Arlo

I am the best man. It’s a title that feels more like a death sentence. In exactly seven days, I will stand at an altar and watch my oldest, safest, most predictable friend marry the only woman I have ever loved. She thinks she is making the right choice—choosing stability over passion, a quiet harbor over a storm. But I know her better than she knows herself. I see the panic in her eyes when she looks at the centerpieces, the way her smile doesn't reach her eyes, the way she is slowly suffocating in his perfectly structured world. I stepped aside years ago because I thought my chaotic life would ruin her. Now, I have one week to convince her that my chaos is exactly what she needs to survive. There is a specific, agonizing irony in renting a tuxedo to attend your own funeral. I stare at my reflection in the mirror of the tailor’s shop, adjusting the black bow tie at my throat. It looks like a noose. Beside me on the velvet sofa, my oldest friend, Arthur, is enthusiastically discussing the thread count of the napkins with the tailor. Arthur is a good man. He is a predictable man. And in seven days, he is going to marry her. I can already picture her walking down the aisle. I can picture the way she will smile—that tight, practiced, porcelain smile she has perfected over the last three years. The smile that fools everyone in the world. Everyone except me. I let Arthur have her because I thought I was a grenade, and Arthur was a bunker. I thought I was saving her. I realize my mistake. I didn't put her in a bunker. I put her in a cage. And I have exactly one week to pick the lock before she throws away the key.