“I sleep plenty.”
“How many hours?”
“A few here and there. I’ll sleep when I’m old.”
“How many?”
I glare at him. “Is this what you’re like in cop mode? Four hours. Maybe. Sleeping is for sissies.”
“You can’t keep going like this,” he says.
“Yes, I certainly can. Watch me. The wedding is in days, Mickey. The chairs are the wrong shade of ivory. Callie’s mother has been calling me four times a day about stupid shit. I need to do a final ceremony walkthrough, confirm the DJand deal with the caterer’s gluten-free menu. I’m doing all of this while driving four hours a day to bring you food because I physically cannot make myself stop. So don’t even start in about that. I don’t want to hear it.”
It comes out in a rush, my hands doing half the talking. I’m leaning forward in the chair and my ribs are yelling. The exhaustion is pressing down on me. He doesn’t need to see me like this. He needs someone with positive energy who can brighten up his room.
“How are your ribs?” he asks. “You winced when you sat down. Still hurting?”
“They’re fine.”
“You never got the X-ray.”
“I’ve been too busy. I’m fine. They’ll heal. They’ve taken a beating before and I lived.”
“Damn, Benji. Do you make a habit of getting beat up? You need to stop coming every day. You’ve got a wedding to take care of. You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. Your ribs are hurt and you haven’t seen a doctor. You’re going to collapse from exhaustion. Stop worrying about me. I’m in a hospital. I’ve got doctors and Tex is coming. You don’t need to be here. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” I say. “You’re lying in a hospital bed and you can’t feel your legs. You’re telling me you’re fine the same way I’m telling you my ribs are fine, which is to say we’re both full of shit and we both know it. It is what it is. We’re both fucking liars. Admit it. It takes one to know one.”
He shakes his head at me then digs into the bag of food before placing it all on his tray table. I grab a hamburger and push everything else towards his side of the table.
“My best friend Dante is flying in soon,” I say. “He’s coming to help with the wedding. He offered to handle the vendors. We’ve done this before. We worked a wedding in Miami Beach where the groom’s ex-girlfriend showed up with a megaphone and started reading his text messages to the crowd. Dante talked her down while I hid the bride in a coat closet with a bottle of champagne. We saved the wedding from becoming a news story. We’re a good team.”
“Is he a wedding planner too?” he asks before popping a fry into his mouth.
“No, he’s actually a real estate agent, but he can do anything. I mean absolutely anything. Which is great for me because sometimes I get in over my head and need help. Plus, he’s handsome and charming. When things start to fall apart, I send him in to soothe the mothers of the brides, or the brides. One time I even sent him to calm the father of the bride down when he realized how much the wedding and reception was costing him. I think that man turned a little bit gay that day. Dante had him eating out of his hand. And when Dante needs help staging a condo or doing an open house, I’m there for him. We help each other.”
“What does Dante think about all this?” Mickey asks.
“About what? Me doing a wedding in the Panhandle?”
“Sure, and you driving back and forth to see me every day.”
“Dante thinks the wedding here is a good move for my career. The bride’s mother found me through a referral in Miami. She attended a wedding I did last summer and offered me too much money to turn it down. It’s a good opportunity to spread my wings. Or that’s what he says. Of course, he’s never been to the Panhandle. He might change his mind when he gets here and sees what I’m dealing with.”
“And about the driving here every day? What does he say about that?”
“Dante thinks I’ve lost my mind,” I admit. “He said so. Multiple times. In both English and Spanish.”
“Have you considered that he might be right?”
“No, I don’t listen to Dante. It’s the foundation of our friendship. He tells me the smart thing to do, I do the opposite, then he shows up to help me survive the consequences of my actions. It’s been working for seven years. I don’t know why he puts up with me.”
“That’s a long friendship.”
“We met in Miami when I was twenty-one. I was working my first wedding solo, a disaster on South Beach. The tent collapsed during cocktail hour. Dante was a guest. He walked up to me while I was standing in the wreckage of a thousand-dollar floral arch having a panic attack and he said, ‘You look like you need a drink and an extra set of hands.’ He helped me rebuild the arch out of whatever we could find, and by the end of the night the bride said it was the most unique wedding she’d ever been to. We’ve been inseparable since.”
“He sounds like good people.”
“He’s the best,” I say. “He’s the only person in my life besides my Mom and Aunt who I’ve never had to perform for. Everyone else gets the show. Dante accepts me exactly as I am.”
