand to know what’s going on, and I don’t want to talk about any of this right now.

  “Sweets, I’m going to grab a shower,” I say. “Text me your flight details, okay? Can’t wait to see you …”

  We end the call and I sit in stunned silence, staring at a humming refrigerator until the seven o’clock hour turns into something closer to nine.

  Later this afternoon, when my dad and Grant should be done golfing, I’ll compose myself. Make the call. And ensure damn well my father knows exactly the kind of person he’s dealing with.

  After this, I want nothing to do with Grant.

  And nothing to do with Cainan.

  42

  Cainan

  “Heyyyy, asshole.” Grant is hammered when I arrive at our penthouse suite Friday night. I drop my leather duffel and let the door float close. “About fucking time.”

  Every word is slurred and exaggerated. If I recall, his flight landed at one PM. It’s now five. He’s been drinking for hours. He tries to stand to greet me, only to slump back over on the overstuffed sofa. Giggling.

  Giggling …

  It’s going to be a long weekend.

  But maybe it’s for the best.

  I haven’t seen nor heard from Brie since last Saturday, when I drew the tattoo and I met a side of her I never knew existed as she told me to leave with tears in her eyes. I gave her a few days. Thought maybe she needed some space. Some time to calm down. I texted her Tuesday night, asking if we could talk.

  She replied immediately with four axis-tilting words: DON’T CONTACT ME AGAIN.

  “Grab a beer, asshole.” Grant points to the fridge in the kitchen.

  Beyond the window behind him, the Vegas lights glimmer and shine. The city is alive.

  It’s a feeling I haven’t known in quite some time—aside from the time I spent with Brie, when everything felt Technicolor and animated in a way it never had before.

  I hopped on my flight earlier today with every intention of breaking myself out of this, of convincing myself that whatever I thought we were destined to have was an unrealistic pipe dream that never would’ve worked out anyway.

  But the instant the wheels touched down at McCarran International, I woke from my half-assed nap and discovered I was the same pathetic sap I was when I boarded the plane.

  The hotel door swings open as I help myself to a beer from the overstocked fridge, and a handful of guys come in. I don’t recognize two of them. I assume they’re friends of his from Phoenix.

  “What’s up, man?” One of them gives our man of the hour a sloppy high five. He reeks of hard liquor when he passes me.

  “Please tell me I didn’t come all the way here for a goddamned sausage party,” another one says.

  “The girls are on their way,” Collin Hilliard, a guy we’ve kept in touch with from our days at Montclair, squeezes behind me and grabs a can of Coors Light. “Good to see you, man. Heard about your accident. Sorry I couldn’t come to your party, but hey, you’re looking good. Feeling good?”

  I twist the top of my beer and nod. “Yep. All good.”

  Lies. In every sense of the word. But it doesn’t matter.

  “What’ve you been up to?” he asks. “Still helping rich, miserable couples realize their dreams?”

  “Every day. You?”

  “Took over my dad’s insurance agency a couple years ago. Becca and I just had our first kid a year ago,” he says. “I’d show you pics, but I don’t want the last thing we see before getting a lap dance to be my daughter’s face.”

  Gross.

  And agreed.

  “No worries.” I squeeze his shoulder and head toward the living room part of the suite, finding a chair by the window. Out of habit, I check my phone. Two texts from a couple of friends back in the city. Four new work emails. Nothing from Brie. Naturally.

  The next knock at the door sends Grant to his feet, knocking over miniature glass bottles of vodka onto the expensive-looking rug in the process.

  “It’s the girls,” Grant announces, like the horny frat boy he used to be.

  Ten seconds later, the hotel suite reeks of a perfume cocktail and sounds like a coed slumber party.

  “Thought we’d do a little pre-partying before we head out,” Grant says to no one in particular. He grabs two girls by the wrist and leads them to the sofa, sandwiching himself between them and slipping his arms around their shoulders.

  I don’t know where he found these ladies.

  The blonde to his right nuzzles up to him, nibbling at his ear and running her hand along the outside of his pants. The redhead on his other side bites her lip, anxiously awaiting her turn.

  “Hi.” Another blonde with hair down to her tits plops down beside me, though I’d hardly call it plopping since I imagine she weighs less than ninety pounds soaking wet. Her sapphire gaze is slightly unfocused, her eyes deep and hollowed. And she gives me a sultry grin as if she’s about to make a meal out of me. “I’m Jazz. What’s your name?”

  I don’t want to do this.

  I don’t want to be here.

  “His name is Cainan, and he’s not normally this fucking rude,” Grant comes up for air.

  “That’s a cool name.” She crosses her toothpick legs and lets her mini skirt ride up, advertising the fact that she isn’t wearing panties. “Where are you from, Cainan?”

  Apparently another fucking planet.

  Up tempo music begins to blast over the Bluetooth speakers in the ceiling, loud without being obnoxious.

  If only they’d drown out my thoughts.

  Grant whispers something to his playthings, rises, and leads them to the bedroom, closing the door behind them.<
br />
  “Can I read your palm?” Jazz reaches for my hand, but I jerk it away.

  “No.”

  She pouts. “I’m a palm reader.”

  “I’m sure you are.” I take a drink, avoiding her desperate gaze. “But no.”

  “Dude. What’s your problem? Let her read your freaking palm. We’re in Vegas. We can do weird shit here and no one gives a crap.” Collin takes the sofa cushion on the other side of the blonde and extends his hand. “Here. Read me.”

  Her eyes light and she shifts her posture toward him before flattening his right palm and concentrating. “Okay, first, I need you to relax.”

  “Done,” he says without hesitation.

  “See this line here? It’s your lifeline. It’s long and unbroken. That tells me you’re a dependable person. And this. This is your head line. It’s on the shorter side. Are you an athlete? Do you run marathons?” she asks.

  “Uh, I do actually …” Collin glances at Jazz then back at his palm.

  I roll my eyes. The dude clearly has a solid runner’s build.

  “You have a child,” she says, not asking.

  He nods.

  “You’re going to have two more,” Jazz perks up. “Twin boys.”

  I finish my beer and grab another while she spews her bullshit generalities. When I return, Collin’s expression is electric and he’s running his fingers through his hair as if she told him he’s going to win the lottery when he turns forty.

  And hell, she probably did say that.

  “Your turn!” Jazz rotates back to me, reaching for my hand. “I’m a fourth-generation palm reader. I have a client list a mile long. Celebrities. Foreign dignitaries. People fly from all over the world for twenty minutes of my time.”

  “And you’re giving your services away for free why?” I uncap my beer.

  She steals my right hand and flattens the palm over the top of her bony knee. “Because it’s a Friday night. And I want to. Now, I need you to relax.”