The Best Men (The Best Men 1)

The officiant clears his throat, takes a step closer to the woman in white and the man in the tux. “We are gathered here today to celebrate one of life’s greatest moments . . .”

Yup, this is when Mark and I were always supposed to end.

Today.

But after the wedding. Not before.

“The joining of two hearts, and two lives,” the officiant continues.

Mark and I could have had a drink at the party, shared a laugh, toasted to strange and fantastic things happening in Florida.

The officiant turns to Hannah. “Do you, Hannah Banks . . .”

Even that last name pierces me.

Mark fucking Banks.

Of all the men in the world.

And I can’t help but wish there were a way.

But that’s foolish. I’ll be an ocean away. It’s not like we’re going to get together for a Friday night fiesta of fucking and bingeing An Arranged Marriage, then get coffee in the morning. Briefly, I close my eyes, lingering on those images.

Hannah’s voice cuts into my thoughts as she solemnly says, “I do.”

And I return to my own questions.

But what about when the gig is up? Maybe in a year? What if I could see Mark at the same time next year? Have a go at things then?

The officiant looks to Flip. “And do you, Phillipe Dubois, take this woman . . .”

My gaze swings to Mark’s blue irises. His attention is lasered in on his sister, with that intensity that he gives to everything?to negotiation, to Scrabble, to sparring with me.

To touching, and kissing, and talking, and everything.

And fuck my life. This is not okay. I don’t linger on men. I don’t loll in the past.

But Mark isn’t just some guy.

It’s so surreal. I finally found someone I want to see for longer than a weekend, and now I’m leaving.

My timing sucks.

There’s no future for us. In a year, Mark will be happily attached. Some real estate tycoon will catch his eye, or a chef, or a lawyer. Someone stable, reliable, a guy or a gal with a kid. They’ll blend their families and go play chess together on Saturdays while their kids run around on the playground in Central Park.

My stomach twists at the terrible thoughts right as Flip utters the most important words of his life.

“I do.”

All around me are tears and joy as the officiant beams and then declares, “You may kiss the bride.”

A collective sigh of happiness falls over Star Island as Flip kisses Hannah, and Mark’s eyes land on mine for a split second before he looks away once more.

Yeah, he’ll be taken in a year, and I’ll still be . . . well, just me.

38

SOMETIMES MEN KISS EACH OTHER

MARK

Asher and I are at the same table during lunch, but he seems a world away.

He’ll be a transatlantic flight away in a few more days.

And I’ve got to be okay with that.

So I don’t try to talk to him at lunch. Just like I didn’t look at him during the ceremony. It’s too hard. Stirs up too much.

I’ve scarcely seen him since this morning. Don’t want him to know I was about to go full romance flick will you be mine on him.

But I’m not pissed. No point in that. I’m just damn glad I reeled in my hey, let’s do this, since it’ll make it possible for me to handle running into him again in New York whenever that next happens.

Lunch is stunning, though, courtesy of Chef Garnier. True to his word, every morsel is terrific. Even the vegetarian option.

Good thing Hannah and Flip elected to have their wedding happen earlier in the day. In deference to Hannah’s pregnancy, they deliberately planned an event that’s not a booze-soaked late-night fête.

After lunch, we play beach games in the sand—shuffleboard, cornhole and volleyball—and dance under the tent. I take a spin with Hannah and my mom and Rosie, and wish I could dance with the other best man. DJ Drake shows up on time and performs exactly as I asked. Fruit and cheese are served next, with a coffee service just as the cake is cut.

The wedding goes off without a hitch, from the flowers to the cake to the tent. Never have six hours flown by so swiftly. It’s still daylight, but my time in Miami has run out, along with this brief romance.

Guests are leaving. The parking attendants’ pockets are full of tips. The music has ended.

And at the edge of the lawn, my daughter tugs on my hand. “Daddy! Is it time?” She has that crazed look in her eye that children get when they’re on the brink of a Disney World vacation. “Mommy packed my suitcase! She put it in the car.”

“Right.” I glance around the grounds, looking for Asher. And, yeah, saying goodbye is going to be hard. But it’ll be even harder if I can’t find him to do it.