My Best Man Andy Schell (top rated ebook readers .TXT) 📖

I give them extras and roll my eyes while looking at Amity. “What is it with these peanuts?” I ask as we push the cart on to the next row.

“They help people poop,” Amity explains. The woman sitting in the aisle seat looks horrified. Amity smiles, turns on the charm, and asks, “Would you care for a beverage, ma’am?”

“I’d like a Diet Seven-Up,” the woman snips, “and no peanuts.” I’ll take hers,” the guy sitting next to her says.

Amity hands the man two bags of peanuts, winks, and says, “Hope everything comes out OK.” Then she pours the woman her beverage, lays the napkin gently onto her tray, and sets the drink down precisely, as if this were a Japanese tea service.

I continue. “My boyfriend, Matthew …”

When the rock-solid guy in the Texas Rangers baseball cap hears me, he looks as if he’s going to puke. When I pause to take his drink order, he looks at me in disgust and shakes his head. I keep forgetting that I’m not insulated by academia anymore, that some people in the real world won’t take a drink from a gay person.

“Matthew was one of those phony-baloney people who majored in psychology so he wouldn’t have to deal with his own feelings. My dad’s body is barely cold, and my boyfriend doesn’t think a thing about breaking up with me. Drink, ma’am?”

The woman declines, not because I’m gay, I think, but because she’s creeped out by talk of my dad’s dead body. “What about your momma?” Amity asks. “She’s already remarried,” I answer.

“G’yaw, Bubba. People move fast around you! Beverage, sir?” The gentleman orders a hot Bloody Mary.

“One spicy B.M. coming down the pike,” Amity announces as if the peanuts are working on her.

“My mom is one of those resilient Midwest women,” I say. “Onward and upward. She wastes no time.” I hand out two Pepsis and notice that my drawer of peanuts is empty. “I need poop inducers.”

She happily throws me two bags, I catch one, miss the other. “Gay guys can’t catch!” she yells. People turn in their seats. I’m embarrassed, but there’s something so honest about her I know she’s not trying to harass me. Somehow, I ignore the stares. We move on.

By the time we get to the last row, I’ve poured out more of my innards than I have soda, juice, and coffee. I’ve explained that with my father gone, my boyfriend gone, and my mother’s new surname and life, I feel left behind. Lost. No family. No school peers. Nobody to hang with. The only thing I’ve edited is the existence of my brother. I just can’t stand to talk about him right now not since the reading of the will. Through it all, Amity is an extraordinary listener, as if everything I’m saying is absolutely fascinating, She has an instinct for when to be quiet and when to make a joke, and even though I’m a little needy now, she’s cool enough not to make me feel like some pathetic washout. I’m grateful.

Near the end of the flight, I stand with Amity and Jacqueline in the rear galley. Amity breaks open a bottle of champagne she’s taken from first class and pours rations into three Styrofoam cups …… so no passenger will know what we’re drinking and we toast to “New friends!” as Amity warmly puts it. The flight attendant at

the front of the plane, in first class, ignores us. “How come she hasn’t come back here?” I ask.

“She’s one of those girls who makes the mistake of thinking that, because she’s working first class, she is first class. Misguided.”

I laugh. We down the champagne. I learn that Jacqueline and Amity are roommates, both twenty-six years old. They share a house near the DCU campus in Dallas. They each give me their phone numbers to their separate phone lines, and I tell them that I’m in the process of moving and will call with my new number. The truth is, Matthew ended it so quickly that I have nothing set up.

When the flight lands, I politely say my goodbyes at the front door and tell Amity it was nice to meet her. She agrees, then yells, ” “Bye, Harry! Love your guts!” Once I’m off the jet I decide to wait until Amity deplanes and ask her if she’d like to go for a late lunch. I’m standing there, in the gate area, when she exits the jetway, and just as I’m ready to approach her, this really hot guy in a khaki-colored business suit takes her into his arms and kisses her lips and then her neck. He picks up her luggage, and they stroll away while the loudspeaker announces the departure of a flight bound for Memphis.

Good for her.

“Hey,” a guy says. He’s also in a suit, also sexy. I recognize him from the flight. He’s very tall and lanky with sandy hair and an almost blond beard that is trimmed close to his face. “Sorry to hear about your boyfriend.” He must have been listening to our in-flight conversation. “Want to go for a beer?”

Good for me.

t’s 12:01 A.M.” and the pain is excruciating. I’m doubled over, riding in the passenger seat of the lanky guy’s car. After ten minutes that seem like twelve hours, we turn into the circular drive of the hospital, and he helps me out of his car and through the electronic doors. The emergency room is incredibly bright, and my agony is highlighted by the nuclear glow of a thousand fluorescent bulbs. As I limp toward the admitting desk, while leaning on the arm of this guy whose name I can’t remember, I notice a woman with a bloody broken nose who’s waiting in a chair beside a man. His cologne smells like Wife Beater he’s even wearing the white tank top underwear shirt. There’s also a guy who’s having some kind of allergic reaction; his head is redder than a ripe tomato while the rest of