What the best man is supposed to do: Make sure the groom shows up, sober and on time. Keep track of the rings. Make sure the groomsmen are ready, dressed, and behaving.
What the best man is absolutely not supposed to do: Mess up the groom’s tie just so he can straighten it again. Adjust the groom’s pocket square so he can rest his hand on the groom’s chest. Definitely not supposed to stare into the groom’s eyes, whisper in his ear, cling too long in one last hug.
Inside my pocket, I slip the ring on my finger.
Her voice lifts when I tell her who’s calling. We chat a bit about the pitiful, gray rain that was supposed to be a full-on blizzard.
I explain that I need her help finding a document for the bank. “They can’t open the account without it.”
“There’s a file cabinet I could check,” she offers.
I say, “No rush,” though the bank would disagree. I picture her hair draping against her neck, and her small hands with their silver, spinning rings. I imagine us searching the dim attic together in thoughtful silence, the quiet stacks of books keeping my secret.