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

her own,” her mother says tenderly. “And not just in her imagination. So when we got her letter, we realized it’s finally going to happen. Thank you, Mr. Ford. Thanks for taming the beast in our little gift.” Mrs. Stubbs leans over and hugs me. Mr. Stubbs pats me on the leg.

“Will you stay for pie?” I ask, my emotions more confused than ever.

“That would be mighty nice,” Mr. Stubbs answers.

CHAP TEN

TWENTY-FOUR

Amity has managed to avoid me during the past week. She’s flying to and fro, crowing about the bridesmaids’ dresses, the corsages, and all the preparations. She’s on the phone with my mother constantly, screaming and laughing with joy. I haven’t told her that her parents came to visit, because they made me promise not to. They told me she’ll punish them for “ruining whatever tall tales she’s spun on their behalf.” And that she won’t speak to them for an even longer period of time if I tell her what I know. I honor their request, but know that I have to speak to Amity somehow.

I’ve lost almost all hope of Nicolo. Though I’ll be forever in love with him, and I have no doubt that he is my true soul mate, I’m afraid that his mother has won her own little dirty war, and that my fate is now with Amity, who I’m beginning to believe loves me in her own way. I’m just not sure it’s the way I want to be loved.

I’m flying my last trip before Amity and I leave for the wedding in Kansas. My first flight of the morning is from Dallas to Shreve port, where we get delayed on the ground for three hours due to thunderstorms. Even on the ground, the aisle floor is moving beneath

my feet, a lingering phenomenon caused by the turbulence of the previous flight from Dallas. And the aircraft cabin is a sweltering, humid prison because they won’t let any of the passengers off the plane, in case we get clearance to leave on the spur of the moment. I have one guy tell me he is going to get the captain fired if he doesn’t take off for Dallas right now. We’re sitting at the gate, the sky is thundering and lightning as if it’s Judgment Day and we’ve all been very bad, hail is smashing against the plane, and this guy wants to take off. And I know it’s because he’s bald, because those type-A bald guys have too much testosterone. They have to shave three times a day and get fucked three times a day, or they start yelling at flight attendants, insisting we take off in hurricanes.

Finally, after sitting for hours, we depart and some portly gal from Louisiana comes out of the rear lavatory, holding the in-flight magazine against her ass. “Mr. Steward,” she says to me, “are you aware that you’re out of sanitary napkins in there?” What the hell am I supposed to do? Ask the captain to land at a 7-11 ? I want to hand her a cocktail napkin and a Band-Aid and tell her to make herself a little mini pad with wings but I bite my tongue and follow her up to the front lav to show her the compartment that holds those airline-issued rat mattresses we call sanitary napkins. When she tells me she’d prefer a tampon, I stop biting my tongue and tell her, “People in hell want ice water,” before storming back down the aisle.

And then, as we smash around the clouds on our way back to Dallas, a seven-year-old child who’s seated in the first row of coach, flying alone, throws up his airport hot dog. And when I go to help him clean himself up, he throws up again, on me. And the smell, and the feel, and the texture of regurgitated hot dog dripping off my face makes me throw up. And that makes the man in the row behind us moan, “Oh, God, I’m fixin’ to puke.” And the woman across from him says, “Myself!” and lets loose with chunks of creamed corn, causing the two children traveling with her to throw

up. And I want to get on the PA. system and announce, “Will everyone please throw up!” But instead I hold my head out in front of my torso and scurry to the bathroom which is occupied. I bang on the door, but give up and turn to the galley, where I pull out the trash can and wipe my face off with a wet paper towel, while the stressed-out stewardesses who are still devoid of vomit frantically try to help all the heaving fools in their seats. When the ancient geezer finally exits the lav, I enter and step directly into the puddle of whiz he’s left on the floor. I try to unwrap the little soap, but it’s glued so tightly shut that I consider going into the cockpit and grabbing the crash ax to hack it open. Finally, I smash it against the counter, rip it open, and use the little soap chips to wash my face.

When the plane lands in Dallas, I call the scheduling department from the loading bridge and tell them to send a replacement because I’m going home to run a screwdriver through my skull. But I don’t go home. I drive Amity’s car (she’d asked me to drive her car to the airport, so that she can “run wedding errands in the Beamer” while I was out of town) straight to Nicolo’s house and park on the street. His truck is missing, but I don’t care, I sit outside and wait. I won’t try to win him back. I just want one, final, last, ultimate chance to set the record straight. And I wait for over two hours, nervously thrashing in the seat of Amity’s car like a cricket caught in a jar, so that by the time Nicolo and his mother drive into their driveway, I’m