The Best Man Page 10

  “No, I mean it. Thank you.” From my periphery, I observe as he turns to me. “You saved my life.”

  If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been someone else, I’m sure.

  I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” I say, turning toward him for a fraction of a second, as if looking into his hypnotic stare any longer than that would rob me of my breath once more.

  “I wish I could remember meeting you before the accident,” he says out of nowhere. “The month or so leading up to it … it’s like it didn’t happen.”

  I’ve heard of that happening with brain injuries and accidents. I’m inclined to believe he’s telling the truth.

  My focus settles on the scar above his right eyebrow, a remnant of the night he almost died.

  In a way, it’s like a demarcation on a timeline.

  “I hope I didn’t make too big of an ass of myself when I hit on you.” He fights a smirk.

  I return one myself. “You definitely have a way with words. That’s for sure. But I forgave it all when you chased after me to give me my phone.”

  “Really?” His head cocks. “I did that?”

  “You did. Is that not something you’d typically do?”

  Cainan juts his chin forward. “Not back then, no.”

  We linger in silence for a second, and I contemplate a question to which neither of us will ever have an answer—why’d he make an exception for me?

  I suppose it doesn’t matter now.

  “You said the strangest thing to me before I walked away that night,” I tell him. The wind lifts a strand of my hair and brushes it across my cheek. I swipe it away. “You said, ‘Maybe next time we meet, we won’t be strangers.’”

  He blows a quick breath through pursed lips. “I said that? Really?”

  Nodding, I add, “You did. But then we met again—and we kind of were strangers anyway. I didn’t recognize you at first. You said I looked familiar but that you didn’t remember ever having met me in that bar … it makes sense now. With the memory loss, I mean. Nothing else makes sense though.”

  He lifts his brows, as if he’s agreeing but only with his eyes.

  “This whole thing is crazy, isn’t it?” I ask. “The way we’ve crossed paths all these different ways. Small world, I guess.”

  Cainan faces the street again, his back against the brick. Lost in his thoughts, perhaps. There’s something deep and quiet about him—the way he looks at people, the weight of his presence.

  Grant is effervescent, a people person. He’s charming and charismatic and he wields a brilliant smile that can light a room from a mile away.

  But Cainan is reserved. There’s an undercurrent of intelligence in his eyes, but he’s not boastful. I get the impression he’s quietly loyal. Unquestionably trustworthy. And being around him reminds me of this lake my family vacationed at one summer—surrounded by ancient oaks, the water so unaffected it looked like glass.

  “I called a psychic,” I say, cringing.

  “What?”

  “The craziest thing I ever did.” My cheeks warm, but I continue with my confession—one that flows like water from a broken faucet in his presence. “Five years ago, my sister passed. And … I guess … you know, people do weird things when they’re grieving. Me? I called a psychic. And then I called another one. And another. We’ve got them all over back in Arizona—especially in Sedona. I must have spent thousands of dollars trying to connect with her. All I wanted was a sign.”

  I exhale, an unexpected lightness taking over me.

  “Did you get one?” he asks without missing a beat.

  I appreciate his reserved judgement.

  The wind lifts my hair into my face again. He reaches to brush it away, the soft pads of his fingertips tracing my mouth. Instantly, I think of what he said that first night—about orgasms, about using his tongue and fingers …

  I clear my throat and redirect my thoughts.

  “They were all frauds. They were all cold reading me.” I shake my head, and then I add, “Anyway. That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever done. And you’re officially the only person who knows, so …”

  My family would laugh if they knew. Maybe not back then, because they were grieving too, but now. In retrospect. Because I’m the pragmatic one. I’m logical. I’m a numbers girl. Give me facts. Real things rooted in reality. Not woo-woo psychic mediums claiming they can see through some invisible spirit veil and talk to dead people.

  I’ve yet to tell Grant. I don’t suppose it’s worth mentioning at this point, seeing where our engagement is headed. And who knows how he’d respond? He doesn’t strike me as anyone who believes in anything he can’t see, feel, hear, or touch.

  “What kind of sign were you wanting?” he asks.

  I’m comforted by the fact that he isn’t snickering, rolling his eyes, or offering a sympathetic cringe. He’s simply standing there, listening, interested in the insanity coming out of my mouth on this chilly fall evening.

  In a city of millions, right now, it feels like it’s just him and me.

  “I don’t know. Something only the two of us would’ve known. We were twins. We had all kinds of inside jokes. Secrets. Nicknames. Things no one else could possibly know. I just wanted to know she was out there … somewhere. I guess. I know this sounds crazy.”

  I don’t tell him about all the books I secretly devoured on my Kindle about seemingly everyday people having brushes with the ghosts of their loved ones. I don’t tell him about lying in bed at night poring through stories online from people claiming their deceased grandmother was leaving pennies all over their house, or that they smelled their late father’s cologne everywhere they went, or that they woke to find a transparent apparition of their dead best friend at the foot of their bed.

  I wanted so badly to believe the stories, as strange and implausible as they were.

  I wanted so badly to stumble across a sign that Kari was on the other side—wherever that is—having the time of her life and missing me as much as I missed her.

  He sniffs. “No, I get it. Sometimes we just want answers, and we do what we have to do to get them. Sorry you got ripped off. Maybe you’ll get your sign someday … maybe when you least expect it.”

  “Eh. It’s all right. I stopped looking a long time ago.”

  The door opens, and for a moment, I find myself bracing for Grant’s unwelcomed interruption. But it’s only a drunk couple. Stumbling, they turn left, disappearing into the dark halfway down the street.

  “So I have to ask …” he says. “When I met you at the bar the other week … you said you were going to end your engagement.”

  Shit.

  I twist the glistening ring that rests secure on my finger. “Yeah. I did say that.”

  “You realize he’s crazy about you.” He speaks with a tight tone, like he’s merely stating fact.

  “I know.”

  “Never seen him like this about any other woman before, and I’ve known the guy since we were a couple of kindergarteners with matching Superman lunchboxes.”

  A bittersweet smile claims my lips when I imagine the two of them as chubby-cheeked little boys with ripped jeans and grape Kool-Aid mustaches. They were inseparable, Grant told me once. Closer than brothers. Grant’s mother told me she always thought of Cainan as her second son, that every year she baked him a single chocolate cupcake on his birthday because his parents never celebrated it. A handful of times they took him along on family vacations. And his senior year of high school, after his parents kicked him out of their house, he moved in with the Forsythes, where he lived until he went off to college the following fall.

  “You’re his best friend,” I say. “And I don’t think we should be having this conversation. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep what I said to yourself. He just lost his dad and—”

  Cainan lifts a hand. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  I exhale.

  I plan to end things on
ce we get back to Phoenix and Grant feels well enough to return to work. While I hate the thought of hurting him, I also think it’s cruel to drag it out and lead him on any longer than necessary.

  The door to the bar swings open once more, this time nearly smacking against the brick until the hinge catches it.

  This time it is Grant.

  He steadies himself against the wall, his gaze unfocused as he attempts to study the two of us. Music thumps behind him, growing faint as the door coasts shut.

  “Where was my invite?” he asks, slurring. Stumbling toward me, he loops a muscled bicep around my shoulders, tugging on my hair and nearly dragging me down in the process. “What’s up, guys?”

  “You should get him home.” Cainan gives me a look, apologetic almost, laced with a hint of sadness, though I can’t figure out why. Maybe he, too, was secretly and guiltily enjoying this alone time? “I’m going to get you a cab, man. We’re cutting you off.”

  We’re. He said we’re. Like we’re a team.

  The fiancée and the best friend.

  He heads to the curb to hail a cab, and when we get one, he and I hook our arms around a man who can hardly keep himself upright, and place him carefully in the backseat. Sliding in beside him, I close the door and roll the window down.

  “Thank you,” I tell Cainan.

  He stands on the curb, hands tucked into his front jeans pockets, and he leaves us with a nod. We’re halfway down the street, when I steal a glimpse behind us and catch him watching as we drive off, like he hadn’t moved an inch.

  Two minutes later, we’re en route to our suite at the Peninsula, the traffic stop-and-go the entire way. Grant slumps against me, head on my shoulder, and I crack the rear window to catch a break from the stale cab and alcohol spores invading my airspace.

  I’ve never seen Grant drink this much. I’ve also never seen him so careless or irresponsible. But given what happened this week, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

  He probably needed an escape.

  He needed a good time with his friends.

  He needed to smile.

  He needed to forget that sometimes life sweeps the rug out from under us when we least expect it.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m paying the cab driver and helping Grant out of the backseat. A handful of curious onlookers watch as the hotel doorman approaches with an outstretched, white-gloved hand. We manage to make it inside and board the elevator to the seventh floor when Grant decides it’s a good time to press his mouth against my neck and shove his hand up my skirt.

  Never mind that we’re not alone.

  Never mind that we’ve never so much as gotten frisky in public before.

  I brush him away and he laughs, slumping against the wallpapered interior as the elevator cart deposits the first load of passengers on the third level.

  The doors close.

  Grant burps.

  A woman in head-to-toe Chanel with penciled-in eyebrows whips around and gives him a dirty look.

  I ignore her and count the seconds until we arrive at our stop.

  One … two … three … four …

  “This is us.” I loop my arm in his and drag him through the parted doors, down the hall, and to our suite.

  I swipe the keycard and tug him in, watching carefully as he staggers to the king-sized bed and collapses in a heap. I fully expect him to pass out—which is why it catches me off-guard when he rolls to his back and shoots me the lopsided grin of a man with one thing on his mind.

  “Baby, you looked so fucking hot tonight.” His compliment jumbles together, like one big, long word. And then he pats the comforter before unzipping his slacks.

  “You’re drunk.” I turn my back to him, unearthing a pair of pajamas from my suitcase. “Get some sleep. We’ve got brunch with your friends in the morning and then we’re flying out.”

  “Come on. Don’t leave me hanging …”

  I shimmy out of my dress and unclasp my bra and get changed. When I turn back, I find him passed out, mouth open, semi-hard cock in his hand.

  Exhaling, I slide his shoes off, followed by his pants, and then I return his manhood back to his silk boxers before covering him with a blanket and climbing in beside him.

  Rolling to my side, I bury a hand under my pillow and shut my eyes.

  The mattress shifts a moment later, and the warmth of his body presses against mine, followed by his arm anchoring over me as his body melds against me. The sharp tang of liquor lingers on his breath with every heavy exhalation.

  The heater by the window hums.

  A neighboring door slams.

  People laugh from the hallway.

  The night replays like a movie in my head: Grant introducing me to his friends from college. Grant doling out top-shelf tequila shots like it’s his job. Grant making a toast. Grant snapping pictures, beautiful women dripping from his arm, grinning into their iPhone cameras with pouted lips and sexy gazes. Grant striding past me to say “hi” to someone—and completely ignoring me the rest of the evening.

  But there are other scenes from the night that creep through: Cainan greeting his guests with the reserved smile of someone who doesn’t crave the spotlight like oxygen. Cainan obliging his sister’s every request. Cainan sipping his Old Fashioned, peering around the room until our eyes catch and my stomach somersaults.

  Cainan joining me outside for some fresh air.

  Cainan soaking in my secrets without a hint of judgement.

  While I hardly know the man, I can’t help but notice the way I feel when I’m in his presence. It’s an instant calmness. An inexplicable connection. An overwhelming and undeniable sensation of being at ease … of being at home.

  But it wasn’t like that the first night we met, when we were true strangers.

  Funny how quickly things change without any sort of explanation.

  I like the way I feel when I’m around him. Grounded. Serene.

  It’s a strange war we wage against ourselves, trying to convince our heads of things our heart knows to be true. Our head loves reason, logic. Our heart rejects it. Only one will win.

  Squeezing my eyes tighter, I force myself to go to sleep so I can stop thinking about Cainan.

  At the end of the day, he’s Grant’s childhood best friend, practically his brother—and entertaining anything between the two of us would be a reckless daydream, a frivolous waste of time, and quite simply: wrong.

  22

  Cainan

  “How you feeling?” I slap Grant on the back before taking a seat across from him at a Madison Avenue brunch spot called Tangerine—Claire’s suggestion, naturally.

  Rumbling, he slides a pair of dark Ray Bans down his nose and gifts me a bloodshot scowl.

  “That’s what I thought,” I say. “You forget you’re old now.”

  “Since when is thirty considered old?” Claire’s husband, Luke, quips from across the table before flagging a waitress. “Let’s get the poor guy some more water. A couple of Advil, too, while we’re at it. Think we’ve all been in his shoes before …”

  I steal a glimpse of Brie, soaking in the way the sunlight paints her dark hair in warmth and gives her creamy-tan skin an exuberant glow.

  In an instant, I’m transported to that dream.

  And then I shove it from my mind’s eye as if it’s nothing more than a pesky intrusive thought.

  All last night, she nursed one cocktail. Maybe two. She lingered by the bar, alone for the most part, smiling at anyone who imparted their eye contact for more than a second or two. Occasionally making small talk with a handful of randoms. Mostly, she kept to herself while Grant made his rounds. Not once did she appear bored or resentful.

  A class act.

  Our eyes catch from across the table. She smiles. I smile. A white peony centerpiece rests between us, one that matches her gauzy blouse.

  More white.

  Like her last name.

  Like everything that surrounded me the instant I woke up in the hospital.
/>
  A server with an off-white apron doles out the brunch menu, which is printed on ivory cardstock, and then she greets us with a smile before taking drink orders.

  Four still waters.

  One freshly-squeezed pineapple juice.

  Zero mimosas for this crowd.

  “So you guys fly out later today?” Claire asks Grant and Brie as she unfolds a cloth napkin across her lap.

  Grant grunts, his hand resting across his forehead, eyes still covered by his dark sunglasses.

  “We do,” Brie answers for them. “Wish we could stick around longer, but we’re both back at work tomorrow.”

  Claire pouts. “You’ll have to plan another trip out here again. I’d love to talk wedding planning with you … did you guys set a date yet?”

  Brie’s gaze shoots to mine for a fraction of a second before returning to my sister, and I recall our conversation last night. She needn’t worry. Her secret’s safe with me. I’m not going to be the bearer of bad news. More than likely, I’ll be the one picking up the pieces when he wants to go on an all-you-can-fuck Vegas bender in an attempt to get her out of his system.

  “Oh. Um. Nothing in stone,” Brie almost stumbles over her words.

  Our waters arrive in pristine crystal stemware, silence consuming us for a few seconds.

  Grant chugs half of his before sighing and slumping back in his seat. “She’s having second thoughts.”

  Claire gasps.

  Luke glances at his lap, blowing a hard breath between rounded lips.

  Brie’s jaw turns slack as she studies him. “Grant …”

  I don’t know how she’s going to salvage this. The way I see it, she’s got a couple of options. She can deny his statement to save face in front of all of us or she can tell him he’s correct and dump his hungover ass here and now.

  She’s too well-mannered to do the latter.

  Too soft-hearted to do the former.

  “Think I’m going to order the eggs Benedict.” Luke peruses his menu, speaking to no one in particular.

  The faintest flush resides on Brie’s cheeks. Grant whips out his phone, disconnecting from the rest of us as he taps out a text to God knows who.