Page 12 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Chapter Six

Harper

On the morning of Candace’s birthday dinner, Harper ran along the East River at a good clip.

He’d made a fairly successful effort to shake off the drama of yesterday.

It felt good to be back in his groove. This part of his life he knew how to do.

The running, the writing, the café with his favorite latte.

Along his usual path, this part of Brooklyn, down by the bridge, was now as cavernous as Manhattan.

This entire area was built up with luxury high-rises, trendy cafés, and boutiques.

Harper had the money now to live like he had made it.

The area certainly said “successful artist” amid all the hipsters, young families, and yoga pants mamas.

With a much clearer mind after his three-mile run, Harper walked into a French patisserie for that pistachio latte he loved so much, another place Jordan had introduced him to.

The cozy atmosphere and buttery scent of fresh baked pastries warmed Harper’s senses as he blew on his hands.

Oh yeah, he thought, Jordan swore by the almond croissant too.

Harper beelined for a table in the back to put his hat down like other folks reserving shit.

When in Rome…or in this case, BK to the fullest … .

This little bite would hold him over until tonight.

He was looking forward to top-notch Afro-Caribbean fusion cuisine this evening.

And most of all, seeing his peeps. So what that he’d be seventh wheeling it?

Better that than hiding behind his work deadline and being a recluse.

When he was married, Robyn would have insisted they go—she would have made it so he could be productive during the day and free to enjoy himself at the gathering.

They’d ride home recapping the night’s festivities, laughing about whatever wild shit Quentin said and snuggle in bed as he warmed her cold feet with his.

Tonight wouldn’t be like that, but he could still find a way to enjoy himself.

“Pistachio latte and almond croissant, that’s my favorite,” the cashier said, retrieving Harper’s pastry order. “And you got the last one.” She smiled. He’d seen her before, but she usually wasn’t as friendly.

“Lucky me,” Harper responded.

She gave an even bigger smile. “It’s room temp but I could give it a little extra heat if you’d like.”

“Ummm…” Harper hesitated even though he planned to sit, a reflex reaction to the thought of extra time in his routine. As always, work was calling.

“It’s no trouble, handsome. It’ll take less time than the drink,” she assured him.

“Go have a seat. I’ll bring it to you.” She was already headed to the café’s toaster before Harper could agree.

He decided to take the breather and returned to his seat at the window.

Jordan wasn’t physically there, but she’d introduced him to this place, told him what was good to order.

I miss her… he admitted, looking out the window.

Her imprint was here and everywhere in his life.

He couldn’t escape her—not that he even really wanted to.

When was the last time they’d spoken? Had it been months ago? Really? It was hard to remember.

“Here you go.” The barista slid into view, scattering his thoughts by depositing his beverage and a delicious smelling croissant on the table in front of him.

“Oh, hey. Thank you.” Harper smiled.

She smiled back at him. ‘?“No problem.” Then she gently laid a hand on his shoulder. “You doing all right today?”

“Yeah?” Harper responded, looking at her quizzically.

“You just look like you’re deep in thought. Figuring out the next great masterpiece?”

“Oh. Yeah. Kinda,” Harper admitted.

“We saw you on CBS yesterday. Definitely gonna pick up that Maverick Wilson thriller. Sounds intense.”

“It is. You’ll enjoy it,” Harper replied.

“Thanks for the tip. What’s on the agenda today? You have plans?”

Oh, shit. There’s that word again…“plans.”

“I’m…uh…yeah…working all day and then a gathering.” He stumbled through his words. Her head-tilt and crinkled forehead in response made him clarify. “A friend’s birthday dinner—for her fiftieth.”

“Oh, her fiftieth? That’s a big one. What’re you bringing?”

Bringing? Oh right … shit.

“Right…” Harper had been so focused on work, he hadn’t thought about bringing anything at all.

“Don’t show up empty-handed,” she declared with a wink and shoulder pat before sashaying behind the counter.

What does Candace even like? Harper pondered, sipping his latte and looking out the window at the falling drops of rain.

Seeking reinforcements, Harper sent a query text to Murch, who replied quickly with, Hey man, no worries.

Just a nice bottle of wine or something .

But Harper didn’t want to just give something so impersonal.

What does she even like? Red? Rosé? White?

Fuck. Harper messaged Murch again. In a quickly arriving reply, Murch only reiterated his last suggestion and emphasized that Harper simply “show up.”

Julian Murchinson met his wife Candace under inauspicious circumstances.

Their first encounter was at Lance’s bachelor party when she gave the showstopping performance as “Candy.” She and Murch just clicked.

It was a meet-cute that just happened to be with her bent over in a G-string.

Now that she was “Candace,” that image rarely entered Harper’s consciousness.

She’d since become a wife, mother, PhD scholar of plant-based medicines, and legit part of the crew.

Along the way, she and Robyn became close—and remainedso.

“I should ask Robyn,” he quietly mused aloud.

“That’s her girl.” Robyn would know; she was always great at giving gifts to everybody.

She had that skill. As it was Robyn’s midday in Accra, he debated calling versus texting her.

She really did it, getting away from me.

She’d moved all the way to another continent, and stayed there.

It was never easy for Harper to admit, especially when he still had a need for her in his life’s day-to-day.

Her need for him wasn’t as obvious. She’d managed to flip her Harlem-based food subscription service into a dope little spot with the same name, Robyn’s Nest, with a homey indoor-outdoor vibe perfect for Ghana’s tropical climate.

Harper felt good about who he’d become, the voice of a generation that Jordan had long predicted.

It’s just that Robyn seemed so…happy. Without him.

And that’s okay, he reminded himself, even despite their contentious divorce.

They were friends. Friends help each other find gifts for other friends, right?

Hey, his text to Robyn started. Hope you’re having a good day.

Candace’s 50th’s tonight. Need a great gift.

Any suggestions? You know what I’m like when left to my own devices.

Hence the text. Let me know. Harper hit send.

She was probably busy for sure, but it didn’t stop him from expectantly looking at his screen.

The three text bubbles popped up. Always reliable.

The bubbles bubbled, then stopped abruptly.

He quickly added: Sorry for the late notice.

I’m still me. After a beat, bubbles appeared again, then again disappeared.

By the time Harper finished his latte and croissant, there was still no response from Robyn. Harper was on his own.

Outside, the rain continued. Fuck. Harper walked swiftly down the cobblestone street on a mission to get a gift and return home as quickly as possible.

He’d certainly seen enough of gift options on his impromptu walking tour the day before.

Get the gift, get it over with, go back to work…

he chanted to himself with deliberate footsteps, trying to outpace the rain.

Certainly, he could find something. But gift-giving required a level of being present that Harper hadn’t mastered.

He began to wonder. I observe human behavior and write about it for a living, but I don’t have a personal connection to one of my closest friends’ wives?

How could he find the “just right gift” for Candace if he didn’t know her that well?

The realization stung sharply in the moment.

Harper knew he sucked at this, there was no question.

He didn’t even know where to start. His ’hood had everything women could want.

They were always darting in and out of stores with shopping bags full of…

everything. But what to get Candace? I’m already showing up solo.

I can’t arrive empty-handed. Where’s the liquor store…

? What would Robyn do…? She certainly wasn’t replying.

Harper felt like he was about to make a mistake, but wondered, even two and a half years after getting divorced, if that mistake had started long before now.