Love Sex & Other Games (Part 1) by Cheryl McIntyre

 
    THE C ATASTROPHE
     
     
    Cooper
     
     
    “Fuck it.”
    Famous last words spoken by the biggest of idiots preceding monumental mistakes since the existence of man.
    I swallow down my eighth—ninth?—shot of whiskey and chase it with the last of my Corona. Leslie, the maid of honor—laughable title for someone who is neither a maiden nor honorable—is staring down at me with a smile faker than her tan and tits put together. Her jaw is set so tight I cringe at the sound of her teeth grinding together. With a sigh, I jerk the proffered microphone from her outstretched hand and push my seat back. Her subsequent smirk is purely evil. The chick is a bitch all the way down to her black soulless core. This is payback for the pump-n-dump—I’m sorry, the one-night-stand— following a weekend’s worth of drinking, which just so happened to be the same weekend as Miles’ bachelor party. Coincidence? Definitely not. I was lit out of my mind, pissed off, depressed…and she was there. When she kissed me, I’m pretty sure I mumbled “fuck it” into those collagen-filled lips as I gave in and kissed her back. Like I said, famous last words.
    Maybe I should consider cutting down on the drinking .
    Meh, I don’t want to do anything too hasty. Speaking of which…
    It’s quiet, everyone waiting for the best man— me —to speak. It’s customary—a ritual of the wedding reception. It’s expected of me. However, Miles and I had an agreement: No speeches, no toasting, no scenes—no problem.
    His nervous grin does jack-shit to help me out and once again, he makes it crystal clear where his alliance lies. Not with his so-called best friend, not with his blood— not me . And if he doesn’t see the need to hold up his end of the bargain, then neither do I.
    My eyes feel heavy as I scan the eager faces waiting patiently for a heart-felt sentiment from the guy who held the bride’s ring in his breast pocket. I chuckle dryly. They’re going to be waiting for a hell of a long time.
    I clear my throat and blow softly against the mic, verifying it’s in perfect working order. With one last glance at Miles— my brother —I start talking.
    “I’ve known Roselyn almost as long as I’ve known Miles. For anyone who isn’t aware of this, we moved into the house across the street from hers when I was three. Miles was one. And Rosie, well, she was right in between.” I look at her and she beams back at me, resting her chin in her palm. The brand new wedding band on her ring finger catches the light, winking at me, mocking me.
    “And that’s pretty much how it’s always been for us. Miles and me, and Rosie Metz in-between.” I scratch my jaw, rough from a day—or maybe two—missed shaving.
    “Living steps away from one of the coolest and prettiest girls either of us Fitzpatrick boys had ever met, it’s natural that as the years went on, we crushed hard. Rosie, on the other hand…” I pause, playfully pointing a finger in her direction. She laughs, knowing what I’m about to say. “She didn’t look at us that way, though. We were just the neighbor boys. Her buddies. Her best friends. But we didn’t mind. Not even a little. As long as she paid attention to us, we were thrilled. The three of us became inseparable—that’s what our parents used to call us. Three bodies, joined together at the hips, isn’t that right, mom?” I find my mother seated straight across from the bridal table. Her smile is tight, forced, a nervous twitch to her right eye as she nods in agreement before finishing off her glass of champagne. Isn’t she supposed to save that until the end of my speech? That right there should be enough to slow my roll, but the whiskey is doing a damn-fine job encouraging me to continue.
    “Yeah, joined at the hips. That’s because we went everywhere together. Did everything together. Did you know Miles and I both took Rosie to every school dance until I graduated? Every one.” I chuckle into the mic, but