Page 13 of The Best Men
“Is it that obvious?” I ask the woman who’s become a good friend over the last few years. She and her wife live in our building over on Sixteenth Street, and since our kids are friends, we became buds. A few months ago, we signed the girls up for the Firecrackers together.
“Yes, Mark. I can still recall your shudder when I suggested you join our co-ed frisbee league.”
I shudder involuntarily. Again.
She laughs. She often does at my expense, which is fine by me. I kinda feel like I can relax with her and her wife—they know how shitty the last year has been for me, and it’s nice to let down my guard a little with someone. All day at work, I have to keep my game face on. I don’t bring my personal life into the office—not at the water cooler of Wall Street.
“Fine, fine. I’m man enough to admit I’m a better spectator than participant.” I raise a finger in my own defense. “But I’m excellent at the treadmill, the StairMaster, and running solo in the park.”
“And I’m woman enough to know I will never invite you onto my frisbee team, since I want to win,” Valencia says.
A few minutes later, the game ends on a Firecrackers win, and Rosie runs over to me, a tiny brunette ball of energy. She lands in front of me, dirt kicking up as her pink cleats hit the edge of the softball field. “Did you see my double, Daddy?”
“Did you hear my shout, Rosie?”
With a serious stare, she says, “Everyone heard it, but I like to make sure.”
“That’s my girl. Checking and double checking. Yes I saw it, and all I have to say is watch out, New York Comets. You’re going to be the new slugger for the city’s best Major League Baseball team,” I say.
She high fives me. “Yes! But I’d actually rather play on a girls’ team than a boys’ baseball team,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Or maybe I’ll play hockey someday too. We’re going to see the Bombshells next fall. Mommy is taking me.”
“Ooh, I love them,” Valencia chimes in.
“You and your wife have a crush on the goalie,” I say to her as the kiddos return to the field to pick up their bats and gloves.
“We have good taste in our crushes.” Valencia gathers her purse as I snag Rosie’s backpack from the bleachers behind me. “Gimme. I’ll take that for you.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can bring it along with me.”
She shakes her head, emphatic as she grabs Rosie’s bag. “You’re not taking aPeppa Pigbackpack into Angel Sanjay’s showroom. I will not allow it.”
I let her have it. “Thanks again for taking Rosie to dinner with you so I can go to a . . .best man fitting,” I say, my tone a little heavy.
“On a scale of one to tax audit, that sounds like you’re looking forward to it?” Valencia asks with the lift of a well-groomed eyebrow.
“If you think trying on clothes is fun,” I say, groaning in over-the-top misery. “I don't. Especially because . . .”
Because of Asher St. James. It’s impossible to explain in a rational way how difficult it is for me to keep my cool around him.
Tomorrow begins five days with him, including the travel day. The dread is strong in me now.
She shoots me a concerned look. “Are you okay, Mark? You look like you swallowed a grapefruit. Do you hate trying on clothes that much?”
The tension in my chest cranks tighter. “The other best man and I are polar opposites. But even that’s generous. It’s more like we’re poles of poles of polar opposites. I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the next week.”
Or the pent-up lust that rears its head when I’m around the former soccer star. But I keep that tidbit all to myself.
She hums, like she’s deep in thought. “Is he hot?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately. “But also smug.”
She laughs. “Then when you return from Miami, maybe you’ll need to do something fun. A little self-care in the form of dating again. You should finally let me set you up with my friend Gwen from my Zumba class. And if you’re not into her, then the creative director at my agency is smoking hot, too. Josh has got the whole cute nerd vibe working,” she says, waving a hand in front of my face, gesturing to my glasses. “It’s a smorgasbord out there for you, Mark.”
“Possibly,” I mutter. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
But will I ever be? This past year, I’ve been concentrating on Rosie. She took the divorce hard. I’ve just wanted to be there for her, not running around dating strangers. I don’t have the time. Bridget and I had agreed to parent fifty-fifty. But she has a job with her new wine merchant beau that requires travel.
So guess who does at least two thirds of the parenting? This guy.
