Be My Best Man Page 3

“Should.”

  “Nope.” Jason needs to get going. The sooner he clears the air with Andrew, the better. “I don’t have time to shop right now.”

  “Should make time.” This level of pushiness would be annoying if it didn’t come with another tentative smile. “Could dress better for next boyfriend.”

  “Is this what they’re teaching at sales assistant school these days?” Jason asks as he pulls at the second knot. “Insult your customer’s taste? I thought we were always meant to be right? What would your boss say?”

  “Don’t have boss. I’m never paid to be here.”

  Jason doesn’t have time to parse that. He’s too busy pulling out his phone, quickly scanning the text on its screen.

  Can’t make time for lunch with you today.

  Shit.

  He reads that one line over a few times, adding a subtext of his own.

  Won’t make time for you ever again.

  Jason slumps onto a nearby bench.

  “Feel okay?”

  “Yeah,” Jason lies while reeling inside, worried that over thirty years of so much more than friendship hang on Andrew’s answer. “Yeah,” he says again, adding, “I’m fine,” when the exact opposite right then is true.

  “Good. Should stay for longer. Can talk about more new clothes.” The assistant glances towards the front doors where people shake off umbrellas. “Or can talk about British weather.” His next words echo the same hope and hesitation Jason heard from Chantel only minutes ago, even if hers was fake. This assistant sounds entirely honest. “I-I’m think I could talk with you for longer.”

  “I’m not in the mood to talk about clothes.” Jason might as well get back to work. Maybe find some aspirin. “I’ve got a bit of a headache.”

  “Not surprise.” There’s a gentle touch to his brow. “Must hurt.” He appears much older than Jason’s first impression when his expression tightens. “Hope who did this feels worse.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m not much of a fighter.” Jason hadn’t even tried to avoid the punch, so surprised at how things escalated. He mentally replays the thud of Andrew’s fist striking his face and his horrified expression moments later.

  Another text pings.

  I’m so sorry I hit you.

  It’s followed quickly by another.

  I was aiming for the punchbag. Frustration, you know? You do believe it was an accident, don’t you?

  Jason does. He believes that with his whole heart, which aches when a third response arrives. Mum would turn in her grave if we ever fell out for real. But the fourth text has the most impact. Forgive me?

  He’s glad texts don’t convey a tone of voice. If they did, his would sound choked.

  Nothing to forgive, mate.

  He swallows around a lump in his throat, texting as quickly as he can. Can you at least spare time for a quick coffee? I’m only around the corner on Bond Street. He stares at the screen waiting for an answer as the assistant lingers, only tuning into what he says when asked a direct question. “I didn’t catch that,” Jason admits. “What did you say?”

  “Asked when is special date. For new tie?”

  “In a couple of months. I’m going to be a best man at a wedding.” He hopes so, at least, even if it’s bound to end very badly.

  “Two months? Is not enough time.”

  “For what?”

  “To dress better.”

  His tone is teasing, but Jason just shakes his head. “You do know you’re in a service industry, don’t you? You’re terrible at this.”

  “Still don’t work here,” the assistant insists. “And still dress better than you.” He has a point. He does look good, trim in the slim-cut black shirt that contrasts with his fair hair, but it’s his smile that’s killer. Another text pulls Jason away from outright staring.

  We do need to talk face-to-face. I can make time for a very quick coffee. Usual place in ten?

  Jason takes off in a hurry, but shoppers hold up his exit. When he gets done holding the door open for some seniors, he glances over his shoulder. The assistant stands where he left him, beaming as soon as Jason offers a quick wave.

  It must be time to get his sight checked, Jason decides, as he dodges raindrops and tourists outside.

  He’s got to be having vision issues.

  It’s the only explanation for seeing return attraction.

  Chapter Three

  Vanya watches the customer with the black eye make a beeline for the exit. He moves nimbly for a big man, deftly sidestepping shoppers. He’s polite too, Vanya notices, as he holds open the door for a group of slow-moving seniors. One of them takes much longer than the others, but he waits patiently as she shuffles inside. It’s a small show of real politeness beyond surface-level please and thank yous—a rarity in this city where everybody hurries.

  His wave goodbye to Vanya is a surprise, a moment of simple friendliness that’s entirely unexpected. Vanya guesses he must still be smiling when he finds Kaspar’s gaze fixed closely on him. Both his eyebrows rise as he refolds clothes without looking at them, his movements sure and practiced. When he mutters something, Vanya pulls a shirt towards him and replies in Russian. “Speak up. I can barely hear you mocking me over the piped music.”

  “I’m not mocking you. I’m surprised, that’s all. You should know me well enough to tell the difference by now. I only suggested you practice your English, not….”

  “Not what? Talk to that customer for so long?” Vanya shrugs. “It… it was easier than I expected,” he admits. “A lot easier. I understood almost everything he said. Besides, it was you who said I should expand my vocab.”

  Kaspar’s surprisingly stern. “Yes, but that was before I saw his face.” His hands clench around expensive fabric even as his expression softens. “That black eye looked fresh. You think I would ever make you speak to someone violent?”

  No.

  Vanya doesn’t, not when they spend so much time avoiding violence at the hostel.

  Kaspar isn’t done yet. He leans close, regretful. “What if he was homophobic and I pushed you in his direction?”

  “He wasn’t.” Quite the opposite, it turns out. Vanya carefully folds clothes that cost more than he could ever dream of blowing on a single garment, but each item on this counter is crumpled, left on the changing room floor like it’s worthless. He finishes refolding a shirt he might have treated equally casually before he learned the real value of money. It’s something he could have bought for a single evening before discarding in his old life. Now the price tags leave him vaguely queasy. “But anyway, why would he get offended? I didn’t exactly come on to him.”

  Kaspar’s eyebrows rise even higher, like he just heard a bald lie.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Vanya, I watched you. You didn’t take your eyes off him even once. And you spent ages talking to him. I’ve never seen you do that.”

  Vanya shrugs. “I had to.” He focuses on the next shirt rather than meet Kaspar’s eye. “And I have to keep doing it,” he insists. “I have to get over talking to strangers if I’m going to improve my English. Besides, I can’t stay scared forever.” He lifts his chin in time to see Kaspar’s slow nod. It comes with a solemn expression.

  “No one’s going to hurt me like they did in Moscow—not that customer or any of the dicks who hang around the hostel. Yes, I froze the first time someone started trouble, and I’m glad you stopped them”—strength in numbers really matters where they live—“but you don’t have to keep watch over me every minute. Okay, that guy had a black eye, but he seemed….” Vanya pauses, unwilling to say aloud that Kaspar was right in one way, at least. There had been a lot to like about that customer, especially the way his cool gaze melted somehow, warm whenever he smiled with honest humour. “He was okay.” He teases to lighten a moment that’s suddenly weighted. “Actually, he was my type.”

  “Maybe you should find another type to go for.” Kaspar quits talking while folding another shirt, but this time hi
s movements are quick and jerky, like tension guides his motions. “I didn’t even notice the black eye until you two had already started talking. It reminded me of the photos in your evidence folder. The ones taken right after you—” He blinks fast a few times and stammers. “I-I didn’t open it on purpose. It slipped from your bed.”

  Vanya holds up a hand—stop—then lets it fall, done with thinking today about why he fled his country. “He told me he wasn’t the one throwing punches.” He pushes away from the counter when a customer approaches, and he speaks one more time in English. “See later at home?”

  Kaspar adds the pronoun he missed. “See you later.” Maybe he notices Vanya’s reluctance to leave. He adds some more in Russian. “Let me get back to earning enough cash to rent somewhere better for us. We almost have enough for a deposit, so stay positive. Go to the library or launderette if you’re worried about being alone at the hostel. I’ll be back this evening.”

  Vanya nods rather than insist that the hostel doesn’t scare him—the place itself isn’t the problem; it’s the threatening atmosphere that’s lately grown much thicker. Now that his English is good enough to translate newspaper headlines, he knows the rising tide of tension isn’t limited to London. It’s a national problem.

  He wishes, as he heads to the exit, that his customer hadn’t left in such a hurry. It doesn’t matter that the bruising around his eye was vicious or that he dressed like fashion was a foreign concept. Spending more time with him to practice his English is a hundred times more appealing than where he’s headed.

  No, make that a thousand.

  It wasn’t only that he’d been easy to talk with. He hadn’t mocked Vanya’s grammar or tried to hurry him when he stumbled over phrasing. Some people rushed to finish sentences for him, leaving him wondering exactly what he messed up. That was no way to learn a second language. His customer, on the other hand, had patiently waited him out.

  He puts off returning to the hostel by visiting the closest library to it, where he waits for a turn on a computer. It’s bustling inside while rain drips and drizzles outside, a rare cost-free place for people like him with more time on their hands than options. He settles in front of a computer screen. A storytelling session starts in the children’s section, Vanya listening like the children as he types an email to his mother.

  Each new word he understands without the use of Google feels like a small win, each phrase the children happily singsong adding to a tally of minor victories that make him feel accomplished. Just like the little ones who gather around the storyteller, he silently repeats her phrasing. Only he can’t help noticing as the story approaches its finale that not all the children join in.

  Slow down, he silently begs as the story races to its climax. You’re reading too fast for them to keep up. His hand tenses around the mouse. Some of these children can’t speak English. He can easily tell that from their baffled expressions, so why can’t she? Make sure they can at least see the pictures. If only he could speak up for them in English. Stop and ask them questions, he begs silently in Russian. It could be the one time today they get to feel important.

  His thoughts echo classroom observations from his first year of teaching practice. He rushed through stories too, without thinking of each child’s unique contribution. A second semester with a decent mentor taught him to observe twice as much before speaking. In his final year of study, stories became vehicles the children drove to their own destinations; pride fostered when they knew their opinions mattered.

  It’s beyond sad that he’ll never get to use his hard-won practice.

  He keeps that thought to himself, just like he carefully files his unfinished email to his mother, stowing it safely with all the others in a drafts folder that’s full to bursting. Then, his free half hour up, he leaves the warmth of the library, reluctance slowing his steps.

  He’d offer to volunteer if his English was better. That wouldn’t count as paid work so wouldn’t jeopardise his plea for asylum. With more practice he could help those children integrate so much faster.

  A broad-shouldered man crosses his path, his face set in British blankness rather than expressive like the customer back in Bond Street.

  Wishing for more time with him to help improve his English is completely pointless.

  In a city teaming with millions of strangers, there’s no chance of their paths crossing.

  Chapter Four

  Bond Street is a sea of shoppers. Jason takes a far less crowded side street to the coffee shop where Andrew’s due to meet him.

  He stops before he gets there.

  Maybe he should take a moment before he’s face-to-face with his foster brother—gather his thoughts so he doesn’t put his foot in his mouth all over again. And he definitely shouldn’t arrive empty handed. An envelope design on a shopper’s carrier bag lends inspiration. He backtracks to a greeting card store, taking awhile to find the correct section before a card decorated with two black bowties catches his attention. He plucks it from the shelf.

  The groom and groom thank you for your kind gift!

  Marriage was unimaginable when he’d first grasped his orientation; a concept designed for other people. At least same-sex marriage becoming common enough to warrant its own shelf these days is a sign that foolishness doesn’t discriminate. His snort is soft as he slides the card back into place. Foolishness and a bizarre extension of hope that luck will prevail despite evidence to the contrary. He selects another card featuring a simple horseshoe. The message it contains is straightforward as well—a wedding acceptance he should have sent already, he knows, as he scribbles his name inside.

  Andrew is waiting when he finally gets to the coffee shop. He still wears his suit jacket despite the mugginess of the cramped shop, apparently serious about not sparing Jason much time. His expression is certainly sombre, his gaze intent as Jason weaves between crowded tables.

  Relieving him of his best-man duties probably won’t take too long.

  That happening seems likely when Andrew doesn’t return his greeting. He doesn’t acknowledge the envelope Jason holds out either. Instead, he abruptly stands, raising the same hand he last used to strike him.

  Jason doesn’t flinch. He hadn’t last night either. He only exhales when Andrew makes gentle contact, his knuckles skimming the side of his face, retracing where they last made impact. Jason watches Andrew’s lips press together, a familiar half-moon scar—so small a stranger wouldn’t notice—whitening as they tighten. It disappears almost completely when Andrew speaks.

  “I meant what I said in my text. Mum would kill me if she could see this.” His thumb pressing Jason’s cheekbone adds a sudden sharp sting. “She’d turn over in her grave, then find a way to knock our heads together.”

  “She would.” Jason inclines his head until Andrew lets go, the press of his hand lingering after his hand drops. “She’d lose her shit like she did when I kicked out your tooth.” That faint scar on Andrew’s lip is a long-lasting reminder. He thrusts the card into Andrew’s hands until he takes it. “This is for you.” He clears his throat. “Actually, it’s for you and Chantel.” He takes a seat when Andrew drops heavily into his own.

  A waiter delivers an order to their table as Andrew shrugs out of his jacket. “I really haven’t got long, so I got our drinks to go.” Two takeaway cups of coffee stand next to a solitary flapjack—Jason’s all-time favourite.

  He must be forgiven.

  Relief makes him joke a little. “Trying to sweeten me up? I thought that would be my job.” He lifts the lid of his cup and adds sugar, watching it sink through the white foam before stirring, only looking up when Andrew doesn’t answer.

  Andrew’s expression is as serious as Jason has ever seen it, closed where he’s usually wide open. “Listen,” Andrew says, “I feel awful about what happened last night.”

  “There’s no need. I know you didn’t mean to—”

  Andrew interrupts, insistent. “Here’s the thing, mate. I did mean it.” He presses
his lips together again, scar a bright-white danger signal. “Not to hurt you, obviously. I was aiming for the punchbag behind you, I promise. And now I know you’re an idiot who puts his face where he shouldn’t, I’ll never risk lashing out anywhere near you again. But if you’re going to talk that way about Chantel….” He shakes his head. “You have to know I won’t listen. I can’t listen, so I can’t be around you if you’re planning on repeating any of it.”

  A chunk of flapjack clings stickily to Jason’s fingers, suddenly a whole lot less appetising. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. I am.” Andrew pulls the lid from his own cup, eyes fixed on its contents. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on it so much sooner. I feel stupid for not noticing.”

  “Not noticing what?”

  “That you hate her.”

  Hate is such a strong word—one Jason’s sure he hasn’t said aloud. But now that he’s had time to think about it, what he implied last night surely comes close. He stuffs some flapjack into his mouth, aware that, while it must be moist and gooey, it distinctly tastes of ashes.

  Andrew lifts his cup before putting it down without taking a sip. “I was angry. I still am. Angry about what you said, furious about what I did in response, even if it was accidental, and so pissed off about the whole situation. It all came out of the blue.” He hangs his head before he says, “I can’t believe how I reacted. I thought thumping the punchbag would make me feel better. But Chantel made me sit down afterwards and think it through.”

  No matter how much he chews, Jason’s no closer to swallowing.

  “She asked if you were as vocal about disliking my first wife before we married.”

  Finally, he forces down his mouthful. “You told Chantel what I said about her?”

  “Of course I didn’t.” Andrew’s glance is a flash of cool steel instead of its usual soft blue. “She knew something was wrong the minute I phoned her after midnight. Didn’t take her long to figure out you were the reason. There aren’t that many people left I care about enough to lose sleep over.”