Page 12 of The Best Men
When I’d pressed him for details, the breakup turned even worse. He’d met a lawyer, who worked as in-house counsel, and took every weekend off in East Hampton.
“That’s what you want? A lawyer?”
“What I want is someone who’s not a hot mess,” he’d said bitterly.
That was the low point. Even though I knew he was gone for good, I needed a change. So, the very next week I hired Lucy. I couldn’t afford to be known as a hot mess. It had already ruined my chances with Garrett. I wouldn’t let it ruin my business.
Since then, my bookings are up. Screwups are down. But I’m still lonely. Garrett’s Instagram is full of pics of him paddle boarding in the Hamptons with his lawyer.
I know I shouldn’t look. That’s just dumb.
“Asher!”
My head snaps up, and Lucy is standing next to me. “Google says it’s a forty-three-minute trip via the F-train. Or forty-eight minutes if you take the ferry. I suppose you could chance it in a cab.”
“No cabs,” I bark. “Why am I always running late? Wait. Don’t answer that!”
I shove my keys and my wallet into my pockets. But where is my phone? “When will I see you? We still have to go over the Commando upload. That’s happening next week.”
“Go already.” She gestures toward the door. “Call me from Miami. I’ll upload the Commandos while we’re on the line together. Until then, go get sunburned and enjoy the wedding. Take some Instagram photos. Find a pool boy to hook up with.”
“While that sounds fun, this isn’t really a vacation.”
“You’ll find a way to make it fun,” she insists. “Oh! And don’t forget thatAn Arranged Marriagepremiers on Webflix tomorrow night. It’s on the calendar that you never check. So don’t come crying to me if you forget to tune in.”
“There’s got to be a TV in that mansion that can stream from my laptop,” I say, ransacking my desk for my phone.
“Asher, your phone is in your shirt pocket,” Lucy says. “I can see it from here.”
“Oh, fuck. Thank you. Bye!” I give her a wave as I trot past her desk.
“Call me about the Commandos!” is the last thing she says before I run to the stairwell. Even if the trains are on time, it’ll take at least fifty minutes to make it to Manhattan and to the designer’s showroom on West Thirteenth.
I’ve got forty.
Shit.
5
CAPTAIN FILTHY MIND
MARK
Some parents are chill when their kids play sports. I am not one of those people. Especially when my little cupcake hits a double in T-ball.
“Go! Go! Go!” I shout as Rosie runs her butt off to second, while pigtailed Alba rounds third base, determination on her little face as she races home. When she reaches it, my daughter’s best friend jumps up on the rubber and her teammates join her, shouting with glee. Rosie cheers from second base, a bundle of energy.
“Yes! Go Firecrackers!” I thrust both arms in the air, shouting the loudest.
“A little excited, Mark?” The question comes from Alba’s mom, Valencia, standing next to me at the edge of the field in Chelsea Park.
“I can’t ever sit during softball games,” I say.
Her long, brown hair swishes against her olive skin. Valencia pats my arm affectionately. “And I love that about you. Though, you were just a touch louder last week when Rosie hit a homer.”
She has me there. I shrug sheepishly. “What can I say? I’ve got a fanboy in me and I’m not afraid to show it. I’m going to let you in on a little secret, V,” I tell her. “I had zero game as a kid. Team sports were not my friend.”
Valencia feigns shock, her big brown eyes going wide. “You? Nooo. You don’t say.”
