Chapter 2

2

You know those movies where an Alec Baldwin or Willem Dafoe type shows up for five minutes at a pivotal moment? Blink and you’ll miss him, but that actor can make or break the whole damn film.

I’m not saying a best man can make a best picture contender out of something no one should have joined together, but when it comes to the speech, if you’re the best man, you’d better bring it like Willem fucking Dafoe. It’s your moment to shine. Or rather, it’s your moment to make the groom shine.

In a brewery in the heart of hipster Brooklyn on an evening in June, I raise a glass.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for the only five minutes of the wedding that the bride didn’t plan.”

The bride holds up one finger. “But I tried to. I swear, I tried so damn hard to write the speech for Gavin.”

The groom jumps in, grumbling playfully. “She’d slip me Post-its that I thought were dirty notes but were just suggestions for the toast.”

I shoot a glance at the man of the hour. “I suppose now would be a bad time to tell you she did, in fact, write this? And it consists of all the yard work you’re expected to do?”

“A honey-do list,” someone shouts.

“Secret to a happy marriage,” another chimes in.

Guests chuckle, and the blonde woman in the white dress shoots me a huge grin. That smile is like a key turning in the ignition. When the bride is happy, all systems are go.

I turn to the guests. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, but I do have one simple request before I begin.” I clear my throat, adopting a most serious tone. “If you brought your mobile phone, I highly encourage you to . . . leave it on. You might come across a great joke or a cat meme that we’re all dying for. Send them on to me straight away, along with any Venmo or Square or PayPal payments. I also accept cash and credit cards.”

More laughter echoes from the crowd, and that bolsters me.

I feign surprise. “Wait. That’s tradition here too, right? Because back where I grew up, across the pond, it’s customary to tip the best man if you enjoy his speech. And if you don’t enjoy it, it’s customary to tip twice as much.”

Gavin makes a show of reaching into his pocket for some bills. “How many to make you stop?”

He tosses some green on the table, and I wiggle my fingers. “More. A little more. Still more.”

Gavin waves a hand, laughing. “I can go all night.”

“Savannah, I’ll have you know, this is the only time he’s thrown bills at anyone recently. Scout’s honor.” I make a gesture like a cross between a Vulcan salute and two fingers twined, proving that I was never a Boy Scout.

Savannah laughs and bumps him with her shoulder. “I know you didn’t take him to a club, because I had a microchip implanted in my husband.”

Gavin pats the back of his neck then stage-whispers, “I put one in her too. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

Damn, they’re good. They’re fun, they love to rib each other, and they don’t take themselves too seriously. If I didn’t know differently, I’d swear we’d been best mates for ages.

About a month ago, Savannah and Gavin called me for an emergency best-man-for-hire consult. They’d already booked me as an extra groomsman for the wedding so Savannah could have an even number in the bridal party. But before we could place our order for beers at the bar, she blurted, “I went to a wedding the other week where Gavin’s friend Eddie was the best man, and he told a story that involved a toilet plunger named Fred and a beer bong the size of a baseball bat. All I could think about was Eddie—what was he thinking, telling that horrifying story about the time his zipper was stuck? Love the guy, just love him, but he has zero filters and he knows it. Aunt Ellen, who’s quite old-fashioned, would faint from shock, I know it. And she would never miss my wedding, especially since I’m the only daughter on my mom’s side. Eddie’s cool with the change, probably because he’s not the speech-writing kind anyway, so can we please bump you up to the best man role?”

Could I help? Of course I could. The guidebook for the modern gentleman would advise strictly against mentioning toilet plungers in a speech, and even more so any misadventure that endangers one’s ability to procreate. It dictates, too, that guys like me, trying to rise up through the ranks of New York’s self-made men, not turn down the opportunity for work. Story of the last few years of my life.

“As Gavin’s best man, I had many important responsibilities, first and foremost being the bachelor party. We had a long list of activities we were considering. Cupcake tasting, pottery making, and flower arranging . . . were most decidedly not on the list. In the end, we settled for what all the fellas in the city like to do best: we learned how to crochet.”

I make eye contact with sweet Aunt Ellen, who beams at me from behind her coke-bottle glasses. She lifts up a canvas bag by her side. A crochet hook pokes out the top. Of course, I knew she loved to crochet.

“And I know you’re all dying to know who was tops at a slip stitch.”

Gavin lowers his face, chuckling under his breath.

Eddie chimes in. “Don’t try to deny it, Gav. You were sick with the hook.”

“And you were the master of the granny stitch,” Gavin shouts.

But before Eddie takes over, I slide back into pole position. “But Gavin’s prowess with crochet hooks aside, what stood out to me most from last night’s bachelor party was not the lovely oven mitt he crafted for Aunt Ellen.” I gasp in an over-the-top fashion. “Oh, dear. Was that supposed to be a secret?” I stage-whisper.

Ellen’s smile spreads across her weathered face. “I can’t wait to use it. Next time, we’ll work on one together.”

“Count on it. In any case, Ellen, I hope you enjoy it as much as I know Gavin and Savannah are enjoying this day. Because the truth is, even when we were at a pub in Williamsburg last night, enjoying a beer and a baseball game, Gav regaled us once more with tales of what a lucky man he is to have convinced this wonderful woman to be his bride.”

This is the money shot—Savannah sighs happily, gazing at the groom, her eyes full of love. The rest of the crowd gives a collective aww too. This is why they’re here: to witness one very happy couple.

“In fact, the night he met her, he rang me up, and I believe his words were ‘I have to tell you something. I’ve met the woman I’m going to marry.’”

The bride clasps her hand to her heart as Gavin smiles goofily at the woman who took his name mere hours ago.

“I couldn’t be more delighted to send Gavin off into the land of happily married men. May your love last many lifetimes.”

I raise my glass once more then bring it to my lips, but that’s for show. I can’t drink on the job. A good understudy doesn’t get pissed when he’s thrust on stage in lieu of the principal actor.

Eddie lifts his glass and whispers, “Dude, you rocked that speech hard. Rocked it like you were banging a babe behind a pinball machine. Like the buzzers were going off, and the flippers were flapping.”

“That’s the effect I was going for,” I deadpan as I sit next to Eddie while we chat.

“Achievement unlocked.”

“Indeed.”

Eddie downs the rest of his beverage. “I am so fucking glad they hired you. I was giving thanks last night. All I could think was how, if it were me up there, the whole joint would know about the time I ordered a policewoman stripper for Gavin’s b-day. That was some night.”

His eyes go hazy with the memory, or maybe it’s the memory that’s hazy, because Eddie suddenly slaps the table in a burst of realization.

“Hang on!” he shouts then drops his voice. “Fuck. That was my b-day I ordered a policewoman stripper for.”

“It can be hard to keep track of officers of the law in thongs,” I remark.

“Wait, wait—I got it! It’s coming back to me. I know what happened.” Laughing, he taps his skull. “I think my brain was trying to forget the whole thing. Because that night with the lady-cop stripper? That was the night my zipper got stuck.” He grabs his crotch, his face contorting as if reliving the pain. “Had to go to the ER.” He shakes his head, sighing. “Then again, it’s not all bad. I took the ER nurse home. She likes scars.”

Yep, everyone is happy I was bumped up to this post, and my bank account will be quite content too.

With the toast done, the bride and groom take a whirl on the dance floor, and I grab the seat next to my date.

Nora has turned out to be the best plus-one an undercover groomsman could ask for. She’s upbeat, fun, and always game for adventure. Flicking her wild brown curls off her shoulders as John Legend’s “All of Me” hits its last note, she tips her chin to the crowd. “So many single women here are eating you up with their eyes. It’s good that I’m here.”

“Yes, please protect me from them. If too many talk to me, they might find holes in the facade.” That’s why Gavin suggested I bring a date. Not that I’d break character, but it gave me a buffer in case any prying relatives asked too many questions.

“I’ll never let them. That’s my job as Matilda tonight,” Nora says, using the fake name she picked for tonight, since Nora loves fake names as much as she loves wigs.

“Then let’s dance. I’m only sorry they’re not playing the alt-rock laced with the banjo. That’s what your Matilda persona loves, right? Dancing to your indie tunes?”

“Dancing or hula hooping, and boy, do I love it when you let me stay in character all night long.”

“As if I’d do anything but support your dreams.”

“And I’d never break character in front of an audience,” she says.

Laughing, I offer her a hand. “Just shut up and dance with me, Matilda .”

On the dance floor, she sets her hands on my shoulders, her pink clutch resting against me. Her warm hazel eyes sparkle as she surveys the scene. “This could be you someday.”

A cough bursts from my throat. “Stranger things have happened, but it’s a safe bet it won’t.”

She pouts. “Come now. You look so good in a tux. It’d be a shame if you were never the one up there.”

“And yet it’s hardly a dream of mine.”

“Sounds like that’s more of a nightmare to you?”

More like a thing I don’t care to discuss with her, or hardly anyone. “We’re talking full-on night sweats and terrors.”

Laughing, she says, “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Like when the groom called you when he met Savannah. I’m dying to know how that went.”

Ah, this is easier territory, since it doesn’t sting. How could it? It’s a fable. “I was first on his list. He had to share the news with his old pal from uni.”

“Naturally. And I’m sure you had so very many things to catch up on. Stories from the quad, all-nighters in the dorm.”

That’s the story we cooked up when both Savannah’s and Gavin’s parents inevitably asked about the best man switcheroo. The groom and I met in college and kept in touch even after I returned to England. And that it was a terribly tough choice between Eddie and me, but Eddie understood and was chill with it.

In this business, that’s the great thing about not being from here. It’s easy to explain a friendship no one’s heard of with a gent from another country. Oh, that’s my buddy from London. We met in school and then he returned to England, and so on.

The reality is, Gavin found me the way my other clients do: word of mouth and my website.

I twirl Nora in a circle then tug her close. “That’s the truth, and I’m sticking to it. And the truth has been very good to both of us this summer.”

“So good. It’s been the best?—”

She flinches as something buzzes against my back. Yanking open her clutch, she snags her phone, and her eyes widen when she sees who’s calling. “I need to take this now .”

She scurries out of the reception like she’s just learned she won an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji.

As soon as she’s gone, a redheaded bridesmaid with pouty lips and swipe right flashing in her eyes taps my shoulder.

“My turn, handsome,” the auburn-haired woman purrs.

“Let’s have a whirl, then.”

“Mmm. I love whirls.”

I glance around the dance floor, steering the conversation toward the event. “Having a lovely time?”

“I am, but it’s better now. And I bet we could find a way to make it even more fun.”

“Hmm. That would be tough when it’s already beyond a barrel of monkeys.”

“I bet I could find a way. I know how to make nights real fun.”

I do my best to sidestep the pass. “I’m best during the day, personally.”

She tries a new line of attack, gesturing to my bow tie. “You sure know how to wear a tux.”

“Thank you. I’m proud of my ability to dress myself too.”

“How are your undressing skills though?”

“Still working on shoe untying, but I’m pretty solid on the rest of it.”

“Did you enjoy the cake? I thought it tasted like sin.”

“Or maybe like heaven,” I try, deflecting yet again as she makes another attempt.

“But the frosting was yummier,” she says. “I’d like to take some home with me.”

“They probably have doggie bags.”

At the end of the song, she nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Let me be straight with you, Jay Bond. I’d really like your digits.”

“Double-oh-seven.” Well, she started it.

“How about the real ones, Mr. Tall, Dark, and British?”

“Thank you for your interest, but I’m involved.”

“Too bad. I wouldn’t mind fucking you and your accent.”

“Well, we are a package deal,” I deadpan.

As guests straggle out an hour later, Nora tells me she’ll wait for me on the sidewalk, and she can’t wait to share her news. I make the final rounds, saying good night to the deejay and the bartender; the mother of the bride; the mother of the groom; and Eddie, who wiggles his eyebrows and points to the doorway, thanking me profusely in a series of dude, dude, dude s. As it happens, I’m conversant in Dude. He’s getting lucky tonight.

“No problem, mate. Happy to help.”

“You are the best man. You are the motherfucking best man.”

And what can I say to that but dude .

“Also, she likes scars, so I am in luck,” he whispers as he leaves, making his way to a redhead—the same bridesmaid who danced with me. I’m glad she found someone to bang. Good on her.

“Hey, sugar,” he says.

“Hey, babe. Let’s get down to business, because I’m in the mood for screwing you and your scar.”

Well, looks like someone has a signature pickup line.

I head into the hallway of the brewery, Gavin close behind me.

“You killed it out there. I’m almost glad Eddie has no filter.” He pokes his head out the door, checking the scene in the reception room. “Coast is clear.” He hands me an envelope with the rest of the rush fee in it.

“Thank you. I appreciate the prompt payment.” I tuck the envelope in my inside jacket pocket. Appreciation doesn’t quite cover how grateful I am for this after-hours best-man gig. It won’t last forever; it can’t last forever. But it’s been a godsend now that I need the extra dough.

My undercover groomsman business started on a lark five years ago when I spotted a freelance ad for a best man speechwriter. I nabbed the gig and earned a pretty penny for that first speech. Speechwriting is still a large chunk of what I do, but I’ve also expanded my services to include organizing stag parties (nothing tawdry—I focus on fishing and hiking trips or nights out at the pub) and now the fill-in business when it’s called for. That’s rarer, but it pays the best, so I’m taking it while I can get it, reaping the rewards of wedding season and all the reasons men call on rent-a-groomsman: they have few friends, they’re from another country, the bride doesn’t like the groom’s true best mate, the groom doesn’t want to pick between his good buds, his good bud is horrible at speeches, and so on.

“Listen, what should I say to the relatives if they start asking about you and why you’re not around? They really do think you’re my buddy from college and that you live in London.”

“You can say I flew back to England on the next flight out of New York. Had business to tend to.”

“Aunt Ellen will miss you the most, I’m sure.”

“And I’ll miss her and her slip stitches too. We were going to work on an afghan next.”

“I can picture it now. She’d probably have crocheted your face into it too, she likes you that much. But seriously, what do I do if someone sees you wandering around the city, then asks about you?”

“Say I’m back on business, or here for a quick trip into town. That’s how I'd handle it. I can wing it if I run into your mum or dad, or even dear Aunt Ellen. Don’t you worry.”

I wouldn’t nab referral after referral if this wasn’t something I could handle. My job is to be smooth, and smooth is what I deliver.

Gavin seems to consider this. “True. You’re a kick-ass wingman. A steely-eyed missile man.”

I mime making a check mark. “‘Steely-eyed missile man.’ Be sure to leave that in your Yelp review.”

“Want me to Yelp you? Because I will. I will Yelp you so hard.”

I raise a brow, and Gavin laughs when he realizes why. “Okay, that did sound vaguely inappropriate.”

“Only vaguely? You could enter that in Urban Dictionary. I believe you’ve founded a new term.”

“My true calling perhaps. And thanks again, man. You were so damn believable. I was almost convinced myself that I FaceTimed you to tell you about Savannah.”

“But didn’t you?” I ask playfully.

Laughing, he scrubs a hand across his jaw, then his laughter fades to a kind of nervousness. And I know where this is going. I brace myself as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet then leaps off. “So, if you’re in town and want to hang out . . . Savannah and I would love to have you and Matilda over for dinner.”

Ah, this is the hard part, when the ruse seems so believable that the guy wants to stay friends.

On the one hand, what’s the harm? Meet up for a night out, a beer. But then a job becomes an unpaid job, and I need the money.

“Sure, ring me some time,” I tell him, letting him down easy, knowing that when Gavin calls or texts, I’ll have to be busy. I’ve too much on my plate, too many people to look out for. Or rather two people specifically—me and someone I adore who needs me, my sister.

Gavin smiles. “Awesome. I’ll do that.”

“I need to take off, but you are going to have one hell of a great life. You and Savannah are one of the happiest couples I’ve ever seen.”

There. Remind him of that. Not of this momentary appearance of friendship between two bros.

I say goodbye to my client then exit the brewery, heading down the stone steps, unknotting my bow tie as I go.

Nora’s waiting for me, and we head into the subway station around the corner then catch the next train as it arrives.

As soon as she grabs a seat, she bounces. “I have news.”

“Spill, woman.”

She sighs dramatically, but her expression is one of utter bliss as she announces: “I’m leaving you.”