Best Man Page 4

  “As an extra or an actress?” Michael tasted the contents of his glass, a gin and tonic.

  “Neither; a photographer,” Sean answered. There was a thoughtful and uncharacteristic silence after this statement, as he released a puff of smoke from his cigarette.

  Michael studied him with scrutiny. “Well, I guess it’s my turn to share travel stories,” he said. Sean’s face brightened, his usual beaming expression taking hold.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, stubbing the cigarette out. “So what’s up in Ireland? Any feisty redheads desperate for fresh meat?” The change of subject seemed to have invigorated him with a smile forced over his pensiveness.

  Sean was known for buoyant storytelling. No incident at a bar passed without stories about his latest film, the struggle of casting, the escapades of a shoestring budget, the hilarious incidents involving the cast, crew, and a great deal of liquor.

  Michael refused to notice the comment directed towards his own love life, tapping his glass against the bar. “It’s not like you to pass on a chance to share a few wild anecdotes from Mexico in exchange for stories about book conferences.”

  His friend’s beaming expression melted away momentarily. “Maybe there weren’t any,” he said. He avoided Michael’s gaze, staring at something behind the bartender as if seeing something in the distance. “I mean, maybe there weren’t any good ones,” he laughed.

  “Everything okay?” Michael chose his words carefully, sensing something different beneath the service. A slight restlessness in Sean’s demeanor whenever he sank into his thoughts again.

  Sean shrugged. “Post-movie jitters,” he said. “I dunno. Something was different this time. I mean, my mind was on my work one moment, the next, it was gone, man. Completely gone.” He drained the contents of his glass and motioned for another one.

  “So what about Ireland?” he said. “You pick up anybody–”

  “No,” answered Michael, with a short laugh. “No, I did not.” His own drink was empty, but he felt no desire to refill it. He drank at a slow pace on these evenings, with less of a tolerance for alcohol than Sean, who still rocked away a night with a carefree energy of someone ten years his junior.

  The girl waiting for Sean tonight was something beyond his friend’s powers of storytelling; Michael pictured a sultry beauty from south of the border, posed on the beach in one of the torn dresses from the typical costume wardrobe in one of Sean’s film.

  “But man, let me tell you about the bars in Mexico,” said Sean, after draining the top sip from his latest pint. “Me and the cast went to one little place that was like nothing else I’ve ever been to, even that time we shot in Honduras. These two guys with machine guns were sitting in the back ...” As Sean became more animated, he motioned more frequently for drinks. Michael listened to his stories, draining first one pint, then another. After two stories, it was the two of them trading past recollections: the time Sean dared Michael to pose as a romance writer at a library event, the pilgrimage the two of them made to Atlantic City when Sean believed he discovered his long-lost father dealing cards at a gaming table.

  A cloud of smoke always trailed over Sean’s head, their voices remaining mellow and animated even as the late-night crowd grew raucous with weekend booze and hookups. The tension in Michael’s shoulders from the lecture circuit and hours of flight began to melt away beneath an anecdote involving Sean and his production assistant skinny dipping in a private lagoon. He felt years younger in the presence of Sean, borrowing energy from the filmmaker’s animated gestures, the wide, beaming face visible when the wafting cigarette smoke parted.

  The illusion faded in his own apartment later that night. His reflection gazed back from the mirror in his bathroom, beneath the harsh glare of florescent bulbs as he raised his face from the faucet streaming cold water.

  His features were drawn and haggard after a long night in the bar’s atmosphere. A homely face, even, defined by a long jaw and angular cheekbones. Dark eyes rimmed with circles, the black hair of his Scottish ancestors cropped in its somewhat shaggy waves. His shoulders seems poorly hinged beneath his casual button-up, as if his lank frame was loosely assembled beneath his clothes.

  Bathed in unforgiving light, every trace of crow’s feet was visible, every faint line in his hollow cheeks and high forehead. Running a hand behind his neck, he massaged the knots beneath his skin.

  By tomorrow, he would look like hell when he crawled out of bed and pushed onwards with his manuscript. Whereas someone like Sean, with his benefit of six or seven years more years of youth, would probably rise at ten o’clock with only a mild headache drowned out by another cigarette.

  *****

  “So what would you say if I told you I think I met the love of my life?”

  The question caught Michael off-guard as he stared at Sean.

  They were in Sean’s apartment the next afternoon, a sparse interior dominated by framed posters from his collection of films, each spotlighted by a wall lamp installed above it as if were a subtle museum of filmography. Michael, leaning against the sofa, had paused in the act of studying a script Sean was compiling for his next project, having promised to issue an opinion on it after catching up with post-travel business. Across from him, his friend dangled a bottle of beer between his fingers, feigning casual posture despite his fidgeting.

  A slight smile crept across Michael’s face. “Is this a joke?” he asked.

  Sean took a gulp from the bottle and set it aside. “Nope,” he answered. “No, this time it’s...it’s the real thing.” A grin broke across the serious face.

  “Mexico,” he said. “Mick this is–this was the film of a lifetime. Wait ‘til you see it. I mean, the footage is rough, and it struggled to find itself, but I think by the end of post-production, this thing’ll be alive, like, a ...a...”

  “What about the love of your life?” interrupted Michael, redirecting Sean’s enthusiasm.

  “She’s a photographer,” said Sean. “Remember, I told you about her last night.” He opened the door to a stainless steel fridge and held up a second beer from inside for Michael, who shook his head.

  “Anyway, we clicked in Mexico City, went out for drinks a couple of times. We talked, we hung out, it was totally different than it was with the others.” By ‘others’, he referred to the collection of girls in his past.

  “I can imagine,” Michael answered, without further need of details to know what the difference might be.

  “That’s why I asked her to marry me,” Sean continued. “I thought, we got a great thing here, it’s not something I should lose. Time to make something official–so I proposed last night at that little place near Sears Tower.” He reached for his beer and took another gulp, as if steeling himself for the rest.

  “She said yes?” said Michael, picturing a whirlwind courtship in Mexico ending with a proposal over Chicago deep dish.

  “It’s official,” said Sean. “You’re gonna love her, this is gonna be great, man. And I want you–” his hand landed heavily on Michael’s shoulder, “–to say yes to being my best man.”

  “The best man.” Michael’s voice held a note of surprise. He was touched, given the younger friends on the fringe of Sean’s crowd who were capable of throwing a better bachelor’s party or tapping connections for bars for the reception and entertainment for the guests. Sean’s hand squeezed his shoulder in comradely affection.

  “You’ve been there for me best and worst,” he said. “I gotta have you there for this so I can make it through.” He released Michael’s shoulder as the apartment buzzer rang.

  “There she is,” he said. “She said she would stop by on her way to an appointment.” He stood up, straightening his shirt and sliding the bottle of beer out of sight behind a silver breadbox. He wiped his palms on his dark denim jeans, giving Michael a large grin as he turned the knob. The door opened, a young woman entered and engaged in a brief embrace with Sean, her petite frame outlined by a fitted leather coat, a scarf in stained
glass colors wound around her neck beneath a fountain of dark hair. Michael’s heart beat more quickly at the sight.

  When she turned and caught a glimpse of him, she froze momentarily. His lips parted, but nothing emerged, turning his expression into an awkward smile.

  “Mick, this is Katherine Ivey, my fiancé.” Sean grinned proudly.

  Kate was staring at Michael, her face perfectly calm although an element of surprise was evident in her eyes when they met his own.

  “How do you do?” Michael hesitated, then extended his hand. She accepted it, her eyes now avoiding his with an awkwardness that mirrored his own. A slight flush crept from beneath his collar towards his face.

  “Mick’s real name is Michael,” said Sean. “Herriman–he’s a–”

  “Novelist,” finished Kate. “Yes, I’ve heard of Michael Herriman.” She slipped her hands into her coat pockets. Michael glanced away, feeling a prickling sensation at the back of his neck.

  Sean seemed not to notice anything strange between them; Michael knew he should say something, but was uncertain what. Perhaps comment about the weather in San Francisco, perhaps tell Kate how nice it was to see her again. For some reason, the words didn’t form themselves in his thoughts.

  “Michael’s coming tonight, so you’ll get to know him at the party,” said Sean.

  Party? Michael’s head swiveled in Sean’s direction. “Party?” he said. “I don’t recall–”

  “The engagement party,” explained Sean. “It’s kind of a last-minute thing–sort of like the engagement.” He flashed a conspiratorial smile in Kate’s direction, who blushed in response.

  “Some of the cast and crew from the film are in town, so it seems like as good a time as any,” said Sean. “I mean, not that many of them will be at the wedding, so I thought we’d have the big reception now. You know–drinks, a band, the works.” He slipped an arm around Kate’s shoulders and drew her close for a moment, then slipped towards the fridge behind her. “Right now calls for a couple more beers, I think.”

  “We should tell Mick the story,” he called over his shoulder, “about how all this came together...” Michael heard the sound of the fridge door opening, Sean momentarily disappearing from his line of vision as he bent low. “He knows we were dating in Mexico, but after that, the rest is just us.”

  Kate seemed to find her voice at this moment. “I came to town for a friend’s art show,” she said. “I met Sean there. We had emailed each other several times before–we had dinner after the show.”

  “I invited her here, actually.” Seth reappeared with three frosted glass bottles in hand. “I emailed her, asking her to come to the show. With the idea of seeing her again, of course.” He handed out the bottles, popping his own open and raising it for a toast.

  “What’s a good toast for a moment like this?” he said. “There was one in a movie–one of Ricky’s short films–something about meeting love in strange places. Do you remember it, Mick?”

  “No,” answered Michael. “Only a line about first love... being a second sight between two people.” The beer in his hand was frigid against his hot palm, the condensation damp against his skin.

  Sean squeezed his shoulder, giving it a playful shake. “See? What would I do without you?” he said, adding, as he turned towards Kate, “I told you he was awesome, right?”

  “Yes,” she answered. Her gaze was focused on the mouth of her bottle, where her finger traced the rim’s lip before she glanced at her fiancé.

  Raising his bottle, Sean clinked it against Michael’s, then Kate’s, before taking a long draught.

  “To the best man,” he said.

  Chapter Four

  The band providing entertainment at the engagement party was a blues trio favoring sentimental love songs, mellowing the effects of liquor from the open bar. Sean’s friends from his film career were clustered around the future bride and groom or forming blocks of small reunions on their own throughout the room. Michael drifted aimlessly through them, from Sean’s cousins discussing deep-sea diving to a conversation on wedding traditions conducted by a handful of Sean’s college friends. “Forget it, pal, I think toasts are the best man’s job,” one of them laughed.

  The best man conjured Nat King Cole’s rendition in Michael’s brain, although the song seemed incongruous to the title bestowed upon him. He thought of a friend’s adaptation of the lyrics, a bitter tongue-in-cheek version plunked out on a piano at a dinner party once. The best man who never knocked on her door, the best man, the one she’s not waitin’ for. I was the best man for missing, who never makes the scene ... He took a sip from the glass in his hand, listening to the ice cubes clink against the sides.

  “Hey, Mick, do you think this tie is me?” Sean flicked a paisley tie from beneath his blazer as Michael joined them. “Dane says it’s too loud for an evening event.” Beside him, the friend in question flashed a grin framed by a pinkish-red beard.

  “It’s nice,” Michael answered. He ignored the polite guffaw from Dane’s throat as Sean re-tucked his tie. “Considering you only own two others.” When he raised his eyes from his drink, his gaze fell on Kate. She stood across from him in a white dress, a flower tucked in the knot of hair pinned low on her neck.

  It amazed him that she was there–the same polite smile as before, her head tilted lightly to the side as she listened to Sean’s story. Her glance, when it met Michael’s, slid away again into another part of the room after a faint smile.

  “I could’ve worn the one with the little E.T.’s,” Sean reminded his friend. “Would that be appropriate for the occasion?” His eye swiveled towards Kate, his hand reaching to squeeze her fingers. “Let’s ask the lady in question if it’s the wrong choice.”

  “My opinion is worthless,” she answered. “I know so few people who wear ties– almost none of my clients dress professionally.” As their hands parted, Michael noticed there was no ring on her finger–apparently, Sean had not thought of one before his impromptu proposal.

  “Michael here has a whole section of his closet devoted to ties,” said Sean. “So he can wear a different one to every book event if he wants. Which is strange for a guy who spends his days holed up with a keyboard–”

  “Oh, Sean, you will never understand the plight of writers,” said Dane, shaking his head. Dane was a film critic, hardly a writer, although he referred to himself as an ‘industry outsider’ within the realm of Sean’s friends. “Will you ever learn that not everyone loves playing the scene as much as you?”

  “Give me a break, I’ve only had two drinks this evening,” said Sean. “After three, maybe I will.” This punch line received a round of laughter from his friends as he inspected the contents of his glass.

  “Refill time,” announced Sean. “I need one–Kate, you need a new glass of wine, Mick–”

  “I’m good,” answered Michael. He moved aside to make space for Sean to squeeze past. Already Dane was seeking new company, no doubt aware from past experience that Michael was not a kindred spirit on the subject of film reviews. Across from him, Kate pressed her lips inward.

  He felt the need to move, to escape, before this awkwardness consumed them. This was nothing like the moment in the airport, the two of them stranded in a crowd of strangers. In re-meeting, they were reduced to pitiful small talk as acquaintances whose past connection was made trivial by recent events.

  Michael cleared his throat. “I–I should apologize,” he said. “For not saying something earlier at Sean’s apartment. I was tongue-tied for a moment, as they say.”

  She met his glance. “I was taken by surprise,” she said. “It seemed awkward, no?” With a faint laugh that sounded forced to the surface.

  “Sean is–” he began, before Kate interrupted.

  “It seems like too much of coincidence, doesn’t it?” she said. “My meeting you in the airport, on my way to meet Sean.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered,” he said. “I mean–if we had somehow known–”
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br />   “When Sean asked me to come to Chicago, I knew it was ... I knew it was because of our relationship in Mexico. Although I didn’t expect this, quite–” Her eyes flickered in the direction of the guests milling around them.

  “I didn’t mention I was from here,” said Michael. “I didn’t mention anything that was ... that was personal,” he continued, his fingers rubbing the glass between them. “Perhaps if I had...” he trailed off, momentarily, uncertain what to say. “Perhaps we would have realized this connection sooner, right?”

  It seemed like a neutral statement for the occasion. The possibilities lingering in his mind since San Francisco dissipated with this statement, like a fog lifting from city.

  “Perhaps it’s best not to mention it at all,” said Kate. There was something more intense in her eyes as she met his own. “It might be best for everyone to just pretend it didn’t happen. Less awkward than explaining why we didn’t say anything. Even if it was harmless.”

  “It was,” Michael echoed, surprised by the note of reassurance in his voice so incongruous with the thoughts he banished moments ago. “If we had said something at first, it would have seemed funny even.” He forced his tone to sound lighthearted, as if they were laughing over something. The look on Kate’s face was closer to a blush than a flush of good humor.

  “Maybe, like you said, it would be for the best to pretend,” he said, gently. “We’ll just forget about the whole thing.” His fingers reached to touch her arm, hesitating before he left them fall at his side again.

  Kate’s lips moved to reply, then morphed into a smile as Sean approached, a glass in each hand. She accepted the wine glass and took a long sip from it as Sean clinked his whiskey glass against Mick’s.

  “Isn’t this fantastic?” he said. “This band is rockin’–they did the soundtrack for Wyatt’s movie, which sucked with critics, but what do they know, right?” He winked at Kate.

  Michael coughed politely. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, offering a flat smile as he edged towards escape at the approach of Sean’s script continuity officer, a brash woman whom Sean claimed had a secret crush on him during his first film. He caught a glimpse of two doughy hands seizing Kate’s shoulders, red nails like barbs against the sleeves of the white dress.