Today, I'm sharing a tender little love story that's all about unrequited love, but not really...
You be the judge. Who's really....
The Best Man
I stare at the
groom and hope it doesn’t show—the love I feel for him, the love I’ve always
felt. I’m praying I can keep the ardor off my face, even though I know I’ve
failed miserably to keep it out of my heart.
The best man
obviously lusting for the groom would be, well, just wrong. Especially not when
the groom has eyes only for his gorgeous bride, the blond and lovely Alana, in
her Vera Wang wedding dress. Now, their eyes are locked on one another and I
feel the old paradox I experience every time I look at them—a curious brew of
jealousy and happiness at their having found the other.
Love is a rare
thing in this world.
Yeah, you heard me
right—I’m the best man. That groom up there at the altar? The gorgeous guy in
the tux with the close-trimmed red beard, the green eyes, and the linebacker
shoulders? That’s my best friend, Kevin. We’ve been together since we were in
second grade. I’d lay down my life for the guy. And the sad truth is, I’d lay
down for the guy. Period. With my legs thrown in the air. He knows this, yet he
continues to call me his best friend, except he says, ‘best bud.’ He even proclaims
he couldn’t live without me.
Sigh.
But shame on me
for having such thoughts on Kevin’s wedding day! If the poor guy knew the
wicked, lustful thoughts coursing through my brain as I stand here, smiling,
but jealous as hell, with the other groomsmen, Kevin would be blushing as
crimson as the rose in his lapel.
But God, he does
look gorgeous! Edible. And I can’t
help but think—unkindly, I know; inappropriately, I know—the thought gay guys
have had about buff and beautiful straight men for millennia—what a waste!
I’m sure his
bride, Alana, would beg to differ.
The music,
Pachelbel’s Canon, has just ended and
the crowd at St. Aloysius Catholic Church has grown quiet. There are only a
couple of coughs here, a whisper there.
We’re ready to
begin. Kevin turns to Alana. I can see he’s trembling and my heart gives a
little lurch. A lump forms in my throat.
Alana beams
beneath her lace veil, all smiles. I try not to think unkind thoughts about
her. Jealousy is such an ugly emotion. And so is Alana, in anything backless. Stop it!
I let my mind
drift back to a few months ago. A winter’s night when Kevin and I had traveled
up from Seattle to the San Juan Islands. We had taken the ferry over on Friday
afternoon to Orcas Island where we rented a small cabin at Doe Bay resort. The
cabin was no frills and cold. It had rained all weekend. Even our trip to Mt.
Constitution was doomed—the stunning vistas from its top blocked out by
drizzling banks of low-hanging clouds.
So we had little
to do but hang out in the cabin. There was no TV or Wi-Fi, so cards or reading
were pretty much the order of the day.
And drinking.
A lot of drinking.
See, Kevin had asked me to come away with him that weekend because he had acquired
a severe case of cold feet regarding his wedding to Alana that summer. “She’s
great,” he’d told me. “But suddenly I’m just not sure I’m ready. Maybe it’s
like they say, you know?”
“No. I don’t
know.” An evil little part of me just wanted Miss Alana to go away so I could have my Kevin back. I’d missed things like our
early morning runs together on the Burke-Gilman trail, with the sun coming up
and the world seeming to contain only the two of us. I missed Friday nights
with Kevin at his condo in Wallingford, ordering in a meat-lover’s pizza from
Pagliacci to go with a nice IPA I’d bought on my way over to his place,
streaming old horror movies on his big-screen. We both loved Carnival of Souls.
“Like, maybe I love
Alana, but I’m not in love with her.
You know what I mean?”
I’d wanted to say
that I knew exactly what he meant. For example, I loved Kevin and to my heart’s
great regret, I was also in love with
him. So yeah, I got the distinction.
I thought our
weekend together, somehow, might change things between us. Magically. Maybe it
was because I was reading a lot of books lately that featured some butch
“straight” protagonist falling suddenly for his buddy and realizing that, while
maybe he wasn’t strictly gay, he could be gay for this man he’d fallen for. Like that ever happens…
And yet…those
stories always had a happy ending. Why couldn’t ours?
Hey, if I read it in a book, it must be
possible, right?
And I thought, on
our Saturday night here on Orcas, drunk on beer and a good single-malt Scotch,
that maybe, just maybe, the same could happen for Kevin and me. Magically. I
mean, we’d been practically inseparable since we were kids. We’d played
softball together, spent countless nights together, went through the trials and
tribulations of high school as one, cheered each other on at our respective
events at track meets and cried on one another’s shoulders as we each met yet
another disappointment in love. As we grew, we grew closer.
And then Alana
came along.
And spoiled
everything.
Oh, Alana’s a
wonderful woman—kind, sweet, funny. She can curse like a sailor, drink a man
under the table, and arrange a bouquet of spring wildflowers like Martha
Stewart. And, if you’re straight, she’s a knockout. Hell, if you’re gay, she’s
a knockout. She’s the kind of woman who
turns both straight and gay men’s heads when she walks down the street,
although the latter, I cheekily admit, might only be wondering if her bag is
Prada or Ferragamo.
But that night, as
the rain drummed down on the roof of our little cabin, it felt like Kevin and I
were the only two people in the world. I remember how, after we finished with
the cards, and me beating his ass three straight times at canasta, we relaxed
together on the bed in Kevin’s room.
Now, don’t go
thinking this was odd. As I said, Kevin and I had had countless sleepovers,
starting at the age of seven. Although we didn’t often share a bed, we had
fallen asleep next to one another on the couches at one of our houses. I never
told Kevin how sometimes, during those nights, I would snuggle close and then,
if he woke, pretend to be outraged by what I’d done in my sleep.
So it was not
unusual we both were on his bed, our backs against the wall the bed was shoved
up against, legs stretched out before us, dangling. We both had that
one-too-many tumbler of Scotch in our hands, but we weren’t thinking about the
headache and nausea surely waiting for us in the morning, but only how loose
and warm it made us feel tonight.
Kevin babbled on
and on, finally getting to the topic of our trip up here—his upcoming nuptials
to Alana. He told me how he didn’t know if he was ready to give up his
independence. He said that she could sometimes be controlling.
I told him these
were all good points, worth considering.
He even told me
how she wasn’t always so keen about going down on him and I just about lost it.
I mean, really? Talk about casting pearls before swine! Was the girl crazy or
what?
It just seemed
natural to me then, with the lights low, the Scotch making our systems hum in a
languid way, and with the rain’s staccato beat on the roof, to turn to Kevin
and look into his eyes. I knew they were green, but in the dim illumination,
they looked brown. And like wells I could fall into….
I thought
something passed between us. A signal, maybe, an understanding.
And I did
something I’d never done before. But, damn it, it felt right.
Yeah, you know
what I did. I leaned forward and I kissed him. It wasn’t a playful little peck
either, but a full-on kiss, with my tongue darting impetuously into his mouth.
He was so surprised—and drunk—that, for a second, a delicious, life-altering,
wished-it-would-go-on-forever second, he kissed me back. His hand even went up
to the back of my neck for a moment.
And, in that tiny,
tiny amount of time, I imagined that things could change, that this would be a
scene like in one of those books I’d read where the straight guy magically
turns gay—just for me.
For all time. Kev
and I would have our happily-ever-after. It all flashed by, like they say one’s
life flashes by in our final moments—our going back to Seattle and announcing
to Alana that we were in love and always had been. The marriage with her could
not take place because he was marrying me. The condo we would purchase together
on Capitol Hill, overlooking the Space Needle and the Olympic Mountain range.
All that stuff. And, of course, the more immediate—both of us hurrying to get
out of our clothes, tossing them to the floor in our passion, in our yearning
heat to feel the electric satin of a full body press of naked skin.
Except…
Kevin pushed
gently against my chest and leaned back to break the kiss. He stared at me for
a moment and I misinterpreted the stare as lust. I went in for another kiss and
he pushed harder against my chest, holding me back.
He smiled and I’m
happy to report there was nothing mocking or disdainful in it. “Dude,” he
whispered. “You know better.”
And just like
that, my dreams shattered, dropping on the floor in tinkling shards of regret.
I moved away from
him, putting a few feet between us. I hung my head. “I’m so embarrassed. And
ashamed,” I managed to get out.
He moved close to
me and he laid a hand on my shoulder. “Look at me,” he said.
I did.
“I love you, man.
I always have. As much I love anyone. You’re more than my best friend, you’re
family. You know that, right?”
I nodded, feeling
tears well up in my eyes.
He touched them
away with his thumbs. “Now, I don’t want you to feel weird about what just
happened. We were both a little drunk and we can always say it was the Scotch
talkin’, but I want you to know I’m flattered. Hey, the fact that anyone finds
a big lug like me, who farts constantly, attractive is a bonus in my book.”
We both laughed.
Me, reluctantly at first, and then the giggles took over. I fell onto Kevin and
soon, we were both short of breath, holding each other. He kissed the top of my
head. “You’re my man. Always.”
The next day we
said nothing about what had happened.
And now, well, you
know the rest of the story. He’s up there, saying his vows to Alana.
And I’m happy for
him.
Really I am.
But I can’t look
at them. Not right now. It hurts too much. I turn away and let my gaze light on
the crowd.
And that’s when I
see him. And I’m not imagining it—he’s looking right at me. And when out gazes
connect, he smiles.
I smile back and
then glance down at the floor, a little embarrassed.
The priest is
presenting the new married couple to the crowd. I join in the cheers and the
applause.
And I turn to
follow Kevin and Alana, the new husband and wife, in their processional out of
the church.
He looks at me
again as I pass his pew. He’s tall, with dark brown hair, almost black, and
eyes so dark the pupils get lost in the irises. He has full lips that shift my
mind into naughty mode. His five o’clock shadow gives me a visual cue to how it
would feel against my face. His suit, dark blue, hangs perfectly on his lanky,
yet broad-shouldered frame.
Our eyes connect
in that way only two gay men can have (or two lesbians or a man and a woman who
are hot for the other). The milliseconds pass and they cement us together. It’s
just a bit longer than two strangers would glance at one another. It
acknowledges interest, attraction—potential.
Outside the
church, the drizzle that had come down earlier has been pushed away by a
brilliant sun. Everything sparkles. There’s laughter, the chatter of a hundred
happy voices, raised in celebration and excitement.
Someone taps me on
the shoulder. I turn and it’s Alana. She’s beaming at me and her blue eyes
project love. She hugs me and I feel just horrible for the thoughts I had about
her new husband during their wedding. But hey, they were honest. At least I can
say that.
She kisses my
cheek and whispers in my ear, “I’m so glad you’re here. You really are Kevin’s best man.”
I have no words. I
just pull her close to me.
At last, we pull
away. There are too many others waiting to kiss this blushing bride. I step
back, thinking to move away, when her hand on my arm stops me. “Hold on,
there’s someone I want you to meet.”
She steps aside
and it’s him. We grin at each other as though we share a secret.
“This is Ryan, my
very best friend from college. He’s out here from Boston, but he’s thinking of
moving to Seattle in the fall. He’s interviewing with Amazon.” She pulls me
close and whispers in my ear once more, “And he’s dying to meet you.”
I reach my hand
out and we touch. And it’s electric. There’s something about a wedding—all that
concentrated hope and happiness. It makes me gleeful for the future.
“Ryan. I’m so
happy to meet you.”
He winks.
“Likewise.”
The End
My latest work is
Dinner at Fiorello's (where love is on the menu).
Blurb:
Henry Appleby has an appetite for life. As a recent high school
graduate and the son of a wealthy family in one of Chicago’s affluent
North Shore suburbs, his life is laid out for him. Unfortunately,
though, he’s being forced to follow in the footsteps of his successful
attorney father instead of living his dream of being a chef. When an
opportunity comes his way to work in a real kitchen the summer after
graduation, at a little Italian joint called Fiorello’s, Henry jumps at
the chance, putting his future in jeopardy.
Years ago, life was a plentiful buffet for Vito Carelli. But a tragic
turn of events now keeps the young chef at Fiorello’s quiet and
secretive, preferring to let his amazing Italian peasant cuisine do his
talking. When the two cooks meet over an open flame, sparks fly. Both
need a taste of something more—something real, something true—to
separate the good from the bad and find the love—and the hope—that just
might be their salvation.
Pages or Words: 210 pages
Categories: Contemporary, M/M Romance, Fiction, Gay Fiction
Buy Links:
Dreamspinner ebook
Dreamspinner paperback
Amazon Kindle
! KZ, I will be in touch for your information. Didn't win? Get your copy 
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