The Best Man Read online Winter Renshaw

Categories Genre: New Adult, Romance Tags Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement1

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I lift my brows.

“I know. I was shocked too,” she chuckles. “But seriously, thank you for letting me put this little thing together for you.”

I’ve known my sister all of her twenty-six years, which means when she initially approached me about doing this, I should’ve known damn well that “little thing” was code for “big-ass party” and “handful of people” was Claire-speak for “you, me, and everyone we know.”

“You’re literally a walking miracle.” She leans close, placing her hand on mine. “You could have died. And honestly, except for the fact that you’ve got the tiniest scar above your right eyebrow, it’s like nothing happened.”

She neglects to mention the small limp in my walk—the one I’m still working five days a week to eliminate with the help of a physical therapist and personal trainer. Another month and it’ll be practically gone, they tell me. Like it was never there at all. Two more months, and I’ll be bench-pressing more than I could before the accident.

But I’m keeping the scar.

“I’m sorry, I need to take this.” Claire digs into her bag and retrieves her vibrating iPhone. “Hey, yes, I’m leaving here shortly and I’ll be headed that way. I wanted to tell you, I wasn’t able to get a hold of …”

I rise from my chair and head to the window, watching the people below trail up and down the sidewalk like ants on a farm. I think about Paloma and her engagement ring. The junior partner down the hall and his new baby. Fucking Grant getting engaged completely out of the blue.

It’s like everyone’s leveling up, moving forward in life, and I’m treading the same waters I was six months ago—only instead of the waters being tropical and the color of lapis lazuli, it’s murky, brown, and void of human life.

Never have I wanted to “settle down” or live any kind of life that consists of mowing the lawn on Saturdays or waking up in the middle of the night to change diapers.

But I don’t know that I want this life anymore … either.

“Earth to Cainan …” Claire’s sharp tone pulls me out of my reverie. “Whatcha doing over there? Anything interesting?”

I’m less than a week back into my old routine, and already I’m dying on the inside a little more with each passing day because something is missing.

I thought it was the woman from my dream.

Now I’m not so sure she exists.

For all I know, I was clinging onto that shred of hope like a crazy person, believing she was out there somewhere because being with her was the first time I truly felt alive.

Or loved, for that matter.

Something’s got to give.

I can’t wade these stale waters forever.

I won’t.

“What’s this?” She reaches for a Post-It next to my computer mouse before I have a chance to snatch it out of her hands. “Is this that tattoo from your dream?”

I made the mistake of telling her about the dream in full detail shortly after I woke in the hospital, when I wasn’t one-hundred percent lucid and still refusing to believe it was a dream. I described my wife and kids in vivid detail, and then I scribbled the tattoo on a napkin with a teal gel pen Claire fished out of her bag.

Claire assured me I wasn’t married, swore on her life that I didn’t have any kids (that she was aware of anyway), and then confirmed with my doctor that these kinds of high-def dreams are completely normal and commonplace with patients in my circumstances.

In the weeks that followed, whenever I’d try to bring up the dream, she’d laugh it off, tell me to let it go.

And she was right, I suppose.

It’s done me no good to ruminate, to obsess, to mourn the loss of someone whose name I can’t even conjure despite knowing every minute detail about her.

“Why did you draw this?” she asks.

I steal it back, crumple it, and drop it in the waste basket beneath my desk.

“Cainan … answer me,” she says.

“What’s it matter?”

“You haven’t mentioned that dream since you were in the hospital. Do you still think about it?”

Every second of every fucking day.

“No,” I lie. “Rarely.” I lie again.

She examines me through half-squinted eyes, and she appears to be mere seconds from calling bullshit on me when her phone vibrates.

“Ugh. I have to take this. I’ll call you later.” Claire answers her phone, gathers her things, and shows herself the door.

And it’s for the best. I don’t know how I could possibly explain something to her that I can’t even explain to myself.

I pull up my calendar and enter the location of the party while it’s fresh in my mind. I’m nothing if not organized. While this isn’t the sort of thing I’d ordinarily subject myself to, I remind myself that I’m a lucky son of a bitch to have this many people want to celebrate the fact that I didn’t die.


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