The best man

Chapter 3

My day starts the same as always—no plans, no surprises. I get ready for work, slipping into the routine that's become second nature. But just as I'm about to leave, my phone buzzes.

It's from Conor.

"Hey Lily. I'm sorry for yesterday. I didn't mean to act weird. Have a great day."

My stomach tightens as I read the message. *Weird?* I know exactly what he's referring to. Yesterday, after the bridesmaid fitting, he asked me for pictures. At the time, I thought it was strange, but I brushed it off, like I always do with Conor. He has this way of making everything seem casual, like it's no big deal, even when it crosses a line. And now, here he is, acknowledging it.

I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, but I don't reply. What am I supposed to say? That it *was* weird? That I don't understand why he'd ask for pictures like that? I shove my phone into my pocket, deciding it's easier to just let it sit. Maybe if I ignore it, it'll stop bothering me.

But as I go through my day, the message lingers in the back of my mind, replaying over and over again. He's sorry? For what exactly? For making me uncomfortable? For acting like we're still in some weird gray area when he's about to get married?

By the time my shift ends, I realize I never responded. I pull out my phone and quickly type back something neutral, wanting to keep it light.

"It's okay. Have a great one."

Almost instantly, another buzz.

"Are you keen for a coffee tomorrow?"

My heart pounds. Coffee? Why? Why, after asking me for pictures yesterday, does he suddenly want to meet up? My chest tightens with the familiar anxiety, the same one that always comes when he tries to blur the lines between friendship and whatever else this is.

I don't reply. Instead, I pocket my phone again and head to the grocery store. But even as I wander the aisles, picking out ingredients for dinner, my mind can't let it go. *Should I see him?* The thought alone makes me feel nauseous. The memory of him casually asking for photos is still fresh, and the idea of sitting across from him, pretending everything's fine, feels impossible.

I grab a box of pasta and toss it into my cart, but I can't shake the questions running through my mind. *What does he want?* Yesterday, he acted like it was no big deal. He made a joke, laughed it off, like it was just a friendly request. But it wasn't. It didn't feel friendly. It felt invasive, like he was pushing past a boundary I didn't even know was there.

As I walk down the aisle, I remember how he's done this before—made small comments, asked things that don't sit right with me—and I always let it slide. Because he's Conor. My friend. The one I've been in love with for years, the one who knows how to toe the line just enough to keep me close, but never enough to really cross it.

I'm back home before I even realize it, my thoughts still tangled in knots. I set the groceries down and start prepping dinner, trying to focus on the rhythm of chopping vegetables and the soothing hum of jazz in the background. But the questions won't stop. *Why now? Why is he so eager to see me after yesterday? He's been ignoring me for the past two days!*

The request for pictures replays in my mind, and it makes my stomach turn. I didn't say anything then, but it felt wrong. I'm not just some Best man, some casual part of his wedding. I'm *me*. I'm the one who's been here through everything, the one who's stuck by him through every confusing moment of this mess. And now, he wants coffee? As if that's going to make it better?

I stir the sauce, but my mind is far from the kitchen. Seeing him tomorrow might give me answers—answers I've been craving for years. But it might also open old wounds I've tried so hard to heal. He's engaged now. His life is moving forward, and yet, he's still pulling me into these uncomfortable situations. Does he even realize how much this hurts? Or does he just not care?

I sit down at the table with my meal, but my appetite is gone. All I can think about is the tension between us, the way it's grown heavier over the years. Seeing him tomorrow might give me a chance to finally say what I've been holding back, but I'm scared. Scared of what I might hear. Scared of how much more it might hurt.

I push the food around on my plate, the weight of the decision pressing down on me. Should I go? Or should I walk away before this gets even messier?