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

follows me, puts the lid down on the toilet, and pees. “Harry, I have to tell you something.”

“Yes?” I garble, my mouth full of spearmint toothpaste. “Winston came to me tonight.”

Did she see me hiding in the coat room? Is that why she’s

how she duped me to begin with. and probably all the other guys too by always being so painfully honest. I look angered, stop brushing, my teeth, and slam my toothbrush down. “What happened I ask, spitting the paste out of my mouth.

“He’s concerned that you still might be in love with Nicolo. Don’t ask me how he knows,” she says, winding the toilet paper around her hand about ten times rather than pulling off a few squares the way she usually does. “Your mother must have told him about

Nicolo, and now he’s afraid you might call off the wedding.” “Why would he care? He has everything to gain.”

She wipes herself and flushes the toilet. “But he does care, Bubba. Oh, he acts mean and nasty around you, but he tells me he loves you, and since he knows you want to receive your inheritance, he’s worried that you might forfeit the whole thing just for Nicolo.”

I can’t believe she’s saying this shit, twisting the conversation, substituting the wrong pronouns again, misrepresenting my brother misrepresentations. She’s worded that I might forfeit the whole thing for Nicolo. “I assure you, he hopes I give it all up for Nicolo,” I tell her, bringing the first amount of truth to this barren table. “He’s even tried to bribe me.”

She pulls her toothbrush from her toiletry kit. “Bribe you?” she asks calmly. “How?” She slowly puts some paste on her brush, but her hands are shaking.

I can see she’s blown out of the water. “Yes, he offered to buy Nicolo and me a house, a second car, even give me back my horse. And throw in some junk bonds on top of that. If I call off the wedding with you and flee with Nicolo.”

“G’yaw, Harry. What ” She stops.

“What am I going to do?” I wash my hands.

She shrugs and starts brushing her teeth.

“Of course I told him to fuck off. He thinks he can throw me a few crumbs while he walks away with the cake. Forget it. We

said we would be honest with each other, me and you, and play this thing out, and that’s what I intend to do. Besides, Nicolo doesn’t love me and you do.”

She brushes her teeth delicately, as if she’s in pain—which I know is impossible since the cocaine has probably numbed her entire mouth. Meaning, I’ve gotten through to her. She spits, rinses. I wait to see if she comes clean, admits that Winston is playing us both against each other. “Do you love Nicolo?” she asks.

I’m stunned. I didn’t think my feelings for Nicolo entered into her equation. “What does it matter?” I tell her, drying my hands.

“We’re getting married . you and I.”

“It matters,” she says.

“Yes,” I tell her, unable to lie about it. “I do. I love him. But the guy hates me. He doesn’t want to see me. So I’m not going to chase him around like some pathetic puppy dog. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” That’s one of her lines..I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. “We’ll be married and have lots of money so we can see whomever we want. What’s the problem?”

I watch the tension evaporate from her face as she relaxes, stands, and takes my hand. Then she squints, as if looking far off into the distance at something very beautiful. “He shouldn’t worry. None of us should. This is all going to turn out great.” Grite. Her hair is naturally as blond as the ripest wheat. Her breasts are perfect little margarine cups. Her stomach is as flat as a kitchen counter. Her waist is so narrow you can practically put your hands around it and have your fingertips touch. And it’s apparent that she has no intention of telling me about Winston’s two-million-dollar offer, which means her little bush of light brown pubic hair is waxed into a perfect little V for victory. Victory over Winston, and victory over me.

CHAPTEH

TWENTY-THREE

acqueline and I are driving in my car to the Highland Park Cafeteria. I check the rearview mirror often because my driver’ s side mirror was torn off when Amity borrowed the car two days ago to pick up her cleaning at the drive-through cleaners. Culture Club’s “Church of the Poison Mind” is playing on the radio, and I talk over Boy George as I drive, explaining the whole story to Jacqueline. My family, the will, my brother, Amity, Nicolo, all of it. I spare nothing because it’s only two weeks until the wedding and Nicolo still won’t see me, so I’ve come up with a plan. Actually, my friend Randy came up with it. Over a long phone conversation, as I described the cast of characters, he recommended I enlist Jacqueline to bail me out. “She’s clay, Harry. Just mold her into what you need.” It’s weak and not really a great plan, and it’s insulting to Jackie I’m sure, but it’s the best I can do.

“So you see,” I tell her as we snake down the line, past the wall of presidential photographs in the cafeteria, “I need you to marry me. Just for a month or something.”

“Roast beef, uh-huh, roast beef,” she requests from the server. She speaks to me without looking at me. “I thought you said you had to be married ten years.”

“It’s credited at ten percent a year. So we’ll wait a month, get

a divorce that I’ll pay for and at least get a few hundred thousand dollars for our one-twelfth of a year marriage. Then we’ll get on with our lives.”

“Broccoli. Steamed broccoli,” she tells the vegetable gal. “See, the rest of my inheritance is forfeited to the estate in the event of a divorce, and my mother controls the estate, so at least