Page 35 of Stuck With the Best Man

I check the time on my phone again. The roadside assistance truck should be here literally any minute. Ben busies himself with moving our suitcases to the back seats so that they’re not sitting on the side of the road while we continue to wait. I know I should saythanksfor that, but I’m fidgeting so much that I can barely remember how to inhale and exhale at a normal speed.

Maybe Eva was right that one time she told me I should consider getting a prescription for Xanax.

Ben makes his way back to the driver’s seat. He slumps down in it, staring out the window at the paltry flashes of traffic on the other side of the highway. I keep my eye on the lanes stretching behind us, hoping to catch sight of the AAA truck within the next couple of minutes.

Except, five minutes pass. Then three more.

A softpat-patsound reaches my ears. I whip my head around and stare in horror as a scattering of fat raindrops plop lazily onto the windshield.

“No,” I whisper in horror.No.Absolutely not. The second storm isn’t supposed to start until later tonight. Untilafterwe’ve arrived in Manhattan.

“It’s just a sprinkle,” Ben says.

I glare at him. He weathers it with impressive grace.

Then, at last, I spy a large gray van with its emergency flashers on, slowing to a crawl in the breakdown lane a few hundred yards behind us.

Finally.

I glance at the time. “It’s been forty minutes. Not thirty.”

“It’s not the end of the world.”

“I’m just saying. I don’t know why they would lie. It’s better to manage customers’ expectations realistically rather than leave them disappointed.”

“I think you’re the only one willing to throw a fit over a difference of ten minutes.”

“I’m notthrowing a fit,” I snap, even though the malice in my tone definitely suggests otherwise. “I’m just making an observation.”

“You expect a lot from people,” he replies as the van pulls up behind the Porsche.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ben cracks open the door as if he’s about to get out without explaining himself, but then speaks over his shoulder to me. “Just because you expect perfection from yourself doesn’t mean that you can force it out of others. You told me it’s not realistic to want everyone to like you, and now I’m telling you that it’s not realistic to want everything to be perfect all the time.”

“That’s not what I—”

But I don’t have the chance to deliver my retort because Ben is already out of the car and walking to greet our savior.

I stay where I am, not trusting myself to be personable to anyone at the moment. I turn sideways in the seat to watch, though. Maybe seeing Ben make a fool of himself in front of an honest, hardworking person will brighten my spirits.

“You got a flat?” the older man calls out in a thick Massachusetts accent.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for coming.”

“It’s my job, boy,” he growls. The man doesn’t sound particularly friendly, but anyone from New England knows that he’s actually being super nice.

Ben takes it in stride. “I’ve got the spare back here. I’m Ben, by the way.”

The man grunts. “Greg.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Took me longer than expected to get over to you,” says Greg, ignoring the niceties. “Back roads are a mess.”

“No worries at all, sir. It’s really no problem.”

I scoff under my breath. I expect Ben’s city-boy politeness to bother Greg, but it doesn’t seem like the man minds at all.

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