Page 126 of The Best Men
And all my blood stops circulating. Wait. Really? I scroll up to make sure that I’m reading theyesesand not themaybesor thenos.
But it’s true. His name is there. He RSVPedyes.
Holy shit.
I spring out of my chair and pace across Bridget’s kitchen, staring at my phone.
“Mark?” my ex-wife asks. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I bark. Although, I’m not sure that’s true. Asher’s in New York? And he didn’t even tell me?
I feel sick.
* * *
On the thirty-minute subway trip uptown, I don’t feel any better. I knew that someday I’d encounter him again. But I thought I’d have more time to put on my poker face.
Or at least a nicer shirt. As I exit the 4 train on Seventy-Seventh, I actually contemplate looking around for a men’s shop and buying something better than the polo shirt I’m wearing.
But I don’t do it. A grown man does not have a fashion crisis before confronting the hookup he isn’t truly over.
It was never about my wardrobe, either. Asher and I are in different places in life. We need different things and we both knew that. The end of our brief fling was very civilized.
Okay, that may be therightword for the last second I saw him, but it’s thewrongword to describe Asher at all. The fizz of excitement and dread that I feel as I trudge down the street is anything but civilized. And the way I felt when he stripped me down and fucked me hard was anything but civilized.
I can fake it, though. I’m going to have to.
My phone chimes with a text, and suddenly my heart is in my mouth. I pull it out of my pocket, hoping to see Asher’s name.
But it’s only Hannah. The preview on the lock screen reads:Mark, before you get here, you should know that Asher. . .
I shove the phone back in my pocket as my stomach bottoms out. I don’t even want to know how that sentence ends.Asher and his new boyfriend are here.That’s probably it.
Whatever happens, I’m going to be cool-headed tonight. I’ll greet him in a friendly way. But not flirty. I’ll shake his hand.Good to see you again, I’ll say, as if it isn’t tearing me apart to be in the same room again.What brings you to New York?
I already know it isn’t me.
The Downton Club is a four-story limestone row house between Madison and Fifth. It has an intricately carved oak door with only a tiny brass sign beside it. You’d never know it was here if you didn’t know it was here.
Rich people. They’re seriously weird.
I trudge up the limestone staircase and open the door, feeling like a peasant. Inside the marble foyer, a host greets me. “May I help you, sir?”
Holy crap. He’s wearing a full livery suit and sports a handlebar mustache. I’ve stumbled onto a doppelgänger from the set ofAn Arranged Marriage. And he could easily be cast as an extra.
“I’m here for the Flip Dubois birthday party. The name is Mark Banks.”
“Of course.” He consults a list on a clipboard. Then he makes a check mark next to my name. “The party is straight through, sir. Enjoy your time with us.”
“I sure will,” I lie.
As I pass through a carved doorway and head towards the party noises in the rear of this place, I realize that Flip’s party is a big affair. As the mansion opens out to reveal a large parlor with French doors leading to a garden, the tacos I ate do the samba in my stomach.
I’m in no shape for a party. I’d rather turn around and go home.
But then I spothim. He’s by the back wall, one hand casually slung on Flip’s shoulder. He’s holding a martini glass in his other hand, and laughing at something Flip just said. His golden face is split into a smile.
And I ache.
