3. Reid
Reid
“Cassidy wants lavender for the bridesmaids, which I don’t mind at all.
Girls look good in purple. Hell, guys look good in purple.
But not lavender. More like amethyst, you know?
A good dark purple. It’s kind of like red.
Most guys hate wearing red, but almost every man looks good in red. You know? Reid?”
Drew, my best friend, is going on and on about wedding shit, and I’m starting to think that’s the only thing anyone ever talks about these days.
It’s exhausting.
“Reid. Brother. Have you heard a word I said?” Drew asks as he swirls his iced coffee in an attempt to mix in the volcano of caramel. It’s not going to work. Caramel doesn’t simply mix into cold fluid. It also has no fucking business in coffee.
Especially a man’s coffee.
“I’m listening,” I say, taking a sip of my dark roast. AKA real coffee. No stirring, swirling, or sucking required. “You don’t want to wear purple to your wedding.”
“Lavender,” he corrects me, still fighting the caramel streaks in his cup. It’s no use. That shit’s like tar.
“Right,” I say.
“But the men aren’t wearing purple, lavender or otherwise,” he states.
“So what the hell are you so worked up about?” I ask.
“She wants salmon,” he says like he just dropped a mic on the stage.
“For the dinner?” I ask.
“No. For the tuxes. Well, the ties and vests. But still. Salmon, Reid,” he shakes his head and slurps his diabetes in a cup.
Full disclosure. Drew might be the only person in my entire life that I have actually cared about for an ongoing amount of time.
And Drew is getting married in a couple of weeks.
Yes, another wedding I am obligated to go to.
And to make matters even worse, I am the best man at this one.
But I will tell you one thing.
I won’t be wearing salmon.
“Tell her no,” I state, taking a sip of my coffee.
“I can’t tell Cassidy no,” he spits out as if I just told him to drive his car into a brick wall.
Although honestly, if he is really about to walk down the aisle with a woman who wants him to show up at his own wedding looking like a dead fish, he’s already kind of doing that.
“Why not?” I ask bluntly.
“She’s the bride,” he says, and I scoff.
“And you’re the groom. And the last I checked, that makes you the man in the relationship, which means if you don’t want to wear salmon or tuna or mackerel, you don’t have to.”
“I don’t think that’s how weddings work,” he says with a casual chuckle as he continues to slurp.
“Another reason why I don’t condone them,” I say, and Drew lets out a sigh.
“Listen, I know you’re a hotshot divorce lawyer, one of the best in all of New York City, and you don’t give a shit about weddings–”
“Make that two shits,” I interrupt. “Make that any shit…”
“But you’re my best friend. God only knows why. And that means you’re going to be the best man at my wedding. And that means, professional and personal views aside, I kind of need you to care about this wedding.”
I meet his eyes without blinking. Drew is not a lawyer.
He’s a cardiologist. Which is actually kind of humorous if you think about it.
My job breaks hearts, and his job saves them.
All of that said, he is used to handling me and doesn’t blink either.
Staring contests have kind of become our thing over the years.
“Negotiate on the salmon and we’ll talk,” I say, and he blinks.
“Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass,” he mutters, sitting back in his seat.
I smirk. I’m just giving him shit. I know how women are when it comes to weddings. What they say goes. And men go along with it because they don’t know any better. And despite having an actual physical revulsion to the idea of wearing a tux that color, I’ll go along with it if I have to.
“You know I have to give you a hard time,” I say.
“That’s all you’ve done is give me shit,” he shoots back. “Ever since I told you I was proposing to Cass.”
“Well, as your best friend, it was my duty.”
“To prevent me from ever being happy?”.
“To prevent you from making the biggest mistake of your life,” I answer.
His head cocks to the side as he narrows his eyes. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be,” I chuckle. “Drew, do you know what the leading cause of divorce is?”
But he doesn’t let me finish my favorite statement.
“Listen, asshole, just because you don’t believe in love doesn’t mean you have to ruin forever for everyone else.”
But this only encourages my smirk to a full grin. “Drew. You’re forty-five. This is your second marriage. What happened to forever the first time around?”
“What happened was Jenny and I wanted different things,” he defends himself. “Cass and I are different. Much more aligned.”
“Except when it comes to colors named after fish,” I chortle.
“Yeah, well, we’ll figure that one out,” he says and I actually laugh. After a second, Drew begrudgingly joins in.
I find all of it morbidly amusing, my friends’ ability to put all their eggs in one basket, have that basket get smashed when marriage doesn’t go as planned, only to put all their leftover eggs in another basket and expect a different outcome.
It’s ludicrous to me, and yet I have several friends all getting remarried for the second time in the next couple of months.
Three, in fact, and that’s not including Justin’s wedding.
Nick is the next one. Then AJ. And finally Drew after that.
How I am going to survive any of them is a mystery.
They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I’ve always found it amazing what doesn’t actually kill you. Pretty sure sitting through weddings would be my kryptonite if that were the case.
“Look, I’ll be there,” I say in an attempt to keep my friend from having an aneurysm.
God knows the bride to be is probably inflicting enough stress on the poor guy. The way women transform into gremlins when they’re planning a wedding should be a huge red indication of why marriage is a bad idea.
But what do I know? I just make a living off of divorces. And a luxuriously comfortable living it is…
“You have to be,” he snorts. “You’re the best man, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” I shoot back.
“And you do know that the best man has a lot of responsibilities. It’s not just a show up in the right suit sitch. You have to plan the bachelor party, figure out the open bar which, by the way, Cassidy only wants champagne and wine, and make sure none of the other groomsmen fuck anything up.”
“Right. So strippers, tequila and personalized flasks for the guys. Got it. Anything else?” I ask with a grin.
“You’re an ass.”
“I’m a lawyer,” I say. “I have a reputation to keep.”
“Speaking of that,” Drew says after downing the rest of his drink (thank God…), “you’re not coming to the wedding alone, are you?”
“Why does it matter?” I ask, still sipping on my coffee. I didn’t refer to his concoction as coffee. Because it’s not.
“Because showing up stag to your best friend’s wedding is kind of tacky,” he says as though the answer was obvious.
I don’t see why it matters. “Well, I don’t have a girlfriend. And I’m obviously not married.”
“So find a date,” he suggests. “Even if it’s just a one-night thing.”
“Right, because showing up with some random girl that is probably going to get drunk on your dime and then try to sleep with me isn’t tacky,” I say.
“You act like the idea is a turnoff,” he says, and I scoff.
“Listen, weddings are work enough for me. Babysitting some gold-digging chick would only make it more stressful. No, in these events, I prefer to work alone,” I say as I finish my coffee and look at my watch.
But Drew doesn’t seem convinced. He bites his lips and his eyebrows stitch together momentarily before a lightbulb visually pops on.
“Hey what about that girl from Justin’s wedding?” he asks.
“I didn’t take a girl to Justin’s wedding,” I say, but then I realize what, or who, he’s referring to.
“Everyone said you hit it off with one of Dani’s bridesmaids. A tiny little thing with naturally light blonde hair and a sweet smile and a salty mouth.”
“Who described Quinn that way?” I snap and Drew smiles.
“Everyone. Bring her. She doesn’t sound like a ditz. She can’t be if she put up with your ass,” he jokes.
But I’m not laughing.
Not just because he suggested it, but because the very thought of Quinn and her smile and her sass and her blonde hair that smelled like honeysuckle has been haunting my dreams since that wedding ended.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I shake my head.
“Suit yourself. But you have a lot of weddings coming up in the next couple of weeks. And seeing as how you’d probably rather walk into moving traffic than go to any of them, mine included, I don’t think it’s the worst idea to have a plus-one for them. Might make it more bearable.”
And as much as I hate to admit it, Drew might be right.
But the only thing I hate even more than admitting that Drew is right, is admitting that if I were to go through with this, if I were to pick a girl to accompany me to all these headaches, Quinn might be the perfect woman to do it with.