The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

It’s not lost on me that Max has settled into his role like an Academy Award–winning actor while his older brother’s flopping around like a stuffed animal being dragged by a toddler. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, but I’m too anxious to absorb it.

Haven’t you ever heard of multitasking? You can impress this Rebecca person and make the Brothers Karafuckoff suffer.” I shake my head. “Dostoevsky, Natalia? Seriously?” She pretends to brush off her shoulders. “What can I say? My dragging skills are multifaceted.”

He’s that friend you always find your way back to, the one who knows all your secrets and doesn’t care that you’re flawed, the one who’s seen your “before” pictures because he’s in them.

“You mean ‘Houston, we have a problem.’” “Nah, my last girlfriend was from that city. Refuse to say it on principle.” I bark out a laugh. “Just when I decide you’re the brightest person I know, you say some ridiculous shit like that.”

“Thing is,” he says, his chin resting on my head, “there’s no single way to be a badass. Your mother and aunts coming here and making new lives for themselves? Badass. My mother running her own firm even after she and my father divorced? Badass. You facing the obstacles in your path and reinventing yourself in the process? Badass. There’s room for different kinds of greatness. Even if you cry doing it. Hell, especially if you cry doing it.”

Sure, love can be messy. It draws emotions out of you that can bring you your highest highs and your lowest lows. But here’s what I’ve finally figured out. Love doesn’t operate in the abstract, whether it’s romantic or not. It’s between people. So trying to avoid it in the abstract makes no sense.