My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

I want to dance on the ceiling. But I have to reel it in, stay cautious, as I don’t want Amity to think I’m too far in until I figure out the best direction for her and me. I smile. Tell Thomas, “We’ll see.” But I can’t quash the smile on my face, the smile that says it all.

“I’m so happy for the two of them,” Amity chimes in as sweet as icing on the wedding cake. I’m paranoid around her these days. I know her happiness about Nicolo and me is an act. “Aren’t you?” she asks Thomas, grinding her teeth from the coke she stuck up her nose when he rang the bell. “Aren’t you happy for Harry and Nicolo?”

“Yes,” Thomas answers. “Nicolo is my friend. I’m glad he has found someone.” “I’m glad you’ve found someone too,” Amity purrs, locking

her arm in Thomas’s. “How do you like my dress, Thomas? As Karl Lagerfeld said himself, “Shaped to be Raped.” “

Thomas laughs, grabs her by the waist, and pulls her to him. “We better go, darling’,” she cautions. “Our reservation is for eight o’clock. You know what happens when you’re late for dinner in Texas some hungry cowboy rides in and eats your meat!”

If only Nicolo would. Shit, I’m getting so pent up from no sex, I’m about to pop. I call him at work.

“I can’t go out, Harry. I’m working late,” he tells me. “But I have a surprise for us tomorrow. No coffee and turnover. No class.

We’re skipping out for the day, OK?”

Yes, yes, yes. Finally. “OK.”

“Wear boots. Manana ?” he asks, his accent giving me a woody. “Manana,” I answer.

A few minutes later, a guy comes to the door. Early thirties. Dressed in high-water slacks, a polo shirt, penny loafers, no socks, a belt that doesn’t match, and his sparse hair in one of those comb overs on his mostly bald scalp. Gotta be a pilot. “Is Amity Stone here?” he asks. “No. She’s out,” I answer.

“Out? We’re supposed to be having a date tonight.”

Yep, a pilot. Must be a new one. First officer. Doesn’t know about me. Definitely doesn’t know about Amity. “Sorry, pal. You missed her. What’s your name?”

“Chip.”

I’ll tell her you were here, Chippy.”

I close the door, go into the hall on my way to my room when

I notice the light on her phone machine blink on and hear the cassette tape engage. I can’t resist. I turn up the volume just in time to hear Kim demanding to know where she is and why she broke their lunch date this afternoon.

Thomas. Chip. Kim. Boy, is she fucking up. Her cocaine habit is starting to wreak havoc with her scheduling abilities. This is

crazy. I’m being a fickle bastard. A couple of months ago I thought I was in love with her. I’ve got to talk to her, confront her. Surely we can work this out. I care for her and I don’t want to see her self-destruct. Maybe I can help her change. Get off drugs. Stop lying. But do I have to marry her in order to help her? Do I have to marry her in order to help myself?.

Maybe it’s just not worth it. Maybe I need to cut my losses, move on, live a life of poverty and freedom with Nicolo. I know I’d be happy. Hell, I’ve been living like a poor kid ever since I was seventeen. Gay too. I’ve been mostly content. I never cared about money or what people thought of me before. Why care now?

Or is there an outside solution? The clock is ticking I only have a month and a half until the big birthday deadline. Is there some girl out there who would help me out without cleaning me out?

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

]

icolo is driving me into the country in his old Ford pickup truck. Instead of driving east from the city, we’re driving west, to where there is nothing but the legend of “West Texas.” It’s an August morning, hot as Texas can be, and since the truck has no air-conditioning, we have the windows rolled down all the way to let the wind fly in as we soar past parched mesquite trees, rusty fences, huge wheels of hay, and an occasional naked mobile home. Our hair is whipping around, our eyes are dry, and we’re having to yell to understand each other, but it’s plain we’re both as happy as two guys can be. Nicolo has brought a bota filled with sangria wine, and when he opens his mouth wide, like a baby bird, I shoot the citrus wine into his throat until he laughs and closes his mouth and the wine dribbles down his chin. I lick the remains from his chin, his short whiskers puncturing my tongue, and take a drink of my own from the bag.

“General Videla was indicted last week. They’re detaining him for his part in all the disappearances,” Nicolo tells me. “Who’s that?” I ask as we pass a dead armadillo on the road.

“Our former president in Argentina. Evil man. He’s going to be on trial. Things are getting better in my homeland.”

“I’m glad,” I tell him. I’m also worded that he’s going to leave the U.S. and return to his native country.

We drive for over an hour, passing a new corrugated barn standing next to an old splintered dead one, a satellite dish larger than the moon, a dry creek yearning for rain, and he still hasn’t told me where we’re going. Finally, following directions on a piece of paper he’s taped to the dash, he pulls the truck off the highway and heads down a two-lane road that runs through a little town, then out into the countryside. He turns through a gate, where a Texas flag is flying, the entrance to a ranch. We drive down a dirt road for half a mile until we see the ranch house. He slows down, swings around the house, and stops the truck at