Chapter 15 Arthur
Arthur
"Harper." Beth holds a mug out to her. "Just take the tea."
"I don't want tea, Beth," she says, pacing in our living room.
"It's chamomile."
"I don't care if it's liquid Xanax." She pivots at the window, lurches back. "Tea is not going to fix this."
I lean against the kitchen island and cross my arms. Beth leans forward to set the mug on the coffee table.
My eyes instantly zoom in to her ass and my length immediately tries to pick up where we left off.
I force myself to stare at the ceiling, desperately trying to think about literally anything else.
Cocktails. I can think about making cocktails.
Although shit, there's "cock" in cocktails...
"Okay," Beth says carefully. "Start from the beginning."
Harper stops. Faces her. Takes a breath.
"Ben," she starts, "tried to be nice."
This is historically a dangerous way for a sentence about Ben to start.
"He took the crew out to lunch," Harper says. "The volunteer crew. The ten guys who agreed to come in next Saturday morning and set up the VFW hall for our stag and doe party."
"Okay," Beth says. "That sounds—"
"He took them to Hayward's."
I uncross my arms. "I love Hayward's."
"Everyone loves Hayward's," Harper agrees, looking frantic. "Hayward's is a staple. Hayward's has been here since 1987 and it is a pillar of this community. Except that today's lunch special—"
She presses both hands over her mouth. For a second I think she's going to cry.
"The potato salad," she manages.
"What about it?" Beth asks.
"All of them ate it. Every single one. It came free with the brisket."
I look at her confused. "Sorry, I don't see where—"
"They're all sick, Arthur. All ten of them. Violently."
"How violently are we talking?" Beth asks.
"Craig's wife called Ben to tell him he was, and I quote"—Harper holds up a finger—"'pissing from his ass.'"
Dead silence.
"So," Beth says.
"So they're all out." Harper's voice cracks. "They formally revoked their volunteer commitment. Craig's wife used the word revoked. Like it's a driver's license. And my phone has been blowing up for the last hour with texts from the rest of them. They are livid."
"They can't actually be mad at Ben," I say. "He didn't make the potato salad."
Harper wheels on me. "Arthur. Arthur. Call Craig right now and tell him that while he's on the toilet. Use your logic. See how it goes."
I put my hands up.
"Where's Ben now?" Beth asks.
Harper laughs. It's not a good laugh. "Ben is in our downstairs bathroom. Because Ben also ate the potato salad. He ate two servings because he said the paprika really gave it a kick."
"Christ," I say.
"So now I have no crew, and no Ben." She checks her phone. "Five days. Five days, Beth. This stag and doe is supposed to pay for the caterer for the actual wedding. If we don't raise this money—"
Her voice gives out.
"It's a massive hall," she whispers. "It needs staging. Tables. A sound system. And an ungodly amount of beer kegs carried in by hand because the loading dock has been broken since April."
She looks at Beth. Then at me. Then back at Beth.
"Will you—," she says. Very quietly. "Will you help me on Saturday? Please?"
I'm already moving. I pull a glass from the cabinet, pour two fingers of bourbon, walk it over to Harper, and take the untouched tea off the coffee table in the same motion.
"Here," I say. "Drink this."
She takes it. Sips. Winces.
"Saturday morning," I say. "What time do you need us there?"
Harper blinks. "What?"
"The hall. What time."
"I—seven? The doors open at six for the fundraiser, so setup has to be done by five, which means—"
"Seven," I say. "We'll be there. Knox and Mason too, of course."
"I'll call Maren and Luna," Beth says. "They can probably handle table settings and signage while the guys do staging."
Harper's chin does that thing, the trembling thing.
"Don't," Beth tells her. "If you start, I'll start, and Arthur won't know what to do."
"Are you kidding?" I say with a smirk. "I'm always up for a good cry."
Harper laughs and I watch her shoulders come down from where they've been living near her earlobes for the last twenty minutes. The color starts creeping back into her face in stages.
She thanks us four more times in the span of getting her jacket on, which Beth handles by reminding her that we're literally the best men and the maid of honor, this is baseline job description stuff, and Harper is about to tear up, but then her phone buzzes and she glances down at it and her whole expression rearranges.
"Ben needs... things from the pharmacy," she says flatly.
"Tell Ben we said feel better," Beth says.
Harper pauses at the door. Turns back. "Thank you again. Seriously."
"Go home," I say. "Hydrate your man."
She snorts, waves, and slips out.
The apartment goes quiet.
Beth sets her phone down on the couch cushion beside her and looks up at me. Her hair is still mussed from earlier and her shirt is sitting slightly off-center on her shoulders, the left side tugged down just enough to show the strap of her bra. I lick my lips before I realize I'm doing it.
She notices, and our eyes catch. Hold. One second too long, then two, and suddenly the whole apartment feels about fifteen degrees warmer.
"So—" I begin, right as she says, "We should probably—"
We both stop. She bites her lip. Something low in my abdomen flips, hot and restless.
All the responsible, platonic energy I managed to scrape together for Harper's emergency suddenly feels like nothing more than a flimsy dam holding back a massive flood, and looking at her mouth just put a crack right down the center of it.
I'm sure I'm visibly flushed and I'm pretty sure she's flushing.
"I should—I should call Knox and Mason," I manage, because resuming our business like nothing happened after hearing about our best friends' misfortune feels... wrong. "So they know about Saturday."
"Right, right." Beth says. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "And I need to call Maren and Luna. Make sure they're free on Saturday."