The Better Man

short fiction

I may have inadvertently started a tradition last year. One where I don’t share a holiday-themed story with you during the holidays (I rarely write such stories), but rather one that speaks to the heart of what many of us believe the holidays should be about. Peace, love, goodwill, gratitude, forgiveness, generosity, and a collective desire to better ourselves, our lives, and the lives of those dear to us, in the New Year.

May today’s gift from the Stock Fiction archive provide some hope that the betterness we seek is attainable. It may just require a bit of bravery, a sliver of self-sacrifice, and a hint of humility on our part to secure it.

Best (or even better) to you and yours this holiday season (and beyond),

-Meg O.

photo by Johnny Greig

The Better Man

(originally published December, 2022)

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Maybe I’m just feeling sentimental. Something about being in a tuxedo among friends and family dressed like royalty for an afternoon makes everything feel softer. More bendy. Less brittle.

Or maybe it’s the job. My responsibility. Something a Best Man would do for his best friend of twenty years on his wedding day.

Even if it seems really fucked up given the circumstances.

Or maybe I just can’t bring myself to say no again. He’s heard it so many times.

The first time, we were in second grade.

And I had an easy out.

“We’re only eight. And we’re not even brothers.”

“We don’t have to be brothers,” he said.

“Yeah, we do. That’s only okay if the person is in your family. Like a brother or a cousin.”

“What about when parents do it?”

“They’re grownups. It’s different for grownups.”

“Okay,” he said.

And I could tell it was.

The second time, we were in sixth grade.

I almost pissed myself, I was so embarrassed.

“Oh my god. You can’t… like… say stuff like that out loud. What if somebody heard you?”

“There’s no one else here,” he said.

“Still. Just… don’t say stuff like that—to me—like, ever. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

But I could tell it wasn’t.

“Look, just ask someone else. A girl maybe.”

He nodded and I looked away when I saw tears in his eyes.

It was bad enough that he was asking me. Out loud. At school. I didn’t need to deal with him crying about it, too.

That wasn’t my job.

The next time I sensed the question was coming, I sabotaged it.

I was fifteen, and I had just had my first real kiss. Not with a family member. A grownup kiss. With a girl. A real girl. And I wanted to tell him about it. Not just because it was fucking awesome, but because I wanted him to get excited about kissing girls—because kissing girls was fucking awesome!

I told him I was really nervous before it happened, but that just made it better. Like there was all this crazy stuff going on in my body and it just got crazier and crazier the closer we got to kissing.

And then she kissed me, and it was like a bomb went off inside me. I wanted to scream and run, but I also wanted to stay right where I was. Like… forever.

I wanted to grab her and push her away at the same time. I wanted to keep what I was feeling a secret, but I also wanted everyone in the world to know about it.

I wanted everyone in the world to feel what I was feeling.

He didn’t congratulate me. He didn’t high five me or ask me to tell him more.

He didn’t want to hear it. He got up and left.

And it pissed me off.

The last time he asked me, we were eighteen.

I almost murdered him.

We were at a party. I was drunk. He found me in the garage, alone.

And he asked me. Again.

“Fuck off,” I told him.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he said. “I just… I need to know.”

“Then ask someone else!” I shouted. “Jesus Christ, man. How many times do I need to say no before you figure it out!? It’s not happening!” I got right up in his face, and he cowered. He was taller than me by six inches. But not in that moment. “Ask. Someone. Else.” I shoved him backward and started to walk away.

“But you’re my best friend.”

It stopped me in my tracks, but I didn’t turn around.

“Fuck off.”

My skin started to prickle. My muscles tensed. I felt him approaching me, silently. My head was a mess. The room spinning. My stomach churning over a night’s worth of bad decisions.

A sober me would have known he was just making a graceful exit. Because that’s who my best friend was. A guy who always made a graceful exit. No matter how humiliated he was.

But I wasn’t a sober me. I was a drunk, stupid, heartless, insecure, bully me.  

When his shadow passed mine on the cement floor, I took it as a threat. That he was going to try something. I turned with my fist cocked and slammed it into his unsuspecting face.

I felt his nose break under my knuckles. Heard him cry out in pain. Felt his heart shatter into a million pieces.

A bomb went off inside me.  

I panicked and fell to my knees. There was blood on my hand, blood on his clothes, blood coursing through my veins so fast I thought I had turned into something. Something monstrous.

“I’m sorry,” I cried. “Oh, Jesus, man, I’m sorry.” I tried to help him up, but he held his hands out in front of him, protectively. He was afraid. Of me.

He got to his feet and wiped his nose on the back of his hand, smearing it with blood. I looked up into his broken face and my eyes filled with tears.

He didn’t acknowledge my emotion. Or my apology. And I didn’t blame him.

It was bad enough I punched my best friend of fifteen years in the face. He didn’t need to deal with me crying about it.

That wasn’t his job.

We reconnected two years ago. I found him on Facebook, by accident, through a friend of a friend of a girl. The girl who was dating him at the time. A beautiful girl who made him happy. Happy enough that he asked her to marry him. And happy enough to forgive his best friend for being an asshole and offer him a chance to redeem himself as Best Man at his wedding.

And I’m not about throw that chance away.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.

 He nods. “I need to know,” he says. “Before it’s too late.”

“But we’re only twenty-six. And we’re not even brothers.”

He laughs and it makes his now asymmetrical nose scrunch up.

“No,” he says. “But we are grownups.”

“Good point,” I say.

It’s different for grownups.

I take a deep breath.

My shoulders won’t settle down and my jaw keeps clenching involuntarily, but I’m committed. I’m doing this. I’m the Best Man, dammit.

This is my job.

“Okay,” I say, willing my shoulders to drop down from my ears. “Go for it.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Maybe he’s afraid I’m going to change my mind. But I keep my feet planted, my eyes closed, and my lips receptive—to the kiss he’s been asking me for since second grade.

There isn’t much going on inside my body. No bombs or fireworks or screaming urges to stay or fight or run away. If I was going to describe the kiss, I would use words like… prickly. Unobtrusive. Respectful.

And if someone wanted to twist my arm about it, I would even admit… nice.

He keeps his hands to himself, and I appreciate that. But I don’t need him to touch me to know what I’m going to see when this is over.

I’m going to see a guy who doesn’t want to keep everything he’s feeling a secret anymore. A guy who wants everyone in the world to know about it. A guy who wants the chance to feel what everyone else is feeling.

For once in his life.  

The kiss ends, and I take a quick minute to step back, clear my throat, adjust my tie and fidget incessantly until I manage to shake off what remains of the awkwardness. Which I’ll admit, isn’t all that much.

My Best Man instincts return just in time to manage his breakdown.

I feel strangely prepared for it. It’s a conversation I’ve had in my head before, so I’m not surprised by anything he’s saying. I never imagined it happening on his wedding day, but sometimes the higher the stakes the more powerful the breakthrough. And I don’t think they get much higher than this.

I pick him up, dust him off, and help him get his shit together.

I tell him this is going to suck. For pretty much everyone involved. I tell him there’s no way in hell he’s going to manage a graceful exit this time.

It’s going to be ugly.

He’s going to stumble and trip and fall flat on his face, in front of a hundred of his closest friends. Not to mention the beautiful girl he promised to marry.

But he’s not going to do any of that by himself.

I offer him my hand, and he takes it reluctantly. I shake off the awkward feeling of it not feeling awkward at all to hold a guy’s hand. Especially this guy.

Or to walk him into a church.

Or stand next to him while he tells his fiancé he’s gay.

I keep my mouth shut, my feet planted, and my eyes open, as I watch what was once bendy between them become brittle.

And shatter into a million pieces.

I hear him grovel. I feel her seethe. I grit my teeth against my own infuriating urge to cry.

It’s bad enough I had a hand in sabotaging their wedding. They don’t need to see me crying about it.

She tells him to “fuck off.” But in a slightly nicer way than I once did.

And we leave.

I don’t congratulate him. He doesn’t ask for a high-five. Because he isn’t celebrating. He’s grieving.

And when he asks me for hug I say, “yes.” Immediately.

And I hold onto him until he doesn’t need me to anymore.

But then I need to hold onto him just a little bit longer.

Because I’m afraid. For him.

And part of me is wishing I had just given him the easy out years ago. Given him the graceful exit from the closet he deserved.

But I needed to grow up.

He slaps me on the back, and I let him go. We clear out throats and adjust our ties and laugh awkwardly to cover up what’s left of our tears.

He thanks me for being his best friend today. Not his Best Man. And I get that.

I don’t think it was my job to be the best man.

I just needed to be a better one.

photo by Neustockimages