Best Man (Close Proximity Book 1)

by Lily Morton

  Chapter Twelve

  Jesse

  That feeling hasn’t gone away by the next morning as we orbit each other getting dressed. It gets deeper, and I feel a panicked twist in my stomach. I don’t know what it is, but I have the feeling that this is going to go wrong. I’d discount it, but my mum is known for her form of second sight. She taught me to always pay attention to my feelings and they’re currently screaming at me that today Patrick will try to fuck us up.

  I’m dressed first, as I really don’t care what I look like. I slide the morning suit on that Zeb hired for me and put in the boutonnière that arrived with Zeb’s this morning, still wet with the dew.

  I watch Zeb faff with the sleeves of his tailored, dark grey morning suit. No rental for him. The navy cravat suits him, enhancing those wonderful eyes. He rearranges the cravat and fiddles with the boutonnière and the feeling inside me bubbles up suddenly so strongly that I can’t rein it in.

  “Come to Devon with me,” I say impulsively.

  He stares at me. “What?”

  “Come with me. I was going to visit my family. Come with me and meet them. We could spend a few days away from here and tour round the countryside. I know loads of good spots.”

  I can hear the enthusiasm in my voice and for a moment a wild exhilaration shows in his face, but then even as I watch he smothers it.

  “I can’t,” he says slowly, wincing at whatever he can see in my face. “I made a promise, Jesse. What would I be if I broke it?”

  For a long second I stare at him. “A man,” I say finally.

  “What?” I watch as he looks at himself in the mirror and adjusts the handkerchief in his pocket. He looks back at me queryingly.

  “Just a man. One who makes silly promises that he should never have been kept to.”

  Zeb shakes his head, and I feel my stomach clench. “I’m his best man, Jesse. Don’t be silly. And what’s all this about being kept to promises? I said yes, and I don’t go back on my word.”

  “And he knows that and is using it,” I burst out, feeling almost wild. For the first time this month I feel very young. “You shouldn’t do this. He’s going to marry Frances and still keep a fucking tight hold on you. He doesn’t want anyone else to have you, but he isn’t prepared to give up anything for you. It isn’t right that he’s played on your feeling of duty and got you to do this. It’s bad for you.” I pause. “He’s bad for you. But you can’t see it.”

  “Don’t be utterly ridiculous. You’re acting like we’re in the plot of a Mills and Boon. I see everything,” he says crossly, looking at me suddenly like I’m a disappointment to him. “I’m not blind. I know his faults, and I can quite categorically say that you’re talking shit. Along with the fact that this really isn’t about him but about you.”

  “What do you mean?” I say sharply and he looks almost apologetic.

  “You think he wants me back, and I’m going to get back together with him.”

  “And are you?”

  He stares at me for a long moment, annoyance and something else crossing his face. He opens his mouth to speak but his phone rings. Picking it up, he looks down at the display. “That’s the taxi company’s number. They’ll be outside. We can’t be late.”

  “You’re still going to do this, then?” I say, hating the querulous tone in my voice. I sound like a nag.

  Irritation crosses his face. “Of course I fucking am,” he snaps. “I made a bloody promise and I’m not happy that you’ve had all month to say this and you’re picking a fight right now before we leave.”

  “Patrick is not right for you because he doesn’t see you properly,” I say doggedly.

  He exhales in exasperation and runs his hands through his hair. “Jesse,” he says through gritted teeth. “Please stop.”

  “He doesn’t see how clever you are and how fucking kind and how you live your life in tiny portions, trying so hard to be a good man that you’ve completely missed that you already are. The best man.” I’m desperately trying to get everything out, and I know it’s coming across very wrong. I sigh heavily. “Promises aren’t as important as people. There’s a middle ground between your father and you, Zeb. I wish for your sake you’d find it.”

  Silence falls for what feels like an hour. Then he picks up his keys, anger plain in his face. “Much as I hate to break up this session on the psychiatrist’s couch, I’m going,” he says tightly. “Coming or not? Last chance.”

  I stare at him and then sigh. “Coming,” I mutter.

  The journey there is tense. Zeb hardly says two words to me, and I’m not delighted that the theme continues when we get up to Patrick’s suite. The rooms are full of his groomsmen and immediate family helping him to get ready, and as soon as we get into the suite, Zeb fucks off, drawn away by Patrick who directs one fulminating glare at me and then keeps him by his side as he reintroduces him to everyone. Zeb smiles and shakes hands and kisses cheeks, showing no sign of the argument that has twisted my guts.

  I hover on the edge of the crowd, nimbly avoiding Nina and Victor. I make small talk and coincidentally feel myself getting smaller too. Smaller and more invisible.

  Even when the members of the party sit down for the breakfast served on a long table in the lounge of the suite, I find myself relegated to the end of the table next to someone’s grandfather who’s extremely deaf. I answer his questions absentmindedly while watching Patrick and Zeb in the centre laughing over something together.

  My temper kindles. It takes a lot to get me angry, but Zeb seems to be managing it ably. He hasn’t spoken to me once. Just dumped me at the door like a child he’s been babysitting and fucked off. There’s been no thought as to whether I’m okay or comfortable, just complete radio silence as if I’m not even here. I don’t think he’s even looked for me once.

  I watch him now from my position leaning against a wall, half hidden by a rather large pot plant. He’s laughing at something a man is saying to him, his face alive with amusement and warmth. Anyone watching him would think he hasn’t got a care in the world. Maybe he hasn’t. Maybe it’s just me who hates that we’ve argued, and he actually doesn’t really give a shit at all. I look for his wanker of a sidekick but he isn’t there. Then I catch a whiff of expensive aftershave and sigh.

  “Hello, Patrick.”

  He comes to stand next to me. “Admiring the scenery?” he asks as we both watch Zeb.

  I shrug. “Well, it is pretty.”

  He shoots me a sidelong look. “Oh, I’m aware of that. I looked at that view for years. It’s the best I’ve ever seen.”

  “Can we dispense with the euphemism? You’re starting to sound like an estate agent.”

  He takes a sip of his drink. “Okay. What would you like to talk about, Jesse? I can’t help but be curious about the young man who’s monopolised Zeb all month.”

  “Curious or threatened?” I say flippantly, a flash of temper appearing. But I know immediately that I’ve somehow made a mistake as his lips curl into a smile that lacks all humour.

  “Oh, I’m not threatened,” he says, staring at me. “Why would I be?”

  “I really don’t know,” I say finally. “You’re getting married, so I’m at a loss as to why you seem to be so concerned with Zeb’s movements.” I allow a smirk. “Talented as his movements are.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t get used to them. He won’t stick around.”

  “Why?” I hate myself for asking him that, but I can’t help it.

  “Because you have nothing to offer him.” He looks me up and down. “You’re far too young. You’re inane and probably stupid. He’ll be bored within a couple of months.” He laughs. “Hell, he’s forgotten you already.”

  We both look at Zeb, who is in intent conversation with another man. At that point he looks up and smiles. It’s intimate and devastating. Warm and almost loving. My lips tip up in reply but dip immediately as I remember the row and his behaviour and realise that he can’t be smiling at me. I turn back to Patri
ck who’s watching me intently, a pleased expression on his face.

  “You see,” he says. “It’s not you he’s looking at. It’s me. It will always be me.”

  “So, if it’s like that why are you not together and why are you getting married to a woman?”

  He shrugs. “That doesn’t mean anything. Frances knows that. She just wants to get married. And as soon as there’s a baby on the way I’ll pick up with Zeb again.”

  I shake my head. “That’ll never happen,” I say, confident for once. “He’s the most honourable man I’ve ever met. He won’t go for that.”

  “Really?” he purrs, looking vastly amused. “Well, obviously what you know about Zeb is not exactly much. Do you know when he agreed to be my best man?”

  I stare at him, thinking back to the conversation I had with Zeb in the car. Somehow it seems like a long time ago. “You were getting on together again, I think,” I say.

  He throws his head back and laughs, and I briefly imagine karate-chopping him across the throat.

  “That’s one way to put it,” he chuckles, rubbing his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  He shakes his head. “Jesse, we were in bed at the time.” I stare at him, completely unable to say anything, and he smiles coldly with the light of triumph in his eyes. “He said he’d be my best man while my come was still running down his chest.” He looks me up and down and smirks. “Well, I’ll leave you with that. Enjoy the rest of your stay, Jesse.”

  I watch him walk away, assured and handsome, and I look intently at Zeb’s face as Patrick comes near. The smile that plays on his face is warm, and I feel suddenly stupid. And very, very young.

  I put my glass down and make my way into the bathroom. It’s empty, so I lock the door and subside onto the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. I stare at my reflection and contemplate what Patrick said. I’m sure he wasn’t lying. That was patently and painfully apparent. And I only have to remember Zeb’s odd hesitation when he mentioned why he’d agreed to be Patrick’s best man to know it’s true. Fucking hell, he slept with Patrick knowing he was engaged to be married.

  I shake my head. The Zeb I know would never do that. He has too many ethics, and he’s too full of the desire to treat people well. Then I slump. “You obviously don’t know him,” I say out loud and the words are devastated, echoing the feeling in my eyes.

  “Shit,” I say, scrubbing my face. “Fuck.” I make myself stand up. I can’t sit here like a twat. I’ll have to go back out there. I run cold water over my hot palms and brush my hair back. “Get a grip,” I advise my reflection. “Go out there and behave like the adult that he doesn’t think you are.”

  I still as a desperate thought suddenly occurs to me. Maybe there’s still a chance. After all, he hasn’t been with Patrick this month and his reaction to him has mainly seemed to be a kindness with a slight edge of impatience. I know he’s enjoyed himself with me. The half-starved way he fell on me tells me that. Time and time again he’s reached for me, entering me every time with a deep groan as if he’s in heaven.

  I know relationships have been built on less. But we’ve been together outside the bedroom too. Surely all the laughter and easy conversation have to count for something. Not against five years though, I think glumly. And Patrick is the finished product. Perfect exterior even if the interior is rancid.

  Patrick could be lying, though. The thought comes out of the blue, and I seize it like it’s a life raft. Somehow, despite what he said, I still cling deep down to my knowledge of who my Zeb is. A man who’d never entertain sleeping with someone who was with someone else. He’d rather cut his hand off than hurt anyone. He’s kind and generous and thoughtful. How have I lost sight of that in the last ten minutes?

  I straighten my jacket. “I’ll go out and talk to him,” I say out loud, seeing the resolution in my face. “I’ll ask him what’s happening. He won’t lie to me.”

  My plan is foiled when I get back to the main room and I can’t find him. The room is packed now with people talking loudly and happily. He isn’t here. I come to a stop in the room. Where is he? Then I spot that the door to the patio is ajar, letting in a draught of cool air. I push my way towards it, but when I reach my destination I pause, hovering with my hand over the handle. I don’t know why I’m so uneasy. He might not even be out there. He might have gone looking for me or be helping Patrick.

  The nice thought gives me the encouragement to open the doors. They swing open, letting fresh air flow around me as I stand stock still, staring at the sight in front of my eyes. Zeb and Patrick are standing on the patio, their arms wrapped around each other and their mouths fused together in a hungry kiss.

  For what seems like an eternity but is probably only a couple of seconds I can’t move, standing looking at them. Then Patrick gives a low groan and it breaks my stasis and I step back, banging my elbow clumsily on the door. Then I’m gone back into the room, making my way towards the door and escape.

  Zeb

  For a too-long second I stand on the balcony held tightly against Patrick’s chest, who seems to have developed hands like an octopus since we split up. Surprise keeps me there for a second but then reality surges back and I get my hands up and push him back forcibly. He stumbles back, his mouth swollen and his eyes at half-mast. Once, that would have done things to me. Now, I just feel a weary surge of disgust.

  “What the fuck?” I say, wiping my mouth. “What are you doing? Have you gone mad?”

  He rests back against the stone balustrade and shrugs, a half smile on his face. “I’ve always been mad. You know it.”

  “Yes, but not suicidal.” I stare at him. “Pat, you’re getting married in a few hours and you’re trying to kiss your ex.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re not my ex.”

  “I must have a powerful imagination, then,” I say wryly. “Because I’m sure I remember a fair few screaming matches followed by you taking half my furniture and my pension.”

  “We’ll never be over,” he says stubbornly, coming back towards me, his arms outstretched. I sidestep them neatly, so he stumbles slightly.

  “Why?”

  He stares at me feverishly. “Because nothing and no one can get in our way. Not Frances, not your silly boy toy.”

  “Leave Jesse out of this,” I say sharply. He laughs, and I narrow my eyes. “What have you done?” I say.

  I feel the sense of unease again that started to gather this morning while I tried to catch Jesse’s eye numerous times and failed. Every time I looked at him, he was resolutely staring away as if he couldn’t bear to look at me. The one time I thought he was looking and I smiled, he turned away from me, and I felt nausea grip my stomach.

  I regretted the row as soon as it happened. I just got cross when he wouldn’t stop talking about going to Devon. Part of the anger was because I wanted to go more than anything. I wanted to apologise as soon as I saw his face fall at my rejection, but I couldn’t find a way to get back to us, so I stayed silent.

  It’s given me a sour stomach but here was not the place for a serious discussion. I’ve therefore put on a good face for others all morning, but I’ve felt sick since we got here, and the only thing that’s got me through is the thought that I can apologise to him when the wedding is done.

  The uneasy feeling grows into a steady pressure on my chest. “Patrick?” I say loudly and he jumps.

  “I told him.”

  “Told him what?” I can hear the panic in my voice and he smiles.

  “Zeb, don’t worry. He can’t stand between us. I won’t allow it.”

  “What did you tell him?” I say, enunciating each word slowly and clearly.

  His smile widens. “I told him about the circumstances of you agreeing to be my best man.”

  My stomach knots so badly that I feel like throwing up. “Oh fuck,” I groan, pacing away from him and staring unseeing over the balcony. “Why did you do that?”

  “He had to know.”

  I wh
irl. “No, he didn’t. He fucking didn’t need to know about the one moment in my life I am most ashamed of.”

  “Why are you ashamed?”

  I stare at him. “You just don’t get it, do you?” I say incredulously. “Jesus, Patrick, you have less morals than a fucking polecat.”

  “What?” he says crossly. “It’s just us.”

  “No, it isn’t. It hasn’t been just us for a very long time, and now there are two camps. There is you and Frances and there is me and Jesse and never the twain shall meet.”

  “But they did meet,” he says smugly. “And fucked.”

  “We fucked because you never told me you’d asked her to marry you,” I roar. “You gave me the impression you’d split up. You didn’t tell me until after.” I laugh incredulously. “And then asked me to be best man.”

  “So why did you agree to it, Zebadiah?” he shouts.

  “Because I felt sorry for you,” I say quietly, the soft words falling like rocks into a still pond.

  “What?”

  I nod. “Sleeping with you that last time made me realise that I’d never really loved you, Patrick. It was like the scales fell off my eyes all of a sudden and I looked at you and I realised that I pitied you.”

  He flinches. “Why?” I hesitate, even now unwilling to deal the blow, and he gestures sharply. “Get on with it.”

  “I pity you because you have never been true to yourself in your life. You tell lies to so many people, but the most important person you do it to is yourself. You’re pretty, but there’s nothing else to you, Patrick. You see yourself in other people’s eyes and you exist to please them when you should be happy with yourself.” I breathe in. “I’ve felt more for Jesse in this last month than I ever did with you.”

  “How can you say that? This isn’t what was meant to happen.”

  “What was meant to happen?”

  He stares mutinously at me. “You were supposed to wait for me, and we could have been together once the dust had settled.”

  “That dust is your marriage. Don’t you care about Frances? She’s a good girl. Aren’t you bothered that we’d have hurt her?”