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

it been .. to be denied access to someone you love? To know you’ll never see your husband again or your daughter because the government thinks it knows what’s best? That’s what you’re doing to me and to Nicolo. You’re

playing God. You’re guilty like your brother because you don’t speak to Nicolo of what you know.”

She cries, her head in her hands. Perhaps I’ve cut too deep. I walk to the door, stand beside her, put my hand on her shoulder, and quietly tell her, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But that’s how I see it.” I am right about her and what she’s done.

And she is right about me.

TWENTY-ONE

he wedding date is approaching. Amity’s gown is chosen. My tuxedo, as well. The big engagement party is next week in Wichita, and I still haven’t formulated a plan to escape this insanity with my pride and my inheritance. Why did my father do this to me? Hell, I never cared about money when it wasn’t a possibility. But by dangling it in front of me with all these strings attached, he’s trapped me. I’m caught up in the strings and can’t free myself. I suckered into it all.

I’ve been off the hook with Amity lately because she claims to be flying a lot. The truth is, for just fifty dollars here, a hundred there, she gives her work trips away to other flight attendants in need of extra cash on their days off. And since Kim gives her the money, she can afford to bag the flying. She packs her luggage, puts on her uniform, pulls out of the driveway, and heads for Kim’s condo, where she does lines of coke for days, before returning home with perfectly manufactured stories about her trip and how great the weather was in Florida or Maine or wherever she pretends to be.

It’s September and school is back in session. Nicolo is some where on the DCU campus, but I can’t seem to find him. I hang out on campus, constantly looking for him. It’s not a large school,

and it shouldn’t be hard to locate him, but he seems to be hiding, since I can’t hook up with him anywhere.

The day before leaving for the party in Wichita, I decide to devote the entire afternoon to scouting the campus. I look everywhere. The journalism school, the library, the classrooms, the lawns, the student union. Fruitlessly I comb the campus, mixing in with the squeaky young students in their shorts and polo shirts. They seem so happy and innocent, so without worry, as I was only a year ago. I’m charmed by their simplicity, their gullibility, but no longer do I wish it for myself. Nor do I yearn to return to academe. Even amid all this muck, I now take a small amount of pleasure in knowing that I’ve graduated, commenced my life. Even if it is fucked.

So far, September is just as hot as August, and the sun beats down with brutal strength. I go from hot to cold to hot, from the sun to the inside of a building to the sun again, searching for my Argentinean. No luck. I swear he’s gone underground. And I’m sick of the smell of books and air-conditioning, polished linoleum and window cleaner, cafeterias and science labs. I kick the pavement in anger. It bruises my foot in retaliation, and I limp over to the football stadium and climb a few rows and sit in the bleachers.

The football team is in their practice gear on the field. The coaches are screaming at them, putting them through drills, and the big hulks are doing their best to be agile and run the drills. A trio of sorority girls in running shorts and bows in their hair, their tank tops adorned with Greek letters, are jogging the steps in the stadium. I can hear them gossiping about a sorority sister’s weight problem as they pass. “If she eats dessert, she’s not really trying.” Far in the distance, I see a lone student sitting on the steps. A guy. Dark hair. Muscles. Reading a book. It’s Nicolo. I step on a bleacher and start running on my sore foot like an injured gymnast limping across an endless balance beam. The closer I get, the more nervous I become. My heartbeat quickens from the run and my apprehension, and as I approach him from behind, I slow down, trying to gather

my calm and good wits. I know I can make him understand. I’ll devote myself to him, to us, as soon as this whole fucking scenario with Amity is over. Surely he’ll believe that.

I’m almost even with him, and I walk down the four bleachers to where he sits, to face him, when I realize that it isn’t Nicolo at all. It’s someone else.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

he Oilmen’s Club of Wichita, Kansas, has been spit-polished and shined into brilliance. An eight-piece band plays in the heart of the huge, multilevel dining room, and ice sculptures of swans, dolphins, and seashells are glistening next to spreads of raw vegetables, crab meat, Gruy6re on toast points, and fruit. Flower arrangements of white roses, Peruvian lilies, and Birds of Paradise pour themselves over tables, descend the edges of stair steps, and fill all corners of the room. The tables are set with sea foam green spreads and white place settings, the silver cutlery shines so brightly it makes little stars on the ceiling.

The guest list is a who’s who of Kansas society, and even some who aren’t. The relatives on my mother’s side are thrilled to see Amity again, and those on my father’s side are making great efforts to speak with her and assess her character. A photographer from the local paper is making the rounds, exploding flashbulbs in everyone’s faces as they freeze their good taste for the frame. When the photographer thanks them and moves on, they maintain their expressions for Barbie Botter, as she jots down their