“You’re going to be the queen of Manhattan nightlife. I’ll say I knew you when.”
“And you’re the king of gentlemen,” she says, a nod to the work I’ve done to establish myself as an expert on all the things a modern gentleman should know. “Are you writing a column tonight? Working on a new podcast?”
I look at my watch. “Actually, I’m meeting up with Nora, and I need to get going. She won’t want to be kept waiting.”
She stiffens, her hand freezing around the key in the lock. Her brow furrows as she turns to meet my gaze, her blue eyes inquisitive. “Nora?”
Do I detect a lovely note of jealousy in her voice? That may be one of the most glorious sounds I’ve ever heard coming from Truly Goodman’s mouth.
“Who’s Nora?” she asks before I can answer. “You’ve never mentioned a Nora.”
She mentioned Nora’s name three times. If that isn’t a third time’s a charm moment, I don’t know what is. I decide to have fun with her. “She’s my date to the wedding I’m working this coming weekend.”
“Oh.” It comes out heavily. “I thought you did those solo.”
“Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t.” I drop a kiss to Truly’s cheek, catching a faint whiff of her freshly scrubbed scent. I say goodbye and let her chew on the idea of me on a date.
Here’s the thing: Truly has made it abundantly clear where we stand, and she’s 100 percent right that we can’t go there again—she’s my best friend’s sister, and she’s also my very good friend.
Yet I can’t help thinking about the other things she made abundantly clear one particular night earlier this year. Like how much she liked being underneath me, how much she liked being on top of me, and how much she liked me bending her over the bed.
I’m not going to say I haven’t gotten her out of my mind, but I absolutely fucking haven’t gotten her out of my mind. Trouble is, there are so many reasons this wouldn’t work standing between us. Reasons that aren’t going to change. Her reasons, and all of mine too.
So I flirt, and she hate-flirts back, a pretending-she-doesn’t-like-it type of flirting. That’s all we are, flirters and hate-flirters, and that’s all we will ever be.
2
You know those movies where an Alec Baldwin or Willem Dafoe type shows up for five minutes at a pivotal moment? Blink and you’ll miss him, but that actor can make or break the whole damn film.
I’m not saying a best man can make a best picture contender out of something no one should have joined together, but when it comes to the speech, if you’re the best man, you’d better bring it like Willem fucking Dafoe. It’s your moment to shine. Or rather, it’s your moment to make the groom shine.
In a brewery in the heart of hipster Brooklyn on an evening in June, I raise a glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for the only five minutes of the wedding that the bride didn’t plan.”
The bride holds up one finger. “But I tried to. I swear, I tried so damn hard to write the speech for Gavin.”
The groom jumps in, grumbling playfully. “She’d slip me Post-its that I thought were dirty notes but were just suggestions for the toast.”
I shoot a glance at the man of the hour. “I suppose now would be a bad time to tell you she did, in fact, write this? And it consists of all the yard work you’re expected to do?”
“A honey-do list,” someone shouts.
“Secret to a happy marriage,” another chimes in.
Guests chuckle, and the blonde woman in the white dress shoots me a huge grin. That smile is like a key turning in the ignition. When the bride is happy, all systems are go.
I turn to the guests. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, but I do have one simple request before I begin.” I clear my throat, adopting a most serious tone. “If you brought your mobile phone, I highly encourage you to . . . leave it on. You might come across a great joke or a cat meme that we’re all dying for. Send them on to me straight away, along with any Venmo or Square or PayPal payments. I also accept cash and credit cards.”
More laughter echoes from the crowd, and that bolsters me.
I feign surprise. “Wait. That’s tradition here too, right? Because back where I grew up, across the pond, it’s customary to tip the best man if you enjoy his speech. And if you don’t enjoy it, it’s customary to tip twice as much.”
Gavin makes a show of reaching into his pocket for some bills. “How many to make you stop?”
He tosses some green on the table, and I wiggle my fingers. “More. A little more. Still more.”
Gavin waves a hand, laughing. “I can go all night.”
“Savannah, I’ll have you know, this is the only time he’s thrown bills at anyone recently. Scout’s honor.” I make a gesture like a cross between a Vulcan salute and two fingers twined, proving that I was never a Boy Scout.
Savannah laughs and bumps him with her shoulder. “I know you didn’t take him to a club, because I had a microchip implanted in my husband.”
Gavin pats the back of his neck then stage-whispers, “I put one in her too. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
Damn, they’re good. They’re fun, they love to rib each other, and they don’t take themselves too seriously. If I didn’t know differently, I’d swear we’d been best mates for ages.
About a month ago, Savannah and Gavin called me for an emergency best-man-for-hire consult. They’d already booked me as an extra groomsman for the wedding so Savannah could have an even number in the bridal party. But before we could place our order for beers at the bar, she blurted, “I went to a wedding the other week where Gavin’s friend Eddie was the best man, and he told a story that involved a toilet plunger named Fred and a beer bong the size of a baseball bat. All I could think about was Eddie—what was he thinking, telling that horrifying story about the time his zipper was stuck? Love the guy, just love him, but he has zero filters and he knows it. Aunt Ellen, who’s quite old-fashioned, would faint from shock, I know it. And she would never miss my wedding, especially since I’m the only daughter on my mom’s side. Eddie’s cool with the change, probably because he’s not the speech-writing kind anyway, so can we please bump you up to the best man role?”
Could I help? Of course I could. The guidebook for the modern gentleman would advise strictly against mentioning toilet plungers in a speech, and even more so any misadventure that endangers one’s ability to procreate. It dictates, too, that guys like me, trying to rise up through the ranks of New York’s self-made men, not turn down the opportunity for work. Story of the last few years of my life.
“As Gavin’s best man, I had many important responsibilities, first and foremost being the bachelor party. We had a long list of activities we were considering. Cupcake tasting, pottery making, and flower arranging . . . were most decidedly not on the list. In the end, we settled for what all the fellas in the city like to do best: we learned how to crochet.”
I make eye contact with sweet Aunt Ellen, who beams at me from behind her coke-bottle glasses. She lifts up a canvas bag by her side. A crochet hook pokes out the top. Of course, I knew she loved to crochet.
“And I know you’re all dying to know who was tops at a slip stitch.”
Gavin lowers his face, chuckling under his breath.
