Page 67 of Best Man
“Why? They died. It was the ultimate story of teenage strops.”
“Oh my God, Zeb, you are the Grinch of love. What aboutGhost?”
“It made me uneasy. Shouldn’t dead people stay dead and not zip about making vases?”
I pop my head up. “This is so enlightening. I’m trying to think ofmore romantic films for you to destroy. Okay, what aboutNotting Hill?”
“That’s notromantic, Jesse,” he scoffs. “What’s romantic about the fact that they’re far too different and when they inevitably end up divorcing, she’ll have to fork out half her money to pay for the mistake?”
I start to laugh. “Okay, what is romantic?”
He considers that, his arm flung over his head, showing the tuft of black hair that I always want to bury my face in.
“It’s not about over-the-top gestures to me,” he finally says almost shyly. “It’s all the tiny moments that go to make a real love story. The funny things that go wrong like when one of you forgets your anniversary or does something silly. They all become part of your story. And you add to it with every argument or slammed door that you have. Every birthday or Christmas that you mould into a thing that only the two of you recognise. It’s taking care of each other when you’re throwing up or have a cold, it’s huddling under the duvet together laughing so hard your ribs hurt. It’s holding the other one when they’re frightened, knowing you will do anything to make them feel better again. It’s like being two pebbles on a beach. You start off individual shapes and then the weather and proximity means you rub the rough spots off so in the end you’re smooth with a patina that only echoes one other person.”
He falls silent, going red, and I stare at him with my mouth open.I want that,I realise fiercely.I want that so much and I want it all with him. I need to be with him over the years, watching the grey appearing in his hair, laughing together and living and fighting. I want to be near him. I can’t say that though.
“Well, Zeb,” I say slowly. “It isn’t box office material, that’s for sure.”
He starts to laugh, pulling me down and hugging me, and I push my face into his neck, feeling the soft skin under my lips.
I send my hand over the sleek, tight skin of his hipbones. “Do you really want to get out of bed?” I say finally. “Because I have to say there are a couple of positions we haven’t tried yet, and you’ve obviously ruled out the entirety of Hollywood’s offerings.”
“A couple of positions? There surely can’t be any more. We could rewrite theKama Sutra.”
“One should always have goals,” I say, mimicking the stuffy voice he’s always used in my appraisals.
He laughs, but at that second his phone beeps again like fucking clockwork. I grumble as he detaches himself, but as soon as he’s grabbed his phone I reattach myself to him like a limpet.
“Who is it?” I ask idly, following with my fingers the trail of black hair that leads from his belly button to his cock where it flares out.
There’s a long silence before he says, “It’s Patrick.”
I come up on my elbow. “What does he want now?”
He scans the text. “He’s reading me the riot act. The wedding is tomorrow. I’ve got to be at his hotel tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. His family and friends are going to have breakfast and then I’ve got to help him get ready. He’s extremely disappointed in my absence this month and the fact that I apparently don’t know how to be a good friend.”
“And he does?” I say crossly.God, I hate that cockwomble. He’s got an unerring instinct for where Zeb’s weak spots are and he hits them every time. I look at Zeb’s face and the reappearance of the wrinkle between his eyes. Yes, Patrick is still on his winning streak.
He looks at me, and I roll over onto my front, leaning on my elbows and cupping my face in my hands.
“You should really ignore that fucker,” I advise, but his expression has already gone distant. I hate the way he looks when Patrick summons him. Like he’s on the end of a very long lead. Patrick lets it out, but only so far, and he keeps a careful watch on where Zeb is at all times. I think I hate it most because sometimes I torture myself with the thought that Zeb is still in love with Patrick.
There’s also the problem of his screwed-up feelings of responsibility. He seems to think he has to take on everyone’s problems. If we’d been together for longer than a month I’d tackle that, but I can’t because at the moment it would be overstepping so many boundaries I’d be up in court for trespassing.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun,” I say lightly, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling.
“Wait. Are you not coming?” He scoots next to me. “Wasn’t that part of the original arrangement we had?”
“Nope,” I say, popping the p’s. “My presence has not officially been requested by His Majesty, The Pampered Prince of Pillock, so I’m not going anywhere.”
He rolls his eyes. “He’s not so bad,” he immediately protests. I stare at him and he cups my face, his fingers warm against my skin. “I want you to come,” he says softly. “Please.”
I look at his imploring eyes. “Will you be wearing that morning suit of yours? The one you wore to Arissa’s wedding to give her away?”
The smile creases the sides of his eyes. “I will.”
I think of how handsome he looks in it and how Patrick will watch him, and against my will I nod. “Of course,” I say, watching his look of relief. It warms me that he seems to want me around. But it doesn’t take away the chill at the bottom of my spine that says that this is a very bad idea.
