Page 61 of Stuck With the Best Man

Almost something great.

When I get out of this stupid fancy Porsche, we’ll go back to the way things were before. I’ll just be Ruby, Eva’s maid of honor, and he’ll just be Ben, Sebastien’s best man. We’ll be two strangers who kissed once and then never again.

I should be okay with that. Haven’t I ranted to anyone who has suggested otherwise that I prefer to be romantically unattached? Am I not married to my career? Utterly and completely devoted to it?

I can’t afford to let my confusing interest in Ben lead me astray. The fact that he makes me feel like the entire world has been tipped upside down should terrify me. As soon as the car stops outside my building, I should be running away as fast as I can.

It’s too easy to picture how sayingyesto a date with Ben will go, though. Too easy to know that he would take me somewhere fascinating and artistic, like one of those high-tech art shows that feature in the old warehouses near Chelsea. He would be funny and charming, because that’s how he is with everyone, and this time I would actually be willing to appreciate it. He’d wear his stupidly stylish clothes, so chic-ly chaotic and unkempt in that way he wears his nice things, and he’d look so stupidly handsome that it would probably make my head spin.

Then we’d go somewhere for dinner—not somewhere posh or exclusive. I know now that Ben isn’t the type to show off like that. He’d probably take me to some artsy old restaurant—the kind of place with a story where writers and musicians and their muses have frequented for decades. I’d love every second of it, unfortunately.

I know he’d walk me home. He’d walk me right to my front stoop, just like he did last May.

He would kiss me goodnight. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. Maybe, I might consider inviting him to come upstairs, then make the responsible decision to simply say goodnight and go… but maybe only after a fourth or fifth kiss.

I know I could fall for Ben Hawthorne. That’s exactly why I decided to hate him so much. Because I can’t afford to fall for anyone.

We’ll find a way, he told me. But I don’t think we will.

No matter what Gram might have been told by the wind, there’s no way for us to be together. Whatever message she received from the universe—whatever compelled her to put those stones in his pockets—was probably nothing more than leftover sentiments from that day at the Strand. Nothing tangible. Nothing that can be a reality in the present or the future.

Too soon, we’re trapped in the slow crawl of traffic in Midtown. We might have taken the highway that loops around the outer edge of Manhattan if not for the fact that half of that route is closed off from flooding. If I crane my neck and look west, I can see glimpses of the roaring Hudson churning and frothing in the wake of the almost-hurricane that struck.

I direct Ben toward my apartment, trying to keep my tone as casual as possible. He, too, has become overly polite in his responses. It’s as if, now that we’re faced with the inevitability of our separation, neither one of us knows how to act around each other anymore.

My dusty little studio is tucked away at the fringes of Little Italy. It’s a miracle that I even managed to find my own place. Most dancers—especially in New York—don’t make nearly enough money to live on their own and instead have to pile together into cramped spaces with roommates. After Eva moved out a couple of years ago, I just happened to get insanely lucky and find a rent-controlled apartment that a sweet old lady had been living in for decades. It’s not glamorous and the layout is definitely not ideal by anyone’s standards, given that my shower is actually located in the kitchen, but I love it too much to give it up.

I wonder what Ben would think of my apartment. Not that it matters. He’ll never see the inside of it. Still, I have a feeling he wouldn’t judge me. Even though he probably lives in an insanely modern high-rise with a uniformed doorman and all the amenities anyone could ever dream of.

Whatever.

“This is a cool neighborhood,” Ben comments as we inch closer and closer to the end.

“Yeah.”

“I’d be tempted to eat my weight in pasta and pizza every night.”

“I definitely feel that temptation often.”

Ben chuckles. There’s a note of awkwardness in it, though. Does he remember walking me here before? Probably not, considering he needs me to direct him. It must be difficult to have such an unreliable memory. It’d drive me crazy, and it would also make me a terrible dancer. Memorization is a huge part of ballet.

Wow, now I’m starting to feel bad for him. I really have come full circle.

I need to get out of here.

Minutes later, he pulls up to the curb in front of a classic brick walk-up that looks just like every other sturdy-yet-vaguely-rundown building on the street.

Ben puts the car in park. We meet each other’s gaze across the center console.

“Um, thanks,” I say. The awkwardness is painful. It makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. “For the ride. And everything.”

“Anytime, Ruby.”

“I should… go.”

“Okay.” There’s a tinge of disappointment in his gaze that I have to force myself to ignore.

Even though there’s a little voice in the back of my mind screaming for me not to get out of the car, I climb out and then circle around to the trunk.

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