8

From the pages of Truly’s Drink Recipe Book

That One Time:

Gin

Homemade red pepper lemonade

Cucumbers

You can still remember the way he looked that night. Cool and casual with five-o’clock shadow stubble. The way he smiled, the way he laughed—full of the connection you’ve shared with him for ages. Hell, for years. The connection you tried to deny, to ignore.

But then one weekend, you went away.

And that seemed to unlock all those crazy desires.

Caution fell to the wayside, and you gave in.

The next morning, you agreed it couldn’t happen again. But still, you keep lingering on that one time. That time you try and try to forget.

Doesn’t always work though.

When the going gets tough, when the forgetting becomes harder, there’s only one drink that’ll do the trick.

Start with gin to blur the memories and add your homemade red-pepper lemonade for that sweet oblivion. You’ll get there eventually.

Someday. Maybe someday soon.

9

As I tug on a pair of running shorts the next morning, I review my notes from a best man who’s hired me for a speech. Committing the basics to memory, I head out, hit the park, and peel off four miles on the pavement and the skeleton draft of a toast in my head.

When I cool down, I spot a familiar figure on the path ahead of me, the spitting image of Michael B. Jordan—lucky bastard. He’s power walking around the edge of the park, a knee brace hugging his leg. “Hey, tortoise! You still walking, not running?”

My friend Walker turns around and waves dismissively at his offending joint. “You try running when you’ve blown out a knee.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? That’s not the thing you want blown.”

“Thanks for the reminder. I’ve been missing your unparalleled life advice.”

I walk by his side. “What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you on the wedding circuit much recently. Used to run into you at every other ceremony, it seemed.”

He raises his arms toward the sky. “As God is my witness, I’ve finally started cutting back.”

I gesture to his limbs. “Careful there. Don’t want to injure your elbow too.”

He shoots me a glare. “You do know you won’t always be thirty?”

“True. But I’ll always be ten years younger than you.”

“And ten times the smart-ass.”

“Probably true there too. But seriously, are you finally spinning records in a club, like you wanted?”

“Landed a semi-regular gig at a place in the Meatpacking District. And they don’t make me play ‘Macarena’ or ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody.’”

I shudder. “Least favorite wedding reception songs ever. Wait, no, that’s ‘Dancing Queen.’”

“And I don’t have to play that either.”

“You’re officially the luckiest bastard. Congrats on the exodus from the wedding business. You were keen on that.”

“I’m not totally out the door, but it’s swinging in that direction.” He scrubs a hand across his goatee, glancing thoughtfully at the sky. “Speaking of, how’s your exit plan going? I bet business has been even better after that Gentleman’s Style piece from a couple months ago.”

“The one where the bloke from the UK bragged about how fast his undercover groomsman business was expanding? He’s enjoying The Wedding Ringer effect, for sure. That film has been the best thing that ever happened to the business. Good thing I started my work well before Kevin Hart made it look cool, so I could ride the wave too.”

“But you do know you can’t do this forever?”

This is typical Walker. He’s the wedding-circuit Buddha, and he sees it as his duty to share his wisdom.

“Thanks for the reminder. I was starting to think I was going to be making toasts in my fifties.”

He shoots me a stare, holding his ground. “It’s my job to remind you of the benefits of having an exit plan. The money can start to seduce you, make you think it can be your full-time lifetime gig. And I know you have other goals.”

I flash an easy grin. “The whole gig is one gigantic see-you-later strategy. And I’m paving the path toward it every damn day.”

“Keep paving it, man. Otherwise, someday you’re going to be waxing eloquent on the radio about how to land a promotion, and when you leave, the guy down the hall will remember the toast you gave at some wedding as Jay the best man, or Jackson or Jackoff.”

“Good thing I’ve been using the name Walker lately,” I say, then wave goodbye with my middle finger.

I take off, running the last mile home, repeating Walker’s reminder that this is temporary, even though the pay is quite good lately.

Quite good indeed.

When I return to my place, I down a glass of water, settle in with my laptop, and power through the speech. Next, it’s shower time, where I do not think of Truly.

As the water beats down, I don’t picture her jumping rope, or taking up boxing, or shaking her fantastic arse in that booty boot camp this morning.

That would make me a dirty perv.

Oh, right. I am.

Because, hell, she looks good when she sweats.

And she can screw like a woman who loves her cardio.