The worst best man, p.1
The Worst Best Man, page 1
It took a village to raise us; this story is for the village elders:
Mãe, Ivany, and Reni.
The Wedding Crasher
About the Author
By Mia Sosa
About the Publisher
The Stockton Hotel
Three Years Ago
My phone’s text tone chirps like a robin—which fails to prepare me for the clusterfuck on the screen.
Andrew: Everything you said last night made sense, M. Thanks to you, I can see the truth now. I can’t marry Lina. Need you to break the news. Don’t worry, she’ll handle it with class. Going to disappear for a few days while I get my head straight. Tell Mom and Dad I’ll call them soon.
I’m too young and hungover for this shit.
Using the few brain cells that survived the effects of yesterday’s bar crawl, I try to synthesize the limited information in my possession. One, my older brother, Andrew, the quintessential people pleaser and a man who does everything according to plan, is due to get married this morning. Two, he’s not in our hotel suite, which means he fled the premises after I crashed last night. And three, he never jokes about anything; the stick permanently lodged up his ass prevents him from experiencing fun. No matter how I move them, the pieces of this puzzle refuse to fit together.
Could this be a case of Andrew’s dormant (and terrible) sense of humor suddenly waking up? God, I sure hope so.
I fight my way out of the bedsheet twisted around my torso, sit up, and type a quick reply.
Me: This isn’t funny. Call me. Right now.
He doesn’t respond, so I ring his cell. When the call goes straight to voicemail, I accept that Andrew doesn’t want to be reached and wish him a speedy trip straight to hell.
Don’t worry? She’ll handle it with class? My brother’s a bonehead if he thinks Lina won’t flip out when she discovers he isn’t showing up today. Easily imagining the bride’s devastated reaction, I focus on the two sentences in Andrew’s text that make me especially queasy: Everything you said last night made sense, M. Thanks to you, I can see the truth now. Problem is, I can’t remember much about the prior evening—an entire bottle of Patrón tends to affect a person’s short-term memory—let alone recall what bullshit I may have said to my brother during his final hours of bachelorhood. If I had to guess, though, I probably claimed that remaining single was preferable to getting married and acted as if I’d thoroughly beaten him in the game of life.
I’m twenty-five. He’s my brother. This is what we do.
Christ. I flop back onto the mattress and contemplate my next move. Someone needs to clue in the bride. My mother’s not an option. She’s tactless. At my parents’ twentieth-anniversary celebration, she told my grandmother Nola—and a roomful of their guests—that her only hesitation in marrying my father had been a concern that he was a mama’s boy, an affliction my mother attributed to the extended period Grandma Nola had let him drink from her tit. Direct quote. My father, for his part, would throw on his investigative reporter hat and engage in an invasive truth-finding mission, all in service to discovering why my brother had bailed on his fiancée. Dad’s heavy-handed behavior will only aggravate the situation. I know this firsthand—it’s one of the reasons my parents divorced a year ago. Since my big mouth is partly responsible for triggering this unfortunate chain of events, I’m the obvious choice. But damn, I don’t want to be.
Massaging my throbbing temples, I drag myself out of bed and limp my way to the bathroom. Minutes later, as I’m brushing my teeth and ignoring my scruffy, red-eyed reflection in the mirror, the phone chirps again. Andrew. I spit out a capful of mouthwash, dart back into the bedroom, and swipe my phone off the nightstand—only to be disappointed by my father’s message.
Dad: Get your asses down here. Your brother’s going to be late for his own wedding if he’s not here in five.
Everything inside me freezes: atoms, blood flow, the whole shebang. I might even be clinically dead. Because on top of everything else, I overslept, effectively destroying my chance to divert the guests before they arrive and adding another layer to this shit cake of a day.
The blare of the hotel’s digital alarm clock yanks me out of my stupor and pummels my skull. I slam a hand down on the off button and squint at the tiny snooze icon mocking me in the corner of the display. You know what? I’m never drinking again. No, wait. That’s an empty promise if ever there was one. Special occasions. Yes, that’ll work. Going forward, I’ll only drink on special occasions. Does informing a bride that her groom won’t be showing up for the wedding qualify as one such occasion? Probably not. Do I want it to? Absofuckinlutely.
Pity. That’s what I see in Max’s whiskey-brown eyes. In his dejected stance. In the way he’s struggling to conceal a pout.
I motion him inside the dressing suite. “What’s going on?”
My tone of voice is exactly as it should be: calm and even. In truth, I regularly monitor my daily emotional output the way some people track their daily caloric intake, and since my mother and I just shared a few teary-eyed minutes together, I’m either fresh out of feelings or close to exceeding today’s quota.
After striding to the center of the room, Max turns around slowly, one of his hands fussing with the collar of his button-down. That’s the biggest sign that something’s amiss: He isn’t wearing the light gray suit Andrew selected for his attendants.
I prod him with a different question. “Is Andrew okay?”
It can’t be that bad if Max is here. I don’t know him well—he lives in New York and hasn’t been around for most of the pre-wedding festivities. Still, he’s Andrew’s only sibling, and if something awful has happened, he’d be with his older brother, right? Well, given that Max was Andrew’s third choice for best man (after choices one and two politely declined), perhaps that isn’t a safe assumption.
Max scrunches his brows, the resulting lines in his forehead reminding me of ripples in water. “No, no, Andrew’s fine. It’s nothing like that.”
I press a hand to my belly and let out a shaky breath. “All right, good. Then what’s going on?”
He swallows. Hard. “He’s not coming. To the wedding. Says he can’t go through with it.”
For several seconds, I just blink and process. Blink, blink, blink, and process. God. All the plann
Max clears his throat. The staccato sound disrupts my stream of consciousness, and the significance of the situation truly hits me.
I’m not getting married today.
My throat constricts and my chest tightens. Oh, no, no, no. Hold it together, Lina. You’re a pro at this. I wrestle with my tears and body slam them back into their ducts.
Max inches forward. “What can I do? Do you need a hug? A shoulder to cry on?”
“I don’t know what I need,” I say hoarsely, unable to pull off the unruffled demeanor I’d hoped to convey.
His sad eyes meet mine and he opens his arms. I step into his embrace, desperate to connect with someone so I’ll feel less . . . adrift. He holds me with a light touch, and somehow I know he’s restraining himself, as though he wants to keep me afloat rather than pull me under. Through the fog, I notice Max is damp, fresh from a shower possibly, and I’m struck by the absence of any detectible fragrance on his skin. I wonder briefly if my scent will cling to him when he leaves, then wonder just as briefly whether my brain’s short-circuiting.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a whisper-soft tone.
I don’t move as I consider his question. Maybe remaining still will help me assess the damage. By all rights, I should be hurt, angry, ready to rail against the injustice of what Andrew’s done to me. But I’m none of those things. Not yet. The truth is, I’m numb—and more than a little confused.
Andrew’s supposed to be “the one.” For two years, we’ve shared interesting conversations, satisfying sex, and stability. Most important, he’s never pushed my buttons—not even once—and I can’t imagine a better choice for a lifelong partner than someone who doesn’t trigger my worst impulses. Until this morning, Andrew and I seemed to be on the same page about the mutual benefits of this union. Today he’s apparently in a different book altogether—and I have no idea why.
Max fills the silence, babbling for us both: “I don’t know what’s going on with him. One minute he was fine. And then we talked last night. We went barhopping, you know? Somewhere between the shots of Patrón, I said some foolish things. It went sideways from there. I’m sorry. So damn sorry.”
The anguish in his voice snags my attention, gives me a hook to sink my psyche into. He’s apologizing for something rather than consoling me, which doesn’t make sense. I slip out of his arms and back away. “What do you mean you said some foolish things?”
He drops his chin and stares at the floor. “Honestly, I don’t remember all that much. I was drunk.”
I skirt around him so I’m not blinded by the sunlight streaming in from the arched bay window—the better to see this fuckery. Oh, the cloudless sky chafes, too; wasting perfect wedding-day weather should be a petty crime punishable by at least a few days’ jail time. “How’d he tell you? Did you speak to him face-to-face?”
“He sent a text,” Max says softly, the floor still the object of his undivided attention.
“Let me see it,” I demand.
His head shoots up at the command. For a few seconds, we do nothing but stare at each other. He flares his nostrils. I . . . don’t. His gaze darts to my lips, which part of their own volition—until I realize what I’m doing and snap my mouth shut.
My body temperature rises, and I’m tempted to tug at the lace on my arms and chest. I feel itchy all over, as if millions of fire ants are marching across my skin to the tune of Beyoncé’s “Formation.” I mentally push away the discomfort and hold out my hand. “I need to see what he wrote.” When he doesn’t budge, I add, “Please.”
Max blows out a long breath, then reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulls out his phone, and taps on the screen. “Here.”
With my lips pursed in concentration, I read the jumble of sentences confirming that I, Lina Santos, a twenty-five-year-old up-and-coming wedding planner to DC professionals, am officially a jilted bride. Wow. Okay. Just. Yeah. I couldn’t be more off-brand if I tried.
Still studying Andrew’s text, I narrow my eyes on the sentence that annoys me the most: Thanks to you, I can see the truth now.
Oh, really? And what truth did you help my fiancé see, Max? Hmm? God, I can just imagine those two talking crap about me in some grimy pub. Makes me want to scream.
I shove the phone back into his hand. “So to sum up: You and Andrew got shit-faced last night, chatted about something you claim not to remember, based on that conversation he’s decided not to marry me, and he doesn’t have the decency to tell me any of this himself.”
Max is slow to agree, but eventually he nods. “That’s the sense I get, yes.”
“He’s a dick,” I say flatly.
“I won’t argue with that,” Max replies, the beginnings of a smile daring to appear at the corners of his trash-talking mouth.
“And you’re an asshole.”
His face sours, but I refuse to give a rat’s ass about his feelings. Whatever nonsense he spouted off last night convinced my fiancé to tank our wedding. I’d been so close to marrying the right man for me, and a single drunken conversation derailed everything.
I straighten and grab my own phone off the dressing table, sending out an SOS to my mother, aunts, and cousins:
Me: Eu preciso de vocês agora.
Telling them I need them now will get their attention; doing so in Portuguese will get them here within seconds. In the meantime, I scowl at the worst best man I could have ever asked for. “Max, do me a favor, will you?”
He takes a step in my direction, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. “Anything.”
“Get. The fuck. Out.”
The limousine door opens, and the wedding guests let out a collective gasp.
Because the bride’s wearing green—chartreuse, to be precise.
Bliss Donahue gracefully exits the car and fluffs the tiered taffeta skirt swallowing the bottom half of her frame, oblivious to the slack-jawed expressions of the people witnessing her arrival at the Northern Virginia inn she’s chosen for the affair.
Like a veteran member of the Royal Family, Bliss stands in front of her imagined subjects and waves a single hand in the air, her face upturned to catch the sunlight just so. After a thirty-second pause for maximum dramatic effect, she takes several dainty steps along the cobblestoned path, the back of her ruffled dress fluttering in the April breeze. A few of the older female guests cluck their tongues and tut at the sight of her jaw-dropping gown. Others visibly cringe.
Discreet as always, I stand a few feet away, ready to troubleshoot any mishap threatening to ruin Bliss’s day. Although I warned Bliss the dress might overshadow the finer details of the otherwise elegant event, she was adamant that the unusual color accentuated her best features. In my view, the dress highlights her questionable fashion sense, but as the wedding planner, my job is to bring the couple’s vision to life, no matter how wonky that vision may be. To be clear, I’m not averse to voicing my concerns if the situation calls for it, but in the end, this isn’t my day, and if Bliss wants to walk down the aisle in a dress that looks as if it was cobbled together with Post-its to satisfy a Project Runway unconventional-materials challenge, I can’t stop her.
That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the unexpected. I’ve had great experiences with forward-thinking bridal attire (a wedding in which a lesbian couple both wore three-piece cream pantsuits is a personal favorite), and I’ll gladly support outside-the-box plans whenever possible—largely because I’d prefer the box didn’t exist. Sometimes, though, a ruffled chartreuse dress is just . . . tacky.
Now that Bliss has made her way inside the inn without incident, I pull out my phone and scan the ceremony checklist. I’m two lines down the list when Jaslene, my assistant and closest friend, appears at my back.
“Lina, we have a problem,” she says.
The news shoots through my veins like adrenaline. Of course we do. And that’s why I’m here. Armed with a renewed sense of purpose, I whip around and draw Jaslene away from the entrance to the wedding venue. “What is it?”
Jaslene’s face bears a relaxed expression. Good. There’s mischief in her dark brown eyes, however. Not good.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I tell her. “Your eyes are twinkling. If it’s funny to you, it’ll be terrifying to me.”
Grinning like a Cheshire cat, she grabs my arm and pulls me toward the stairs. “Come. It’s the groom. You need to see this for yourself.”
I follow her upstairs to the groom’s dressing suite and knock three times. Shielding my eyes, I open the door a crack. “If you’re not decent, you have fifteen seconds to cover up your important parts. I leave it to you to decide which parts need covering. One, two, three, four, five—”
“We’re decent. It’s okay,” Ian, the groom, calls out.
The strangled edge to his voice warns me that things are most definitely not okay, a conclusion confirmed by my own eyes when I sweep into the room and drop my hand. I blink. I gulp. Then I blurt out an obvious but clumsy question: “Where the hell are your eyebrows?”
Pointing in the direction of his three attendants, Ian groans. “Ask these assholes. They’re the ones who thought it would be hilarious to shave them off the night before my wedding.”
All but one of the assholes study the floor. Needing a target, I lock eyes with the lone male who isn’t avoiding my gaze.
Slumped in an oversize armchair, with his dirty-blond hair in disarray, the groomsman burps and shrugs his shoulders. “We were drunk. What can I say?” He turns his bloodshot eyes toward the groom. “Sorry, man.”
by Mia Sosa / Romance have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes