Chapter 5 #3
I’m looking at him in my peripheral vision while my eyes stay fixed on a video showing the worst, most dangerous injury Brock ever had, six years ago.
Jasper is torn between grabbing his drink, rolling his eyes, and crafting an even filthier comeback. But Mila manages to interrupt all three options because she comes barreling toward us, drink in hand, crashing into his shoulder and splashing mojito everywhere, flooding the air with mint.
Well, at least it’ll drown out the sandalwood.
“Julieeeee!” Mila screams, clearly way past the three-drink limit she promised. “It’s our time!”
“Our time?”
“Keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love!” She starts to sing – actually, scream – so off-key she gives Jasper and the bartender a preview of what everyone is about to suffer.
Mila stops, looks from me to Jasper, then back to me, like she’s just walked into an alternate universe where the two of us are talking alone.
“What is going on here?”
Fair question. If we’re talking, it must be serious. But hey, it’s not my fault. I was minding my own business when he showed up.
Maybe it has something to do with what I said earlier, that drunk Jasper gets slightly more sociable and all.
But he doesn’t get any less of an asshole, because the second Mila asks what’s going on, he seizes the opportunity to throw me under the bus.
And he doesn’t even hesitate.
“Julie has to work tomorrow.”
“What?” Mila chokes. “But she has to go to the cellar to choose the drinks!”
I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm, while Jasper’s smug little victory smile grows. Can someone die of rage?
Let me rephrase: can someone who’s had four Red Bulls die of rage?
“I know, Mila…” I start, searching for words to soften the situation.
“Honestly, I expected this from him,” she says, pointing at Jasper.
Then it hits me. Jasper is the best man. Jasper should be handling tasks just as important as mine instead of only showing up whenever Robbie wants to drink Mimosas or smoke cigars.
I point at him, but look at Mila.
“What’s he doing tomorrow?”
“I’m choosing the strip club for the bachelor party,” he answers instantly.
My eyes widen, my jaw drops, my eyebrows practically retreat into my bangs. Mila just shakes her head and corrects him, “He’s taking Robbie and the other groomsmen to get haircuts.”
Jasper obviously doesn’t need a haircut. He already arrived immaculate as always. Unlike Connor’s half-shaved mustache or Tony’s tragic mullet. Well, yeah, maybe he’s the only person Mila trusts to keep the men at least presentable for the wedding, so I accept that explanation.
“I love Robbie, Mila, I really do,” I tell her, ignoring Jasper again. “But why? Why does he have the devil’s spawn as his best friend?”
“I know, I’m sorry! I wish he’d died the first time you tried to run him over with an ATV on that Spring Break in Miami,” she says with a big grin.
“I love you too, Camila,” Jasper says as he pays for his drink. “But don’t forget I still have my best man speech to write. I’m sure you don’t wanna have any influence on what I’ll say in front of all the families and New York high society.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
He shrugs, grabs his drink, and starts to walk away.
“You never know.”
And just like that, he heads back toward the groomsmen dancing with the cougars.
“I swear to God…” I point at him, shocked, making sure Mila sees what I’m seeing.
She just waves it off.
“It’s only a week, Jules. You’re strong. You’ll survive.”
It’s not just a week. It’s my whole life. All the years of friendship ahead of us: me being Aunt Julie to her kids, going to birthday parties, anniversaries. I’ll be stuck with him until the day one of us dies.
“So is your boss,” she adds, surprising me because I didn’t even think she remembered that part. “He gave you a week off. He can deal with it now.”
“I can’t say no to my boss, Mila,” I tell her, using the same gentle tone I used with Mr. Kyle. “I have bills to pay.”
She nods. She knows my bills-to-pay rants by heart. But she’s a Fifth Avenue heiress who probably never paid a bill in her life, so the sympathy only goes so far.
“You could always come work with me, you know.”
At an art gallery?
I roll my eyes for what feels like the thousandth time tonight.
“And you always forget I’m an Ohio girl. I know about the Cincinnati Bengals and chili sauce, I know nothing about art.”
“People can learn new things, Julie. Look how much I’ve learned about the Benbals since we met!”
“They’re the Bengals, Mila. And the only thing you’ve learned is to follow a Joe Burrow hashtag on Instagram so the algorithm sends you daily photo of his chiseled jawline and bright blue eyes.”
And I don’t blame her. The man is the most genetically blessed, stylish quarterback in NFL history, but there’s more to football than hot players.
If Mila ever became a sports commentator, her topics would be things like who had the best hair after taking off their helmet or “why do quarterbacks wear compression sleeves if it hides their biceps?”
Okay, to be fair, those are very important topics. I just avoid them in my columns for the All-Star Chronicles.
Which is exactly why each of us needs to stay in our lane.
“Look,” I say, mostly because Robbie is now singing Despacito with his father-in-law in truly awful Spanish, and Mila is seconds away from joining in, “I’ll fix everything tomorrow, okay? I’ll choose your drinks and wines with the utmost care. Don’t worry.”
Robbie and Mr. Carnegie hit the chorus, and Mila’s hips start swaying.
I’m losing her.
“And I promise I won’t work again for the rest of the week.”
I absolutely can’t promise that, but Mila has already raised her Mojito and is shouting quiero ser tu ritmo, no longer listening to a word I say.
I’ve lost her completely.
I watch as she runs toward the conga line of bridesmaids and German soldiers led by Mrs. Carnegie, joining them with the brightest smile in the world.
It’s contagious. I’m smiling too.
Brock Magnus will forgive me if I don’t learn everything about his championship stats because I’m hanging with my best friend singing our karaoke song to a bar full of drunk people, right?