The Best Man Page 2

  My throat constricts around the words attempting to come out, and I almost choke on them. Heat blankets my skin before settling between my thighs, and I’d love nothing more than an icy burst of February air right about now.

  His words are a sharp and unexpected contrast against his reserved, gentlemanly exterior.

  “It’s too bad.” He bites his lip, looks me up and down, and leans in. “Was really looking forward to tasting that heart-shaped mouth of yours tonight. Amongst other things …”

  For a few endless seconds, I consider taking him back to my room. I contemplate throwing caution to the wind like confetti. I deliberate whether or not I would hate myself for it in the morning.

  Lastly, I calculate the risk factors.

  I cinch my hand around my purse strap and pull in a deep breath. “Good luck with … tonight. And thank you again for the wine.”

  I don’t wait for him to respond, and as soon as my heels hit cement sidewalk outside, I release the breath I’d been harboring.

  I’m several yards closer to my hotel’s entrance when a man behind me yells, “Hey!”

  Dozens of people litter the sidewalk. It could be anyone calling after anyone.

  “Hey!” The voice is closer now, along with the soft trump of dress shoes scuffing concrete.

  I steal a look from my periphery, and come to a complete stop when I realize it’s the guy from the bar, and he’s chasing after me. But before I have a chance to react or concoct some worst-case-scenario situation in my mind—he hands me my phone.

  “You forgot this,” he says. Our fingers brush in the exchange. Our moonlit gazes hold for what feels like forever.

  Clearing my throat, I force out a quick, “Thank you.”

  He nods, and we both remain planted where we are, as if I’m waiting for him to speak or he’s waiting for me to have a change or heart.

  “I’m sorry …” I point to my hotel—a rookie move given the fact that he’s still just a nameless stranger looking to get a piece. “I’m going to head in … alone.”

  “I know. You made it abundantly clear that you don’t sleep with strangers.” He laughs through his perfect, Greek God nose. “Next time we meet, we won’t be strangers.”

  I smile, amused.

  And then I head inside, opting not to share with him the statistical odds of the two of us ever running into one another again.

  2

  Cainan

  One Month Later …

  Beep … beep … beep … beep …

  I wake to a steady sound, slamming into an unfamiliar shell of a body, which as it turns out is mine. A dreamlike haze envelopes me, and when my surroundings come into focus, I’m met with white walls, white blankets, white machines connected to white wires leading to a strip of white tape on my wrist holding an IV in place.

  I’m in a hospital.

  I try to remember how I got here, but it’s like trying to recall someone else’s dream—an impossible task. And it only makes the throbbing inside my head intensify.

  “My wife …” My words are more air than sound, and it’s painful to speak with a bone-dry mouth and burning throat.

  “Mr. James?” A woman with hair the color of driven snow leans over me. So much fucking white. “Don’t move. Please.”

  She’s a calm kind of rushed, hurried but not frenetic as she makes her way around the room, pressing buttons, paging for assistance and adjusting machine settings.

  The room fades in and out, murky gray to pitch black, and then crystal clear before disappearing completely. The next time I open my eyes, I’m fenced by three more women and one white-coat-wearing man, all of them gazing down on me with squinted, skeptical expressions, as if they’re witnessing a verifiable miracle in the making.

  I’m certain this is nothing more than a bad dream—until my head pulsates with an iron-clad throb once again, accented by a searing poker-hot pain too real to be a delusion.

  “Mr. James, I’m Dr. Shapiro. Four weeks ago, you were involved in a car accident.” The doctor at the foot of the bed studies me. “You’re at Hoboken University Medical Center, and you’re in excellent hands.”

  They all study me.

  I try to sit up, only for a nurse to place her hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy, Mr. James.”

  Another nurse hands me water. I take a sip. The clear, cold liquid that glides down my throat both soothes and stings. I swallow the razor-blade sensation and try to sit up again, but my arms shake in protest, muscles threatening to give out.

  “Where’s my wife?” Each word is excruciating, physically and otherwise.

  She should be here.

  Why isn’t she here?

  “Your wife?” The nurse with the water cup repeats my question as she exchanges glances with the dark-haired nurse on the opposite side of my bed. “Mr. James … you don’t have a wife.”

  I try to respond, which only causes me to cough. I’m handed the water once more, and when I get the coughing under control, I ask for my wife once more.

  “Has anyone called her?” I hand the cup back. If I’ve been out of it for weeks, I imagine she’s beside herself. And our kids. I can’t begin to imagine what they’ve been going through. “Does she know I’m awake? Have my children seen me like this?”

  “Sir …” The nurse with the dark hair frowns.

  “My wife,” I say, harder this time.

  “Mr. James.” Dr. Shapiro comes closer, and a nurse steps out of the way. “You suffered extensive injuries in your accident …”

  The man rambles on, but I only catch fragments of what he’s saying. Shattered pelvis. Spleen removal. Internal bleeding. Brain swelling. Medically-induced coma.

  “It’s not uncommon to be confused or disoriented upon awaking,” he says.

  But she was just here …

  She was just with me …

  Only we weren’t in this room, we were at the beach—the little strip of sand beyond our summer home. She was in my arms as we lay warm under a hot sun, watching our children run from the rolling waves that rolled over the coastline, leaving tiny footprints up and down the shore.

  A boy and a girl.

  My wife smelled of sunscreen, and she wore an oversized straw hat with a black ribbon and thick-framed cat-eye sunglasses with red rims that matched her red sarong. I can picture it clearer than anything in this damn room.

  I can hear her laugh, bubbly and contagious.

  If I close my eyes, I can see her heart-shaped smile—the one that takes up half her face and can turn the worst of days completely upside down.

  “We’re going to let you rest, Mr. James, and then we’ll order a few tests.” The doctor digs in a deep pocket of his jacket, and then he sneaks a glance at his phone. “I’ll be here for the next eight hours, if you have any additional questions. The nurses will ensure you’re comfortable in the meantime. We’ll discuss your treatment plan as soon as you’re feeling up to it.”

  He tells the nurse with the dark hair to order a CT scan, mumbles something else I can’t discern, and then he’s gone. A moment later, the room clears save for myself and the third nurse—the one who’s done nothing but stare at me with despondent eyes this entire time.

  “There must be a mistake. Someone needs to call my wife immediately.” I try to sit up, but an electric intensity unlike anything I’ve ever experienced shoots up my arm and settles along my back and shoulders.

  The thought of her not knowing where I am sends a squeeze to my chest. What if she thinks I left her? What if she thinks I disappeared? What if she has no idea what happened? And what was I doing in Hoboken when our life is in Manhattan?

  “What’s her name?” Her question comes soft and low, almost like she’s trying to ensure no one hears her. “Your wife?”

  I open my mouth to speak … only nothing comes out.

  I can picture her as vivid as still blue waters on a windless day—but it’s the strangest thing because her name escapes me.

  Nothing but blank after i
nfuriating blank.

  “I … I can’t remember.” I lean back, staring into the reflective void of a black TV screen on the opposite wall.

  The nurse’s gaze grows sadder, if that’s possible. “It’s okay. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

  She doesn’t believe me.

  “Would you like me to call your sister?” she asks.

  My sister … Claire.

  If I can remember my sister’s name, why can’t I remember my own wife’s?

  “Yes,” I say. “Call Claire. Immediately.”

  She’ll be able to sort this out, I’m sure of it.

  “Would you like me to adjust your bed?” The nurse straightens the covers over my legs. “I’m Miranda, by the way. I’ve been assigned to you since you arrived. I can tell you just about anything you need to know.”

  “Just … call my sister.”

  “Of course, Mr. James. Can I grab you anything while I make that call?”

  I lift my hand—the one without the IV—to my forehead. “Head’s pounding like a goddamned jackhammer. Got anything for that?”

  “Absolutely. Be right back …”

  Miranda hurries out the door, and I’m alone.

  If I close my eyes, the room spins, but I can picture my wife with impeccable lucidity—the square line of her jaw, her heart-shaped lips that flip up in the corners, the candy-apple green of her eyes.

  My heart aches, though it isn’t a physical pain, it’s deeper.

  More profound.

  Like the drowning of a human soul.

  I remind myself that the doctor said it’s normal to be disoriented, and I promise myself everything will come back to me once I get my bearings.

  The clock on the wall reads eight minutes past seven. The sky beyond the windows is half-lit. I haven’t the slightest clue if it’s AM or PM. I couldn’t tell you what day it is or what month it is for that matter.

  “Mr. James, your sister is on her way,” the nurse says when she returns.

  She hands me a white paper cup with two white pills.

  So much fucking white.

  If I never see white again after this, I’ll die a happy man.

  * * *

  “Oh my God …” Claire stands in the doorway of my hospital room, her hands forming a peak over her nose and mouth. From here, she’s nothing more than a mess of dark waves and shiny, tear-brimmed eyes.

  She looks like shit, but I’m in no place to judge. Nor would I tell her that. She’d kick my ass, hospital bed or not. Claire may be pixie-sized, but she’s scrappy.

  Her neon green sneakers graze against the tile floor with muted shuffles as she hurries to my side, and she wastes no time sliding her cold hand into mine. Her hands are always cold, but in this moment, they’re icy—a staunch reminder that I’m far from the warmth of the beach and the place I existed mere moments earlier.

  “Of course you’d wake up the one time I stepped out.” She forces a smile, but she looks at me the way a person looks at a ghost—uncertain if what they’re seeing is real.

  “How long have I been here?”

  Her brows meet as she shrugs out of her jacket and drops her bag on the floor. “Thirty-three days. Thirty-three terrifying days …”

  “What the fuck happened?”

  She retrieves a guest chair and pulls it next to me, only in true Claire fashion, she opts to perch on the side of the bed instead.

  “You were on one of your weird little weekend rental car drives where you go God knows where … and we think you were maybe driving back to the Enterprise in Newark on a Sunday night.” She gathers a long, slow breath. “Someone crossed the median on the 495 and hit you head-on—a drunk driver.”

  “Jesus.”

  “They didn’t live … in case you’re wondering.” Her voice is pillow soft. “Luke is working on getting a settlement from their insurance company for you, but these things take time.”

  We wallow in silence, and I let the gravity of the situation take hold. The settlement is the least of my worries at this point.

  “It’s a miracle you survived after all of your injuries.” Her lower lip trembles, and she picks at a hangnail. “You lost a lot of blood … your brain was so swollen... they had to put you into a coma … I called Mom and Dad … but I haven’t heard back …”

  I place my hand over hers, pain shooting up my shoulder.

  Her dark eyes are marred with sadness and relief, but she forces a tight half-smile.

  “Have you talked to my wife yet?” I ask.

  Claire’s smile fades, and her expression morphs into the same one plastered on the faces of the nurses earlier.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” I sniff. “Is she okay? What … was she with me in the car when that happened?”

  My stomach sinks as her eyes search mine.

  My God.

  That’s it.

  She was with me and she didn’t survive …

  “Cainan, you don’t have a wife.” Her words are careful and deliberate, and her head tilts and her gaze narrows as she surveys me.

  “Of course I do.” My hands ball into fists, though the grip is weak, pathetic.

  “You’re confused.” She lifts her hand to my forehead, brushing away a strand of hair like a mother comforting her child.

  I push her away.

  She rises and takes a step back. “You had a head injury …”

  “I saw her, Claire. I was just with her.” My jaw is locked, and I speak through clenched teeth. The more I recall being with her, the more it begins to slip away like an elusive dream that fades with each waking minute.

  “You saw her where?”

  “At our summer home in Calypso Harbor.”

  My sister stifles a laugh. “Cain, it’s March. Your accident was in February. And you don’t have a summer home in Calypso Harbor—you make fun of people with summer homes. Like all those assholes at your firm. You always say you’re never going to be like them. Plus, where even is Calypso Harbor? I’ve never heard of it … have you? Whatever you’re remembering … was probably a dream.”

  No.

  It was too tangible, too sensory-rich to be a dream. As real as this moment, here, in the hospital, as real as the fire-poker pain searing down my back and the salty droplets leaving mascara-colored tracks down my sister’s red cheeks.

  “What about my kids? The boy and the girl?” I’ll be damned—I can’t remember their names either.

  “You don’t have a wife and you definitely don’t have kids, at least none that I know about …” She perches on the side of my bed once more. “You once told me … and I quote … I’d rather stick my manhood in a vise grip than lock myself down with a wife and kids. Granted, you were drunk when you said that, but you said it. And hell, Cain, you’re a freaking divorce attorney. You make money on the fact that more often than not, marriages are a joke. Mine excluded, of course.”

  She winks despite her serious tone.

  “Mr. James?” Nurse Miranda clears her throat in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to take you down to imaging. Claire, you can wait here. It shouldn’t be too long.”

  “Yeah. Let’s check out that head of his.” Claire squeezes my hand before I’m wheeled away. “Apparently my brother ran off and got married while he was out of it …”

  My sister would never mislead me—and yet a part of me refuses to believe her.

  I lie on my back as the muted fluorescent hall lights pass above me, one after another, alternating with stark white ceiling tiles.

  More fucking white.

  The instant I close my eyes, her face is the first thing I see—and in full detail, from the starry, Northern-Lights glow of her green eyes to the single freckle on the side of her nose.

  Fullness invades my chest and warmth courses through my veins when I imagine her smile.

  Maybe I’m dreaming now. Maybe, if I close my eyes one more time, I’ll wake up in our bed, her soft skin hot against mine as she kicks off the covers and laug
hs in her sleep.

  If none of that was real, how do I know she gets teary during happy movies? How do I know she sponsors orphans in Third World countries and donates to no-kill shelters? How do I know her favorite author is Toni Morrison, with Stephen King coming in as an unexpected close second? Her favorite vacation spot is this hole-in-the-wall place we found in Greece on our honeymoon. She glows when she’s pregnant. Pure radiance. And she’s a phenomenal singer, even though she’ll insist she isn’t. Her thick, chocolate-brown hair gets frizzy in the summer and flat in the winter, but she’d be just as gorgeous if she sheared the whole thing off. She chipped her front tooth when she was twelve, though it’s hardly noticeable unless she points it out. She loves Christmas more than a person should. Loves those disgusting hot dogs from the carts on the street, too. She’s seen Chicago on Broadway more than anyone else I know. But more than anything, I know that I’m her whole world. The kids too. We only work when we’re all together. And right now, I’d do anything to get back to them.

  And I will.

  I’ll do anything.

  “All right, Mr. James.” The nurse brings my bed to a halt outside a set of double doors. “We’re here.”

  This is all a dream.

  No—a nightmare.

  It has to be.

  3

  Brie

  “I hope you weren’t waiting long. There was a stalled semi on 15.” His name is Grant Forsythe, and I met him in a hospital waiting room in Hoboken a month ago. He noticed my ASU sweatshirt and after a couple of minutes of small talk, we discovered we both live in the Roosevelt Row section of Phoenix, never miss the opening Cardinals game, belong to hiking clubs, and enjoy many of the same dive bars and local musicians.

  He’s also the best friend of the man whose life I helped save.

  As an actuary and hobbyist statistician, I should be able to calculate the odds of such a chance encounter, but I’m trying not to overthink this. While I’ve never been the girl with the adventurous spirit and a go-anywhere-anytime attitude, something about witnessing a man cling onto his life last month has sparked something in me.