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

“Father. There is much to tell of my family history, my back ground. I’d like to share it with you if you’re interested.”

“I am,” I assure him. “It’s the best way to know someone.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says. “Will you allow me to know your family as well?”

“As best as they can be known,” I say wryly.

“Then we will talk of these things,” he says, knowing that dissection of family doesn’t lend its autopsy report to a pay phone discussion. “Call me later in the week? We’ll plan a meeting?”

‘“Definitely. What’s your number?”

I take down his number, and we sign off, both of us making it clear how eager we are to meet. Oh, boy, I can’t believe it. Amity. My inheritance. And now, possibly, Nicolo. I could have it all. I could really have it all.

“I saw Gina Hyland at the bakery this morning,” I tell Amity, referring to a flight attendant at the airline. The two of us are splayed in the hot Texas sun at the apartment pool down the street, and I’m spreading coconut oil on my stomach. “She said to tell you she had Victor on one of her flights. Who’s Victor?”

Amity, who is spreading baby oil on her legs, quickly puts her sunglasses on. Something’s weird. I can tell she’s nervous. “An old boyfriend.”

“Do you still see Victor?”

“Not often.”

“Was that who you saw in Houston a few months ago for a date?”

I can tell she’s trying to decide whether to tell me or not. “It’s hard for me to talk about him,” she says, bounding out of her chair and diving into the pool. I’m surprised by her sudden immersion .. or is it sudden diversion? “Shit!” she yells, rising to the surface halfway across the pool. “I forgot I had my sunglasses on!” She takes the dripping glasses off and sets them on the side of the pool. “Listen, we’ve got to make us a plan for these waiter boys!” she says, hanging on the pool’s edge.

“Nicolo called me last night while you were out,” I say, giving in to her change of direction.

Amity screams with delight. “And Thomas called me! There was a message on my machine.”

“I know,” I say before I realize I’ve exposed my auditory peeping.

“Harry,” Amity says softly, shifting gears again. “Emily Post

says a husband must never listen in on his wife’s phone calls or private conversations. Privacy must be respected.”

“Sorry. But what does it matter? We don’t keep any secrets from each other anyway.”

She doesn’t answer. And she never did tell me who Victor is. And how come I still haven’t met her family? How come I still know so little about her upbringing? God, I hope I’m not fucking up here. My discussion with Nicolo about the importance of family and its bearing on personality has made me think twice about Amity. Yes, on the surface, I was comfortable with her immediately. Even more so than with Nicolo at the same stage. But why do I get the feeling I’ll grow more comfortable with Nicolo over time while I seem to be growing less so with Amity as we proceed with this pact? What happened to that magic I felt for her in Mexico?

Hey, Harry. Wake up, buddy. You’re gay and you’re marrying a woman. And even if your marriage is a mutually agreed-upon pact with Amity, your pact involves money. Even if you do truly love and respect her, your decision was based on money.

Well, I guess that’s OK. Not every relationship in life has the same priorities. I mean, at least I have all three aspects to my relationship with Amity, regardless of their order: money, love, respect. And whatever her secrets may be, they don’t necessarily have anything to do with me. After all, my past has nothing to do with her.

“We’ll make it fun, Bubba, I promise.”

We’ve cleaned up and dressed up, and we are now heading into Maxwell-Grey to register ourselves for wedding gifts. Amity is trying to convince me that this kind of bullshit can be fun, but I always think it smacks of grabby self-congratulation when couples do this kind of gift solicitation.

We enter the wedding department, and a woman descends upon us like a peregrine falcon on fresh mice. “May I help you?” she asks, inches from our faces. She’s such a package she could fly on

Federal Express. Her red nails nearly blind us with their shine, her tiny face is painted into a geisha like mask, and her hair is the requisite Texas helmet that moves en masse. She’s wearing a stylish suit-dress of red and black the in colors for this year and her red heels are so high that each step is a treacherous risk that could take her down. I love her.

“Harry Ford and I are engaged to be married,” Amity states, proudly, “and we’re here to register ourselves.”

“I’m pleased you’ve chosen Maxwell-Grey.” MakeswillGry. “My name is Kiki Cartwright. I’ll be delighted to help you.”

Kiki Cartwright. Great name. We follow her, staying back in case she falls, into a special area within the wedding department, where a tasteful, bone-colored sofa awaits. We sit. She offers us white wine or Perder water.

“Champagne,” Amity tells her. “We can’t shop without it.” Kiki gives her a squinty saccharine smile and disappears. “Look at this place,” I tell Amity. “Everyone here is dead.” It’s true. There’s not a single stained piece of clothing, a scuff mark on a shoe, a hair out of place, or a pockmark on the skin of anyone in view. No one except the mannequins and Kiki seems to have any kind of expression on his face. “Whatever happened to the love children of the sixties? Married people used to receive poetry as gifts.”

“This is all a part of it,” Amity explains, as if she’s done this many times before. “Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here in no time.” “I’m giving you poetry as