The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

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.

“Damn, if you need more reasons than the ones I gave you, San Antonio, we have a problem.” Now I’m the one furrowing my brows. “You mean ‘Houston, we have a problem.’” “Nah, my last girlfriend was from that city. Refuse to say it on principle.”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” I gulp before I speak. “It’s a little . . . loud.” And that’s an understatement. It’s a purple Lycra glitter bomb with flesh-tone mesh panels along the waist and hips. Think Real Housewives of New Jersey meets Dancing with the Stars meets the ladies of World Wrestling Entertainment. My mother and Izabel, for their part, are wearing neutral-toned dresses that complement the wedding palette. “It’s perfect for the reception,” Viviane counters. “It’s going to look great under the lights when I’m on the dance floor.” Natalia groans. “With the amount of sparkle on it, that dress will be the lights on the dance floor. Disco lights, more specifically. We’ll certainly save money on energy costs, at least.”