Page 53 of Stuck With the Best Man

“Ben?”

I let out a breath. I realize I’ve been completely silent for a full minute.

“Sorry,” I say with a chuckle.

“You really don’t have to answer. I’m sorry. I’m totally prying.”

“It’s fine, really. I’m just trying to figure out how to answer.”

Ruby shifts in the bed. “Were you and your father always at odds with each other?”

“Not really,” I admit. “When I was little, he was my favorite person. He raised all of us to be appreciators of art, you know? So, we’d go to museums and operas and plays. The symphony orchestra and the ballet… it was great. Basically, everything I did, whether it was pretending to understand Magritte’s art or learning how to appreciate four-hour operas, was to make him proud.”

“It’s funny. You must’ve been a precocious little brat.”

A breathless laugh flutters past my lips. “Yeah, I was. All my siblings were.”

“So, your father spent a lot of time with you?”

“That’s the thing. He only spent time with us if we were attending an arts event. We hardly ever saw him even at mealtimes, but we’d sit beside him at a Broadway performance. Or, when we were old enough, we’d tag along to fancy benefit dinners or cocktail hours at other donors’ houses. There was none of that typical father-son bonding. No throwing the baseball back and forth in the yard. No lessons on how to change a tire.”

At that, Ruby laughs. “Thank god for Greg the emergency roadside service man.”

“Thank god for Greg, indeed.”

Ruby sighs pensively. “So, your father wasn’t around unless he was bringing you guys out to appreciate the arts?”

“Basically. He traveled all over the place. London. Rio. Singapore. Sometimes, he’d be gone for weeks at a time. Hence, the nannies. As I got older, I started to feel more spiteful about it.”

“Your siblings didn’t, though?”

“Not really. Maybe they’re tougher than me. I don’t know.”

“You’re plenty tough.”

I snort. “Didn’t I admit to you earlier today that I’d like to be a poet?”

“Poets are tough!”

It’s hard not to smile at the way she’s now so eager to defend my honor against my own commentary. She doesn’t want me to feel bad about myself.

We’ve made a lot of progress. Probably because we’ve lived about a thousand different lives today.

“Anyway,” I sigh, “I guess I just started to pull away from my father when I was in high school. My sister and brothers were all in college or doing something else impressive at that point. It’s hard not to feel like an afterthought when your oldest brother is assistant curator at the Whitney by the age of twenty-seven.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah… exactly.”

“What about your mom?”

I let out a long exhale and roll over onto my back. “She died when I was two.”

“Oh.”

“A pulmonary embolism. Totally unexpected. I guess she was fine one minute and then just… died. Just like that.”

“I’m so sorry, Ben.”

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