My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

my first month on the job. He called me a faggot because I couldn’t find a place for his carry-on luggage. And I had to stand there and take it because it’s my job to smile and keep my mouth shut. But another passenger came to my defense and really let the businessman have it for being so rude. Now is my chance to do the same for the waiter. I start to answer, and realize that Hunt, the guy Amity used to date, is part of this group. “I’m a friend of Hunt’s here,” I say as soon as I see Hunt. I walk over to his chair, put my hand on the back of it. “How’s it going, Hunt?” I’m pissed off and dripping with sarcasm.

He answers slowly. “Pretty good, Harry. How are things with you?”

“Who is this guy?” one of the other guys says.

There are at least twelve empty beer glasses sitting on the table. The women look embarrassed. A redheaded gal with spiky hair says, “Tim, just let it go. You ate the damn appetizer. Just pay for it.”

“I’m not so good,” I tell Hunt, answering his question. “Why don’t you tell your friends here that faggot isn’t a very nice word.” “Well I guess you already have,” he drawls. “Who is this guy?” his friend asks again.

“Tim, just shut up and pay the check!” the redhead spurts.

“I’m a faggot,” I tell the guy, “which means I’m allowed to use the word. But you’re not allowed, unless you’re one too.” “No fucking way,” the guy laughs disgustedly.

“Hunt here has experience with guys like me. He’ll tell you what we don’t appreciate.”

A couple of the girls look sickened and turn to Hunt. The drunken belligerent guy, Tim, rises from his chair. “Look, you Yankee smart-ass punk ……. “

“Tim!” the redhead yells.

“Tim,” Hunt echoes. “Let it go. I’ll explain later. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.” He slaps down several big bills, and one of the women says, “Don’t leave him a tip,” while looking pointedly at the waiter.

I step backward as Hunt pushes back from his chair, and they all leave. Tim gets in another, “Fucking faggots.” But Hunt presses him forward past Nicolo and me.

“Man,” Nicolo says after they’re gone, “you are my hero.” He’s potently masculine in a way most guys aren’t. There’s not a trace of sissy in him, and I’m surprised they were calling him a faggot. Maybe they were just trying to put him down in what they thought was the worst possible way.

“Aw shucks,” I say jokingly, flushed in the face. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been anyone’s hero.”

“You are now,” he says, drilling a hole into me with his black licorice eyes. “Nicolo,” he says, introducing himself again, this time offering his hand.

“Harry,” I tell him, shaking his hand.

“So how did you know that guy?” Nicolo asks.

“He dated my roommate -the girl I’m with tonight. He told her he used to proposition gay guys in bars and then take them out to the car and beat them up with his buddies. Never gave me any shit though. He was always real nice to me.”

“And your roommate dated him? What’s the matter with her?” he asks seriously.

“Nothing,” I say, slightly offended. “Her business is her business. She’s just my roommate.” It’s a weird moment. I’m slightly insulted that he insinuates Amity is inferior in some way for dating Hunt. And at the same time, I purposefully mislead him, telling him Amity and I are just roommates.

“I’m glad that’s not your date you are with,” he says with his Spanish accent.

“Why is that?” I ask.

“Because I would like you to have coffee and dessert with me, not her.”

Wow. He’s bold when he’s not being a waiter. The way he says it, it almost sounds as if he doesn’t like Amity. It bothers me, but I can’t refuse -he looks too much like Guillermo Vilas. “I’d like that,” I tell him, smiling. After all, Amity said I could bring my boyfriends over to our house after we’re married. And I sure would love having this one as a boyfriend. “Well, excuse me,” I tell him, starting for the bathroom.

“Harry,” he tells me, offering straight white teeth from behind aubergine lips, “it was a pleasure to meet you.”

My motor is officially running. “You too.”

By the time I return to the table, Amity has whipped the other waiter, Thomas, into a sexually frustrated frenzy, and he’s smiling at her every chance he gets as he passes by. I tell her about Nicolo and what happened with Hunt, and she said she watched it all from her seat. So now we’re hyped up on sugar, caffeine, and waiters. It is confusing though. I mean, Amity is my date, and I’m hers. She just endorsed my virtue to the longtime employees of the airline, and I’ve never felt so connected to her. But our natural inclination is to cruise these sexy waiters. I’m beginning to realize that, besides being similar to a gay guy in the way she gives blow jobs, Amity is also similar to gay guys, all guys, in that she constantly has a roving eye. Engaged or not, the fact is we both like guys. “Let’s take these boys home,” I suggest, giving in to my ego or my penisbrain.

Amity smiles and says, “No, Harry,” with her experienced counsel. “We’ll just give. them our phone numbers tonight,” she says, writing our names and numbers down on a napkin and leaving it on the table. “You and I will go home together.”

I feel like an idiot. Of course she’s right. We’re a couple. And this is our night to be together. Considering her loving acknowledgment of me at the awards dinner, I hope I haven’t hurt. her feelings. Or is she just playing a hand of cards?

That night, at home, in her bed, we lie side by side and talk. “Thomas and Nicolo,” she says to the ceiling.

“Nicolo and