“Thank you. I appreciate the prompt payment.” I tuck the envelope in my inside jacket pocket. Appreciation doesn’t quite cover how grateful I am for this after-hours best-man gig. It won’t last forever; it can’t last forever. But it’s been a godsend now that I need the extra dough.
My undercover groomsman business started on a lark five years ago when I spotted a freelance ad for a best man speechwriter. I nabbed the gig and earned a pretty penny for that first speech. Speechwriting is still a large chunk of what I do, but I’ve also expanded my services to include organizing stag parties (nothing tawdry—I focus on fishing and hiking trips or nights out at the pub) and now the fill-in business when it’s called for. That’s rarer, but it pays the best, so I’m taking it while I can get it, reaping the rewards of wedding season and all the reasons men call on rent-a-groomsman: they have few friends, they’re from another country, the bride doesn’t like the groom’s true best mate, the groom doesn’t want to pick between his good buds, his good bud is horrible at speeches, and so on.
“Listen, what should I say to the relatives if they start asking about you and why you’re not around? They really do think you’re my buddy from college and that you live in London.”
“You can say I flew back to England on the next flight out of New York. Had business to tend to.”
“Aunt Ellen will miss you the most, I’m sure.”
“And I’ll miss her and her slip stitches too. We were going to work on an afghan next.”
“I can picture it now. She’d probably have crocheted your face into it too, she likes you that much. But seriously, what do I do if someone sees you wandering around the city, then asks about you?”
“Say I’m back on business, or here for a quick trip into town. That’s how I'd handle it. I can wing it if I run into your mum or dad, or even dear Aunt Ellen. Don’t you worry.”
I wouldn’t nab referral after referral if this wasn’t something I could handle. My job is to be smooth, and smooth is what I deliver.
Gavin seems to consider this. “True. You’re a kick-ass wingman. A steely-eyed missile man.”
I mime making a check mark. “‘Steely-eyed missile man.’ Be sure to leave that in your Yelp review.”
“Want me to Yelp you? Because I will. I will Yelp you so hard.”
I raise a brow, and Gavin laughs when he realizes why. “Okay, that did sound vaguely inappropriate.”
“Only vaguely? You could enter that in Urban Dictionary. I believe you’ve founded a new term.”
“My true calling perhaps. And thanks again, man. You were so damn believable. I was almost convinced myself that I FaceTimed you to tell you about Savannah.”
“But didn’t you?” I ask playfully.
Laughing, he scrubs a hand across his jaw, then his laughter fades to a kind of nervousness. And I know where this is going. I brace myself as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet then leaps off. “So, if you’re in town and want to hang out . . . Savannah and I would love to have you and Matilda over for dinner.”
Ah, this is the hard part, when the ruse seems so believable that the guy wants to stay friends.
On the one hand, what’s the harm? Meet up for a night out, a beer. But then a job becomes an unpaid job, and I need the money.
“Sure, ring me some time,” I tell him, letting him down easy, knowing that when Gavin calls or texts, I’ll have to be busy. I’ve too much on my plate, too many people to look out for. Or rather two people specifically—me and someone I adore who needs me, my sister.
Gavin smiles. “Awesome. I’ll do that.”
“I need to take off, but you are going to have one hell of a great life. You and Savannah are one of the happiest couples I’ve ever seen.”
There. Remind him of that. Not of this momentary appearance of friendship between two bros.
I say goodbye to my client then exit the brewery, heading down the stone steps, unknotting my bow tie as I go.
Nora’s waiting for me, and we head into the subway station around the corner then catch the next train as it arrives.
As soon as she grabs a seat, she bounces. “I have news.”
“Spill, woman.”
She sighs dramatically, but her expression is one of utter bliss as she announces: “I’m leaving you.”
3
Charlotte: Soooo . . . how did the big meeting with the investor go this week? Did you wow Mr. Fancypants?
Truly: Define “wow.”
Charlotte: That sounds like it didn’t quite go as planned.
Truly: Does anything really ever go as planned?
Charlotte: What’s the issue? Is he just not interested in the speakeasy concept? Because that is shocking. I’ve seen your Gin Joint numbers, you numbers-sharing whore, you.
Truly: They’re like Mariano Rivera getting into the hall of fame kind of numbers. Excuse me as I pet this photo of me and the famed closer when we met once after a game.
Charlotte: Girl, I love it when you name-drop sports stars on me.
Truly: That reminds me, when are you getting us third-baseline seats to the Yankees again? I need my fix.
Charlotte: Such a greedy one. If you can tear yourself away from work for ten seconds, you can share our season tickets for the game next Sunday. Spencer has a meeting, but the kids can hang with my sister so we can go child-free.
Truly: This news delights me. Not the kid-free part, since your kids are cool. But the baseball part. The Yankees are my happy zone, and I’ll work late every night to go to a Sunday game and replace your hubby.
Charlotte: We have two more tickets. You could bring Jason and Malone.
