Best Man

Ugh. Miles Foster.

It’s amazing Aaron and I survived this long, considering I absolutely despise his choice of best friend. Miles is almost a deal-breaker, he’s that bad. To think, during that first CU Boulder frat party I ever went to, I’d looked at all the fraternity brothers across the dank, hazy cellar, and zeroed in on him.

Right. So did every other girl in the basement.

Where Aaron is the all-American blond, Miles is his dark underside. He’s unbearably hot, scorching even.

But the hotness drains away whenever he opens his mouth.

Unfortunately, neither of us spoke much that first night, or maybe I’d have been warned. It was my first college party and, hyped on the feeling of freedom, I’d gone a little overboard in the drinking department. The music was too loud, and we were all too smashed.

How was I to know that one little night of fun would send such huge shockwaves through my life?

So I did what I had to do. I buried it. And so did he. Knowing him, and the way he treats me and every other woman who comes into his orbit, he probably doesn’t even remember it.

As I hurry downstairs to the spa, still shaking off the heebie-jeebies my every encounter with Miles seems to bring, I nearly laugh, thinking of what he’d said to me. Really, what kind of lame idiot guy cares about a girl’s nails? And Bridezilla? Please.

Par for the course, I think. I should know better than to let him get under my skin. Miles has never greeted me with a, “Hey, how’s it going?” It’s always, “If it isn’t Shorty,” or “What are you looking at, Headcase?” So I shouldn’t have been too hurt by, “Whoa. Bridezilla. Chill out.”

He’s a douche beyond all reason. And somehow, Aaron’s bestie. It’s just awful.

But if I want Aaron, I guess I have to take his good and bad. Marriage is about compromise and acceptance. After all, it’s in the vows: for better or for worse.

Miles definitely qualifies as the latter. The only saving grace is that lately, with Miles working and living in downtown Denver and us up in Boulder, and area traffic being what it is, and our schedules being what they are, we rarely get a chance to hang with Miles much anymore. This past year, we’d gone out for dinner and drinks a couple of times.

Deciding to force any thoughts of the idiot best friend out of my head for the rest of my stay, I make it down to the basement and find Eva, who’s already sprawled out on a towel, in the midst of her champagne and chocolate body facial. All I’ve had is that black coffee, so the smell of chocolate is making my mouth water.

She lifts her chin and gazes at me with blissfully sleepy eyes. “You find him?”

I shake my head and remind myself for the thousandth time to stop gnawing on my lip. The last thing I want is to be chapped for my first kiss with Aaron as a married couple.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“That’s what the best man said when I ran into him.” I make a face.

She groans. She has heard all my stories about what an absolute douchebucket Miles is, except for the one where we ended up… Nope, not thinking about it.

“What’s his problem, anyway? I complimented his ski jacket when he came in yesterday and he told me not to touch him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Did you try?”

“Well, you know me.”

I do. Eva is notoriously touchy-feely, and Miles is notoriously not. He must have OCD, because he hates people touching his things, getting in his space. Aaron is the biggest slob on earth, and he said Miles’ room in the frat house—he couldn’t have a roommate because he was too anal—was like a museum. There’s a reason his frat nickname was Sergeant Shitface—he does everything with military precision. And if you brush his arm or anything? He goes batshit. It’s hard to believe, considering he and I had been very cozy when—

Ugh! For the last time, don’t think about that!

“I told you not to! He’s so weird like that!”

She sighs. “Yes. He’s such a weird asshole. What is he, a germaphobe or something? But god…he’s hot. So hot.”

“And he knows it,” I mutter, as my phone starts to buzz. I lift it. It’s my sweetie. I pick it up and purr, “Hi. Are you okay?”

Eva watches me carefully as I hear a gravelly voice say, “Yeah. Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“Nothing, but what’s up with you? I was worried when I didn’t see you downstairs. People are asking about you.”

“I’m good. Just a late night last night. You know. The boys wanted to keep it going. Last hurrah, you know?”

I let out a little laugh. “Sure, I get it. Well, I’m glad you went out last night instead of tonight. You’ll be okay for the wedding, right?”

“Oh, sure, hon. Of course,” he says in a sexy, low growl that makes me wish I could be with him right now. “But I have a slight problem.”

I grit my teeth. I don’t want slight problems. Everything is supposed to be perfect. I’m not sure if my nerves can take any problems, even slight ones. “What?”

“You know the rings?”

Rings. Rings. He says it so dismissively, surely he can’t be talking about the platinum rings that are the core symbol of our enduring union. I try to think of some other meaning for some other description for them. But I can’t.

I gaze down at the engagement ring we purchased together nineteen months ago—platinum setting, pear-shaped solitaire. He wasn’t sure what I’d like so when he proposed, he did it without the ring, and we went out shopping later. “You mean the wedding rings?”

“Yeah. I seem to have…”

Oh, no. No no no.

My heart is in my throat, and it’s precisely because I know what kind of guy Aaron is. He’s fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants. He doesn’t plan. In fact, all the planning that’s been done for this wedding has been mine. If I’d relied on him, we’d never have set a date.

Case in point: I’d had my suitcase for this trip, and one for our honeymoon in Hawaii, packed for three weeks. He packed his suitcases five minutes before we left, and it was like a clothing bomb hit his apartment.

“Aaron. Please don’t tell me you forgot the rings,” I whisper.

A pause. Then: “I forgot the rings.”

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” I gasp, so loud and long that everyone in the spa stares at me, and the woman covering Eva’s thighs with melted chocolate drops her brush. The two girl triplets, who are getting manicures, start to cry. “No. No. No. Please, tell me you’re just joking!”

“I wish I was, honey,” he says, entirely too calm for my liking. “But don’t worry. They’re a symbol. They don’t mean anything. We can just, I don’t know, use some fish hooks or chicken wire or whatever.”

For a moment, I feel struck. Like he actually punched me. In the heart. My groom didn’t actually just suggest to me that we get married exchanging chicken wire, did he?

I thought I loved him. Now, I’m not so sure.

“Aaron…” I’m trying to stay calm, but bile rises up my throat. “This is not a slight problem. Are we going to go back and get them?” I ask, checking the clock on the wall. “If we leave now…five hours there and five hours back…we can be back by the rehearsal dinner.”

He lets out a raspy breath. “Shit, Lia. I wish I could, but…I’m still drunk. My head’s pounding. I just popped two Excedrin but I don’t know when they’ll kick in.”

I’m gripping the phone against my ear so hard I’m surprised I don’t crush that side of my skull. I look wildly around, then set my jaw. “Okay. Here’s what we do. I’ll go get them.”

“Hon, no, you don’t need to put yourself through—”

“Stop. Seriously. There’s no time to lose. Just tell me where you left them.”

“They’re in my night sta—” He stops. “Lia. Wait. Do you realize what you’re saying? You can’t—”

Noticing I’m drawing eyes, I move around so the girls don’t overhear me, cupping the phone with my hand. “Aaron please. It’s our wedding. We’ve planned this for forever and there’s still time. I seriously don’t want to express my love for you with something you use to impale fish.”

Silence.

I shut my eyes, counting to three. But he still doesn’t say anything. Nothing even remotely like: “Lia, honey, I’ll get them. This will be the perfect wedding, baby, like we’ve always wanted.”

Feeling a renewed sense of urgency that the wedding needs to be perfect, I mumble, “I’m coming up to get the keys to your apartment right now.”

I punch the End Call button and notice everyone in the spa is staring at me, except for the little girls, who are covering their faces with their hands and sobbing a little.

“Minor setback,” I say, managing a smile.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Natalie asks from behind her white facial mask, as the attendant fixes a cucumber on her lid.

Eva pushes up onto her elbows and pounds the table with her fists. “No. Hell no. This is an intervention! I refuse to let you drive all over creation the day before your wedding because your idiot fiancé dropped the ball! You should be relaxing and pampering yourself! Let one of the guys drive.”

I shake my head. “They’re all drunk.”

“Well, what about West?”

“I have no idea where he is. And I can’t trust any of them any more than I can trust Aaron right now.” I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I have so much nervous energy, I’m jumping all over the place. It’ll be good to have something to do. I don’t mind.”

Eva pouts. “But I do! You can’t, Lia. You dreamed of this time. And what about the rehearsal dinner?”

“It’s at eight tonight. I’ll be back by then.”

My mother appears in a fluffy white robe, her hair in a towel. “Honey, are you sure? Maybe you don’t need the rings.”

I shake my head. I can just imagine how great the photos will look—us wearing matching chicken wire as a symbol of our love. Fuck no. “I need the rings. He said they’re right in his night table. And you know me, I was never one for massages and pampering and stuff, anyway. I’m good.”

Besides, it’ll do nothing noticeable but drain my daddy’s wallet.

Ugh. Why the fuck am I taking into consideration what Sergeant Shitface thinks?

My mother comes around and massages my tense shoulders. “You can ask your father to go.”

“Mom. No. You know he’d never go above fifty, even if he saw the apocalypse approaching in his rearview mirror. This is not a big deal,” I repeat. “Trust me.”

I hug all my family and bridesmaids and rush upstairs to get my bag and keys. As I’m zipping up my hoodie and slipping my sunglasses on while walking towards Aaron’s room to pick up his apartment keys, I see a tall, lean figure down the hall.

It’s Sergeant Shitface, himself.

He’s dressed in an open flannel shirt, jeans, and a wool skullcap, and is tossing something up into the air, catching it with one hand. If he had an ax, he’d be a ridiculously hot Paul Bunyan.

“You know there’s a snowstorm coming, right, genius?”

Annnnd the scowl is back. “Don’t talk to me about the weather. I’ve been monitoring the weather like Jim Freaking Cantore, considering I have a little thing called an outdoor wedding coming up. You may have heard of it?”

He smirks. “So you really think you’re going to get to Boulder and back before it hits?”

“Yes. Of course. It’s just a little squall, and it’ll be coming after nightfall. It’ll only last two hours, providing a light dusting, so it’ll be bright and sunny for go-time. The patio is going to be set with my mauve Pantone Color 511 and cream Pantone Color 5035 napkins and twelve industrial-strength heat lamps, and there will be no snow at all by then. Snow is NOT invited. I hereby banish snow from the discussion from here on out.” I open the weather app on my phone and shove it under his nose to prove it, careful not to touch him.

He doesn’t look at it, just keeps smirking at me in that superior way, like he knows better.

God, I hate him.

I try to walk past him to Aaron’s room, but then he dangles whatever was in his hand in front of me. It’s Aaron’s apartment keys. I try to grab them but he snatches them away and wags a finger at me like I’m a naughty schoolgirl. “No touch. I’ll take care of these.”

I stare at him until realization dawns. “You are not coming with me.”

“Yeah, I am.”

Ugh. The thought makes my stomach turn. I’d rather drive the route with a rabid dog in my passenger seat. “No way.”

“Tough. I’m not letting you go alone.”

He’s got to be kidding me. “But we hate each other. We’ll probably murder each other before we get over the mountain, careen off one of the cliffsides, and the next time they find us, we’ll be nothing but a pair of skeletons with our bony hands wrapped around each other’s necks.”

He nods, agreeing. “Possible. But your fiancé asked me to take care of you. I’m sure I can put aside my homicidal desires where you’re concerned for ten hours.”

“Good for you,” I mutter, spinning away from him and hoisting my purse onto my shoulder. “But I’m not sure I can.”