Page 67 of Stuck With the Best Man

She rolls her eyes at the cliché words, but that pinkness in her cheeks deepens.

In the distance, a group of people burst out laughing. Two taxi cabs blare their horns at each other. A tiny dog barks viciously. It’s the music of the city, wrapping around us with its harsh affection.

“Are you going to kiss me now?” she asks.

I laugh. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Without wasting another moment, I sweep her into my arms and press my lips to hers. She leans into the embrace naturally, as if she has been waiting for this since that very first time. And so have I.

Epilogue: Ruby

“Weshould’vetakenthetrain.”

Ben smirks up at me from where he’s kneeling on the ground. “And miss another chance to argue with each other on the side of the highway?”

“I’m not arguing,” I insist. “I’m just sharing my opinion. Trains don’t get flat tires, after all.”

“Well, luckily, Greg taught me how to change a tire this past summer.”

“You actually remember his name?”

He grunts quietly as he rolls the jack underneath the vehicle, then tosses me a sideways glance as he replies, “Of course I remember his name. I remember everyone I’ve ever met down to the last detail. That’s one of my best character traits—my flawless memory.”

I can’t help laughing at that. We both know it isn’t true. I can’t fault him for it, though, and I’m certainly not spiteful of it anymore. It’s not like he chose to have a careless nanny when he was child, who didn’t pay enough attention in time to catch him before he took a dangerous tumble down the stairs. He’s lucky his memory was the only thing affected.

Ben continues working. It’s kind of cute, really, the way he’s oh-so-carefully using his brand new tire-changing kit, which he apparently bought the day after we arrived back in New York after the June storm fiasco.

In spite of the traffic rushing by on the highway lanes nearby, I can’t help smiling to myself as he concentrates on his task with the utmost devotion.

I like himsomuch. I like him so much that I’m pretty sure I love him.

Not that I’ve admitted that out loud to him yet.

Still, this trip we’re on is an important step for us. It’s been five months since he showed up outside my apartment with a bouquet of lilacs and kissed me until I was dizzy. That was our second kiss, since our first kiss already happened a year before that.

And that second kiss was very quickly followed by a third, then a fourth and a fifth, and so on and so forth until now, this moment in time, when Ben has officially been my boyfriend for a little over four months. It still seems crazy to me, even though I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my entire life.

It’s even crazier that, a few months after the seaside wedding that started it all, I’m bringing Ben back to Mermaid Shores with me for Thanksgiving. Eva has already teased me about it relentlessly, but I know that’s nothing compared to what I’m sure will be the endearingly obnoxiousI told you solook on Gram’s face when we arrive.

“Anyway,” Ben says, as if continuing a conversation that I’m pretty sure was over. “I prefer driving to taking the train. I like to be in control.”

“Yes, yes. Rich boy is too good for public transportation. Tale as old as time.”

He laughs loudly, then carefully lifts the new wheel onto the vehicle. How we even managed to get a flat tire a mere hour away from our destination is beyond me. I suppose fate just has a sense of humor and felt like reminding us of our most chaotic shared memories.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my parka and shiver, shuffling my feet on the pavement in an attempt to get some warmth back into them. It’s a bitterly cold day, even for late November in New England. It’ll definitely get below freezing tonight.

Ben notices my discomfort and frowns up at me in concern. “I’m almost done, I promise.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, I can’t have my ballerina freezing.”

I roll my eyes, but how can I possibly resist blushing at that. He used to call me a ballerina, despite the inaccuracy of the term, but now I’mhisballerina.

And he ismypoet.

After the summer intensive he took part in this summer, Ben knew without a doubt that writing was his calling. He enrolled immediately in some basic poetry courses at CUNY and, if all goes well with his MFA application, he’ll be transferring to NYU in the spring. He gets all bashful about it whenever someone asks, and I can tell that means he’s truly proud of himself for the first time in his life. At last, he’s found his calling.

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