that way, yeah.
“I’m the one who walked away.”
“Yeah, I tried that too. I was hoping Nate would come for me, no matter what I said.” She squints at me as if trying to see straight through to my soul.
“Our situation is not like yours and Nate’s. It’s been two days since the park, and everything is back to the way it should be. No more awkward standoffs at the coffee pot. Our jogs have been good, and dry.” Still no smile from Viv. “We work together better than ever. We cohosted a video conference call and practically finished each other’s sentences. Things are back to normal.”
Except that I really miss him flirting with me, touching me casually, kissing me in the hallway. And the day we stopped in the middle of a workday to have sex wasn’t bad, either. But what we had wasn’t everlasting, and if I believed it was, I was lying to myself.
I take a gulp of my wine instead of a sip this time.
“Can you think of a better ending?” I ask, miserable.
“Yes. I can think of a lot of better endings.”
I was afraid she’d say that.
“But.” She takes in a deep breath and blows it out. “I support your choices. I always will. If this is what you want, then who am I to argue?”
From there she guides the conversation to wedding talk, and I, having become a master of compartmentalizing, lose myself in talking details and minutiae. I lean over her cell phone when she shows me photos of how her custom-made bridal gown will look when it’s finished. I give her my opinion about the reception location and whether or not she and Nate should write their own vows. (Yes, obviously.)
“That leaves one question,” she says an hour later as we each finish our second glass of wine.
“Which is?”
“Will you be my maid of honor?”
Gratitude thrashes inside me like a shark in the shallows. “Really?”
She nods, her smile wide and happy. Then, despite the promise I made to myself not to cry again this week, I burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Benji
Down the road from Archer’s fancy-pants condo is a community rec center complete with outdoor tennis courts, basketball courts, and a swimming pool with a diving board. His is a wealthy neighborhood, like mine, like Nate’s. We opted to live around people who have healthy bank accounts not because we like rich people better, but because it makes us feel more normal.
Since the Owens built their empire while rearing Archer in his early years, Arch has admitted he doesn’t remember doing without. My parents died when I was starting my fifth-grade year, and even though they didn’t have Owen money, I didn’t do without, either. Mom and Dad were professionals who put plenty of food on the table and lots of presents under the Christmas tree. Alternatively, Nate rode the struggle bus for most of his youth.
Before I lived in opulence, I imagined life as problem-free for the mega-rich. What a load of shit. Even if I only count the last week, my problem-free theory has been blown to smithereens.
I roped Archer into playing one-on-one today to mask my real reason for coming here. I need advice.
I lean on my brothers in a lot of areas. Work, predominately, but I talked to Archer and Nate about girls when I was a teenager. Especially when I was fumbling through first dates, first kisses, first time—condom use is a sensitive topic to bring to a parent. But I can’t talk to Nate about my Cris issue. My Cris nonissue. He is a happy son of a bitch and doesn’t need me weighing him down with my woman problems. And yeah, okay, I’m not totally philanthropical. I don’t know if I can deal with his “up” right now. He asked me to be in his wedding. Archer and I are both best men. He said he’d fistfight either of us if we made him pick. He told us to flip a coin for who stands next to him—he refuses to choose.
Archer and I are smart, so we didn’t fight him. Nate is a tank. Arch and I can hold our own, but neither of us are anxious to cross our Chicago-streets-raised brother. Nate’s a guy you want on your side.
And yes, I did get fucking emotional when he asked me to be his best man. Luckily, we were at Club Nine. I downed a few tequila shots and danced it off. Fog machines are aces at masking