The Best Man Read online

  Life is short.

  And it can be gone in the blink of an eye—zero warning.

  I was on my way to catch a late flight out of Newark when I witnessed the accident happen in real-time—a red Ford truck crossing the interstate median, only to barrel into a black sedan head-on. The truck skidded into the ditch and proceeded to burst into flames, but the sedan came to a rolling stop upside down beneath an overpass. The screech of tires, the burn of rubber, the metallic crunch that followed—I’ll never forget them as long as I live.

  It all happened so fast. Blink-and-you-might-miss-it fast. Did-that-actually-just-happen fast.

  But I slammed on the brakes of my rented Prius and pulled to the side, dialing 9-1-1 as I checked on the driver—a man, bloody and incoherent, fading in and out of consciousness.

  I stayed with him until help arrived.

  I held his blood-covered hand.

  I begged him to hang on just a little bit longer …

  And when I saw him begin to lose consciousness, begin to let go, I squeezed his hand tighter and rambled on about anything and everything—myself mostly. A ridiculous little one-sided introduction. But I wanted him to focus on my voice.

  To cling to the present.

  To not succumb.

  After all of that, it seemed wrong to head on to the airport, to carry on with my life like nothing happened, so I followed the ambulance to the hospital, and I waited in the waiting room—the scene from the accident replaying in my head over and over and over like a traumatic movie my head refused to turn off.

  I couldn’t visit the man, of course, since I wasn’t family. But I stayed at the hospital, waiting until the nurses assured me that his family was there.

  I didn’t want him to be alone.

  And if he died, I didn’t want him to die alone either … like my twin sister, Kari, five years ago. If only someone had been there when she rolled her Jeep down a steep embankment at one o’clock in the morning, maybe she’d still be here.

  To this day, we don’t know if she was distracted or if she’d fallen asleep at the wheel. We also don’t know what would’ve happened had help arrived sooner. The authorities said she’d been gone at least four hours before the sun came up and a passing driver noticed the garish red of her car contrasting against the muted tans of the desert landscape.

  I’ve been thinking a lot these last few weeks, about chance and probability, about the likelihood of me being on that stretch of New Jersey interstate at that exact moment, of me camping out in the waiting room and running into an attractive stranger who happened to be visiting from my hometown—a stranger who just so happened to be the best friend of the victim.

  “Not long at all.” I lift my martini glass and give him a gracious smile. I don’t tell him that if it were any other night, I’d be putting in a few more hours at the office. I find that sometimes men get put off by a driven woman. If he likes me enough to stick around after the first date, he’ll figure it out on his own anyway. “So sorry it’s taken this long for us to get together. My travel schedule has been crazy.”

  “You fly a lot for work?” He flags down a server and orders a beer.

  “At least once a month, lately it’s been more often than that. They’ve been sending me to our HQ in Hoboken and sometimes into one of our satellites in Manhattan, which I don’t mind.”

  “Grew up in Jersey City,” Grant says. “Not far from there.”

  He’s handsome.

  More handsome than I remember.

  Broad-shouldered. Tall. Dark eyes. Darker hair. Deep-set eyes. Even deeper dimples.

  A flash of a smile that plays on his lips when our eyes catch.

  I’m no expert in menswear, but I’m willing to wager that his suit cost a pretty penny.

  Also, I saw him pull up to the valet stand in a freshly-washed silver Maserati.

  Not that any of those things matter.

  They don’t.

  I do just fine on my own, and material things have never impressed me.

  But if a girl’s going to be approached by a stranger and asked on a date, it isn’t the worst thing in the world if he’s dashing, confident, and clearly unafraid to work his ass off for the things he wants.

  The last guy I dated was respectably average in all areas, and I was beginning to think about introducing him to my family … but eight dates in, he dropped a bombshell that sent me packing. Not only was he in the middle of a messy divorce, he was living with his mother and paying for our dates with funds from his weekly unemployment checks—which were about to run out (hence the confession).

  Crazy enough, he was a step above the guy who came before him—a man who claimed he was a doctor when he was actually a “holistic animal chiropractor” and got bent out of shape when I would refer to him as “Liam” and not as “Dr. Jeppesen” in conversation.

  I’d resigned myself to a much-needed dating sabbatical in the months leading up to my chance encounter with Grant.

  “What brought you all the way out here?” I ask. Seems like anymore, Phoenix contains more transplants than locals, and everyone has a story. Most of them are along the lines of wanting to trade gray midwestern winters for sunshine and palm trees or ‘just wanting a change,’ but every once in a while, someone throws a curveball of a story my way.

  “A job.”

  I don’t love the vagueness, but I give him a chance to elaborate before lobbing questions at him like darts. I do that to people. I fact-gather. I can’t help it. I’ve always been curious, always wanted to have all the information possible before I make my assessment.

  He continues, “I graduated from Montclair State with a degree in Finance. My uncle knew a guy who wanted to hire someone fresh out of college, someone he could shape into the right fit for his company. Jumped at the chance and haven’t looked back since. Best decision of my life. Bar none.”

  “You don’t miss the hustle and bustle of the East Coast? Or the seasons?”

  Grant shakes his head and makes a face.

  “Think you’ll ever move back?” I stir my drink with a skinny metal straw.

  “Not a chance.” His beer arrives and he takes a sip, eyes locked on me. “The views out here are … breathtaking.”

  I don’t think his comment was a double entendre directed at me, but for some insane reason, my cheeks flush with heat and my heartbeat reverberates in my ear. Maybe it's the way he’s looking at me—like he’s two seconds from devouring me. Like I’m the only woman he sees in this room full of distracting, prattling strangers.

  It’s not something I’m used to.

  I tend to intimidate men, I think. Or I attract the kind of men who are easily intimidated, men who expect me to make the first move or throw myself at them like a sex-starved damsel in distress.

  Something tells me Grant can hold his own in the sexual prowess department. But I’m not a sleep-with-a-guy-on-the-first-date kind of girl, so my assumption will remain unproven.

  For now.

  “I never had a chance to ask you about your friend,” I say. “The one who had the accident … is he okay?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Grant says. “His sister called me earlier today. They brought him out of the coma.”

  I lift a brow. “He was in a coma?”

  “Medically induced. They were trying to get the swelling down on his brain or something like that. I didn’t ask for details. Medical stuff makes me … yeah.” He offers a humble chuckle and sips his beer before peering around the crowded restaurant. “Anyway, Claire said he was talking, asking questions, getting his bearings. He was a little confused, but she said his prognosis so far is good.”

  I clasp a hand over my chest and exhale. “Oh, that’s amazing. I’m so relieved to hear that.”

  “Yeah, same.”

  “My sister was in an accident several years ago …” I say. “Unfortunately she didn’t make it, but I’m happy for your friend.”

  Summarizing Kari’s life in a single sentence hurts. Physic
ally hurts. But I plaster over it with a winced smile.

  “Jesus, Brie. I’m so sorry about your sister. I had no idea.” He reaches across the table, places his hand on top of mine, but not for an awkward or uncomfortable length of time. “That must’ve been horrible.”

  “We were twins,” I say. I don’t get to talk about her that often, so I relish the opportunity. “Identical. Crazy close even though we were night and day. She was the wild one. I was … not.”

  He offers a bittersweet smile as his dark eyes hold mine with full attention.

  I ramble on about Kari longer than I should, telling him silly stories and painting her personality in vivid detail, from her neurotic obsession with peel-able nail polish to her affinity for pinpointing which indie rock bands were going to make it big before anyone else. Not once does his expression glaze with boredom. Not once does he interrupt or change the subject. He gives me his full, undivided attention.

  “Are we ready to place our orders?” Our server interrupts our moment.

  “Oh … I think we’re just doing drinks,” I tell her—because that was the plan. We were going to meet up for drinks and conversation, nothing more, nothing less.

  Grant’s dark eyes soften as he peers across the table in my direction. “You hungry? I’m starving.”

  I try to tamp my excitement. “I mean … a girl’s got to eat, right?”

  His bright grin fills the dim, candlelit space that environs us.

  “Give us another minute to look at the menu, please,” he tells her. “And in the meantime, we’ll take another round.” The server dashes off, disappearing behind the bar. Grant rests his elbows on the table and leans closer. “You were saying?”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off me. Not for a second.

  My stomach somersaults.

  Who is this guy?

  When our second round arrives, he lifts his glass to mine. I don’t know what he’s drinking to, but for the first time in my life, I’m drinking to chance, to strange coincidences, and to the future—whatever it may bring.

  4

  Cainan

  Six Months Later …

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take off early. My roommate’s in a play tonight with Daniel Radcliffe, and we have tickets … am hoping to get there early.” My assistant, Paloma, lingers in my doorway, one rail-thin hand on her narrow hip. “Unless you need me to do anything else?”

  I cover the Post-It note—the one I’d been scrawling on all afternoon, over and over, until the paper was more black ink than yellow.

  Four imperfect loops: small, tall, tall, small—an exact rendering of the wrist tattoo from the girl in my dream—the dream I haven’t dreamt since waking in the hospital six months ago, the dream that continues to haunt me every day. Some days it’s murky and water-colored. Other days its crystal-fucking-clear. But it’s always, always there.

  “You’re free to go, Paloma.” I say. “Thank you.”

  Today was my first day back at the office. Someone gave me flowers—fucking flowers. Roses, no less. Don’t roses mean “I love you” or “I’m sorry” or something? And someone else brought champagne cake from some French bakery and placed it in the boardroom. My partners, Tony and Graeme, welcomed me back with a short-but-sweet speech, and then dismissed the rest of the team, the paralegals and assistants anxious to get back to their workstations and hamster-wheel jobs.

  It’s ironic—I almost died. And yet, since the moment I was condemned back into my body, I’ve never felt more … dead.

  All the color, all the meaning, all the joie de vivre has been sucked out of my life.

  For the past six months, I’ve been homesick for a person in a place I’m not even sure exists, at least not in the here and now.

  On top of all of that, I’m dealing with short-term memory loss—mostly involving the months leading up to my accident. It’s as if everything that happened during that time was wiped clean. Something like that can really fuck with you, if you let it.

  My physiotherapist tried to refer me to a shrink, claiming I seemed despondent, borderline depressed—common symptoms after traumatic events, he assured me. But I’m not depressed. Confused, perhaps. Frustrated beyond all belief. But not blue.

  My personal trainer gave me a bottle of ‘mood-enhancing vitamins.’ I chucked them in the trash the moment I got home.

  When I tried bringing up that surreal experience to my doctor, he offered a polite chuckle, telling me the drugs they use to induce medical comas can produce “vivid and/or disturbing dreams.”

  But what happened was so much more than a dream, more than a series of exchanged words and crystal-clear visions.

  I know this woman.

  I know everything about her … everything but her name.

  It’s like the man I was before her no longer exists.

  All I am, all I’ll ever be … is hers.

  I toss the sticky square in the trash beneath my desk, then I check my watch. I’m supposed to meet Claire and her husband for drinks tonight. She, too, felt it fitting to celebrate the completion of my recovery and my subsequent return to work.

  I shut down my computer, lock my desk, and shrug into my suit jacket before heading out.

  The office is quiet, half of it unlit. Most of the staff has gone home for the day … home to their husbands and wives, home to their children, home to their lives.

  I used to wear my workaholism like a badge of honor. My unrivaled work ethic was a thing to be feared, a thing to be treasured, a thing that filled my life with the only meaning it ever needed.

  But six months of intense physiotherapy and friends who look at you like you’re a shell of the man you once were will force humility in your veins faster than you have time to say sixty-hour-work-week.

  And casual sex? It’s a thing of the past. And not for lack of trying.

  I’ve had my fair share of hook ups the last few months, the women as gorgeous as they were sexy, intelligent as they were skilled between the sheets—but it doesn’t feel the way it did before.

  I found myself going through the motions.

  The gratification? The nirvana of a no-strings orgasm? Gone. And the instant I’d cum, I’d hate myself for it. I’d feel as if I betrayed the only woman I loved—even if she wasn’t fucking real.

  I hit the sidewalk outside, the early afternoon sun setting and the air turning unapologetically brisk with each step. Up ahead, a woman hails a cab. When she turns to climb in, her dark hair curtains the side of her face, but I manage to catch a glimpse of her sharp jawline and heart-shaped mouth.

  My pulse hammers as the cab door shuts and the car takes off, merging into rush hour traffic and a cacophony of honking horns, idling motors, and bus fumes.

  She glances out the window as they pass—but it isn’t her.

  It never is.

  5

  Brie

  It happens so fast—Grant on one knee, a propped ring box in his hand with a diamond so large it throws sparkles on the wall beside us.

  Six months ago, we met in a hospital waiting room.

  Five months ago, we had our first date.

  Five seconds ago he asked me to spend the rest of my life with him.

  Now he’s wearing the self-assured smile of a man who knows I’m going to say yes.

  I mean … how could I not? Literally. How could I not say yes in front of all these watchful people with happy tears streaming down their grinning faces?

  My entire family is here—as well as a restaurant filled with dozens of patrons, their watchful gazes careened in our direction as our moment plays out for their entertainment.

  My mother stands behind Grant, dabbing happy tears with her cloth napkin. My sisters circle us, all of them waiting with bated breaths. And my father—my father who doesn’t like anyone—is readying his phone’s camera and grinning as if the moment is one for his personal books.

  None of them seem to care that our first date was a mere one-hundred-fifty days ago. Granted, we�
�ve been inseparable ever since, full-speed ahead. And everyone is loving this “newfound adventurous” side of me. I work less. I laugh more. I actually travel for fun sometimes—not just for work. Grant and I spend our weekends hiking, catching our favorite bands when on tour, checking out the newest restaurants and pubs, lazily ambling through farmers’ markets and art venues, hands intertwined like that annoyingly-crazy-about-each-other couple … but not once have we discussed marriage.

  Marriage …

  Forty-five percent of first marriages in the United States end in divorce. The average age of divorce is thirty—three years from now. There have also been studies correlating the size and cost of an engagement ring to marriage survival rates, suggesting the bigger the ring, the bigger the likelihood of the marriage ending in divorce.

  Should that last statistic hold true for us, we don’t stand a chance.

  “Brie...” My mother clears her throat.

  Grant’s proud smile falters. His eyes shine a little less bright.

  “I’m sorry.” I force myself into the present. “You caught me off-guard. I’m just … wow.”

  We do family dinners all the time. Once a week at least. I had no reason to believe this was anything other than another run-of-the-mill reservation at one of my mother’s favorite Scottsdale eateries.

  “Say yes!” My sister, Carly, whisper-shouts in the background.

  Another sister echoes her sentiments.

  I nod before I speak. “Yes...”

  But the word I’ve uttered hundreds of thousands of times in my lifetime suddenly feels sharp and foreign.

  And something deep inside me regrets the agreement the instant it leaves my lips.

  6

  Cainan

  “Happy First Day Back at Work!” Claire throws her arms around me when I get to the table Friday night. An IPA in a frosty pilsner glass waits for me, and my brother-in-law, Luke, glides it in my direction.