Your Best Man Is Your Groom

Five years with Gloria, and my life felt like a blackandwhite newspaper. She was rigidly proper, detesting any form of communication that wasn't plain text.

If I sent a simple emoticon, she’d say she didn't get it. If I sent a meme, she’d call it childish. Then came the night before our wedding.

I emailed her the final draft of our wedding vows. Instead of her usual brief, textonly acknowledgment, she replied with a GIF. It was a cute, animated cartoon bear blowing a kiss.

The caption read: "Kisses for Bear." My best friend Barrett’s nickname was Bear. And that specific cartoon bear was a custom sticker pack he’d designed for himself.

Suddenly, the curtain pulled back. In a corner of her life I could never see, someone else had chipped away at her rigid exterior, teaching her how to be playful.

I stared at the bouncing little bear on my screen, my chest tightening, and dialed our wedding planner.

If she wanted to save her playful side for someone else, she could give him the wedding, too. … "Mr.

Adler?" the wedding planner asked, her voice cracking with disbelief. "Are you saying you want to change the groom on the welcome banner?

To someone else?" The planner sounded stunned, unable to comprehend why a groom would willingly swap himself out just three days before the ceremony.

I stared at the looping GIF of the cute little bear, swallowing the bitter lump in my throat. "Yes," I said quietly. "I'm sending you the photo now." Right after I hung up, Gloria's bubble popped up again on my screen.

She had unsent the GIF. In its place was a line of her usual, sterile text: "Vows received. Well written." I didn't reply. I locked my phone and tossed it onto the desk.

Gloria's leatherbound planner lay open in front of me, filled with her meticulous notes for the wedding.

From the 5:00 AM makeup call down to the specific dietary restrictions of each guest. Page after page of tiny, perfect handwriting.

As I flipped through the sheets, a heavy wave of nostalgia and grief washed over me. For five years, Gloria had been the perfect partner on paper.

She didn't party, she didn't drink, she woke up early to make breakfast, and we commuted together every single day.

Everyone in our circle told me I'd hit the jackpot, that I must have done something saintly in a past life to deserve a woman so devoted. But they didn't know the quiet reality.

Gloria was clinical. Cold. She didn't do sweet talk. She didn't do romance.

I had complained to my friends more than once that being with her felt less like a relationship and more like a structured lecture.

But Barrett would always laugh it off, saying, "That's the kind of woman you want to marry, Wes. Steady. Loyal." Looking back, he was right. Gloria "was" incredible.

She was so incredible that she would rewrite her entire personality for him, learning how to send silly cartoon stickers.

My fingers idly flipped another page, catching on a folded corner. "The 24th: Barrett's stomach issues flareup.

Remind him to avoid cold drinks and raw seafood." "Medication: Chewable antacids, brandname Pepcid works best." Right next to the note was a small, crudely drawn smiley face.

I stared at those words for a long time, the letters blurring before my eyes. So, Gloria "did" know how to buy stomach medicine.

Last winter, the power went out in the middle of a freezing night. My chronic gastritis flared up—a dull, tearing pain that left me shivering on the couch.

I had clutched the hem of Gloria's sleeve, practically begging her to drive to the 24hour pharmacy to get me something.

She had stood there, looking mildly inconvenienced. "Stomach medicine?" she had said, her voice flat. "I don't really know anything about that, and I wouldn't know what to get.

Can't you just order it on DoorDash?" But at 3:00 AM in a blackout, no drivers were active.

In the end, I had to wrap myself in a heavy coat, grit my teeth through the pain, and walk twenty minutes through the dark to a convenience store myself.

At the time, I defended her. "She’s just practical," I told myself. "She's not a caretaker type. She doesn't understand medicine." But she did.

She knew the brands, the active ingredients, the exact dosages. She just didn't care enough to learn them for me. A profound sense of absurdity washed over me.

I felt like a colossal fool, a man who had spent five years living a lie. I didn't know they were seeing each other, let alone when it had started.

And all the while, I had treated Barrett like my brother, confiding in him about our relationship milestones, our petty arguments, our quiet triumphs.

Taking a deep breath, I closed the planner, smoothing the leather cover, and grabbed my car keys. I needed to go to the tailor.

Since the groom was changing, there was no point in keeping my suit. The receptionist at the boutique greeted me with a warm, knowing smile. "Mr. Adler! You are a very lucky man.

Your fiancée is incredibly attentive—she even came in personally to help select the groomsman's suit." I froze. Looking past her toward the fitting platforms, I saw Barrett.

He was standing in front of the threeway mirror, admiring himself in a gorgeous, bespoke ivory suit. It featured delicate embroidery and subtle silver thread detailing.

It was from the luxury designer brand I had been dreaming of for months.

But when Gloria and I had come to choose my tuxedo, she had dismissed that exact designer as "pretentious and overpriced," steering me toward a basic, offtherack wool blend.

Under her pressure, I had settled for a simple fivehundreddollar suit.

Yet the custom groomsman suit Barrett was wearing—the brand's flagship piece—cost easily over two thousand dollars. Through the reflection of the mirror, Gloria caught my eye.

She stiffened, turning around in a hurry. "Wes?" The lingering warmth in her eyes clashed violently with the panic that instantly flooded her face. Barrett noticed me next.

His easy smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he quickly smoothed his expression and jogged over, the expensive fabric rustling. "Wes!

What are you doing here?" He slung a familiar arm around my shoulder, just like he always did. "I'm actually doing a trial run for you!

Gloria knew how much you loved this brand and wanted to surprise you, so she dragged me here to test the fit and comfort first." Seeing how effortlessly the lie rolled off his tongue, a cold smile crept onto my face. "And?

How does it 'test'?" Gloria quickly chimed in, stepping between us. "Honestly, it’s just like I said before. Pretentious and overrated. The fabric is actually quite stiff.

It only really works as a flashy groomsman outfit." Barrett nodded eagerly. "Yeah, Wes.

Honestly, the simpler suit Gloria picked out for you fits your vibe much better." They stood sidebyside, their voices harmonizing perfectly as they praised my cheap, offtherack suit like it was the pinnacle of style.

Watching them, a chilling realization hit me. I finally understood why they belonged together. They were cut from the exact same cloth—equally hollow, equally selfrighteous.

After a few minutes of trying to convince me, they finally ran out of steam and fell silent, looking at me expectantly.

They were waiting for me to nod, to accept their excuses like I always did.

Instead, I spoke softly. "If it's so uncomfortable, then let's forget about it." A suit that doesn't fit right isn't worth keeping. Neither is a relationship.

Barrett blinked, glancing down at his luxurious jacket, then over to Gloria with a pained look. "Wes, are you mad at me?" he asked softly. "Look, if you don't like it, I don't have to wear it." He lingered, dragging his feet as he slowly turned to walk back to the dressing room.

Gloria caught up to him in three quick strides, grabbing his wrist. "Why would you change?

It looks great on you." The moment the words escaped her lips, she caught my icy gaze and quickly let go, clearing her throat. "I...

I just meant that the groomsman's suit isn't a big deal.

It doesn't matter what he wears." Watching her scramble for justifications made my stomach turn. "I meant," I repeated, "I don't want it." Not the suit. Not her. Not any of this.

I walked straight past them to the front desk, calling over the manager to request a refund on my purchase.

Fortunately, because Gloria had insisted I get a standard offtherack cut rather than a customtailored piece, the store policy allowed a return with a minor restocking fee.

Gloria’s face distorted with disbelief. "Wes, are you serious? The wedding is in three days, and you're returning your suit now?

Just because I took Barrett out shopping without telling you?" "He literally told you, we were trying to surprise you." "How can you be this petty?

Have you even thought about how this is going to look on our wedding day?" I looked at her, standing there so utterly convinced she was the victim, and felt nothing but exhaustion.

Once the refund cleared on my card, I turned back to her, slipping my wallet into my pocket. "You'll see on the wedding day," I said. I turned and walked out the door.

Behind me, Barrett called out, "Wes, come on, don't do this! I won't wear the suit, okay? Wes..." But his voice was quickly cut off by Gloria’s sharp, irritated tone: "Let him go.

The wedding is in three days.

Let's see what he does when he has nothing to wear down the aisle." "And I'm warning you, Barrett, do not offer to stand in as his groom." Maybe that was Gloria's subconscious dream all along.

To walk down the aisle with Barrett, even if they had to call him the best man. With a heart heavy with bitter clarity, I went back to our apartment and started packing her things.

It was only then that I realized how thoroughly Barrett’s presence had permeated her life. Her favorite silk scarf was a deep royal blue—Barrett's favorite color.

Her watch was a limitededition artist collab she’d bought to match his.

Even the house slippers she wore were the silly cartoon pair Barrett had won at a boardwalk ringtoss game over the summer. I threw them all into a cardboard box.

I was halfway through when the front door clicked open. Gloria walked in. Wherever she and Barrett had gone after the tailor shop, it had worked wonders on her mood.

Her irritation from earlier had vanished, replaced by a soft, relaxed hum. When she saw the boxes on the floor, she stopped. "What's all this?

Why are you packing?" I looked at her, my expression deadpan. "You need to move out tomorrow." Alone. Gloria’s face fell, her voice instantly dropping an octave. "Move out?

To our new house?" "I thought we agreed that since the house is sitting empty, Barrett could stay there for a while?" "Are you really trying to kick him out just because of what happened at the tailor shop?

Wes, he's your best friend." When Barrett had returned to the country six months ago, he kept complaining about not finding a decent place to live.

I had been the one who practically begged Gloria to let him crash at the townhouse she’d put a down payment on. At the time, she had been incredibly cold and reluctant about it.

To get her to agree, I had woken up early every single day to make her favorite breakfast, washed her car, and did everything I could to win her over.

Eventually, she relented, allowing him to stay temporarily. She had warned me repeatedly: "Tell him to find a place quickly. It's our future home.

Having an outsider live there just feels wrong." I had promised her I would, and I spent weeks helping Barrett look for apartments.

But no matter what place I found, Barrett always claimed it wasn't right. And Gloria never brought up his moving out again. I used to think she was just being generous for my sake.

Now, I realized that was probably the very first time she had bent the rules for him. "I'm telling "you" to move in there," I said, keeping my words deliberately ambiguous, searching her eyes for any flicker of guilt. "I never said he had to leave." Gloria’s brain seemed to stall for a second before her eyes lit up with a sudden, unmistakable brightness. "Oh!

Well, yeah, there are plenty of extra bedrooms. Sharing the space for a while wouldn't hurt." She stepped forward, eagerly grabbing my hands. "I knew it.

You guys are brothers—you wouldn't actually kick him out over a little misunderstanding." "After you left the store, Barrett felt so guilty.

He even said that if it made you uncomfortable, he’d step down as the best man." "It took me forever to convince him to stay." She went on and on, but her voice began to sound like it was coming from underwater.

A cold numbness spread through my chest. She had never spoken this many words to me in a single breath. Whenever I tried to talk to her, her responses were always curt: "Sure. Fine.

You decide." It was as if she were rationing her vocabulary just for me. "Barrett was actually worried he’d have to scramble to find a place before the wedding," Gloria murmured, completely absorbed in her excitement. "This is perfect.

It saves so much trouble." She pulled out her phone right in front of me, her fingers flying across the screen. "Let me text him right now and tell him you're not mad, and that we're all going to live together." The screen lit up.

The contact name at the top of her chat list read: "Bear". My contact name, saved right below his, was my full name: "Wes Adler". In that split second, I saw her pinned chats.

The top one was "Bear". I was second. After sending the message, she looked radiant. She reached out to wrap her arms around my neck, guiding me toward our bedroom.

A wave of revulsion washed over my skin. I instinctively stepped back, pushing her hands away. "Sleep in the guest room tonight," I said.

Gloria’s arms fell to her sides, the warmth vanishing from her face. "What is it now?" She let out a long, heavy sigh, adopting that familiar, patronizing tone she always used when she wanted to make me feel small. "Wes, we are getting married in three days.

You need to start acting like an adult. This constant need for drama is exhausting." "Look at Barrett.

He is so easygoing." "Honestly, if it weren't for my patience, I don't know who would put up with these tantrums of yours." "Do you even realize—" I couldn't stand to hear another word.

I stepped into the master bedroom and slammed the door shut, cutting her off. A second later, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

It was an email from the wedding planner. "Hi Wes, we’ve finalized the welcome banner design as requested." Attached was a JPEG. The face on the groom's body was no longer mine.

It was Barrett's. The next morning, I took my keys and drove over to my parents' house.

Since I wasn't going to be the groom anymore, there was no reason for them to dip into their life savings for our wedding gift fund.

But as I pulled onto their street, I noticed a large moving truck parked in front of their driveway. Two movers were hauling my dad's beloved antique mahogany sofa down the steps.

Panic seized my chest. I scrambled out of the car and ran up the stairs. When I pushed the front door open, the living room was already halfempty. "Dad?

Mom?" My dad straightened up, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "Oh, Wes! Gloria stopped by yesterday.

She told us about a business opportunity—a franchise we could invest in.

She said it would guarantee us a steady monthly payout, some extra security for our retirement." "What kind of franchise?" I asked, my heart pounding against my ribs.

My dad paused, scratching his head. "Some highend French boutique floral shop... Lavender and roses from Provence, she said." My mind went completely blank.

A Provencestyle luxury florist. Two weeks ago, the three of us had gone out for dinner.

Over drinks, Barrett had lamented about wanting to open a highend flower shop that imported specialty roses directly from France.

At the time, I had laughed it off. "In a town like ours?

Who's going to pay fifty dollars for a single rose, Barrett?" Barrett had pouted, looking at Gloria. "Well, maybe Gloria can think of a way to make it work." Gloria had smiled softly and nodded. "Don't worry.

Leave it to me." I hadn't thought twice about it then, assuming she was just being polite.

I never dreamed she would actually try to fund his dream—especially not by milking my parents' retirement fund. "Gloria is such a quiet girl," my dad continued, pride shining in his eyes. "But she’s so thoughtful.

To think she's already looking out for our financial future like this." A lump of hot anger and grief wedged itself in my throat. I couldn't swallow it down.

I clenched my jaw, fighting back the sting of tears, and forced a calm breath. "Dad, Mom... I actually came to talk to you about that. Gloria is a bit oldfashioned about money.

If you give the cash directly to her, she’ll feel awkward and probably refuse to take it." "Why don't you wire the investment to my account, and I'll handle the transaction with her?" My dad clapped his hand to his forehead. "Ah, of course!

You always think ahead, Wes." Without a second thought, he authorized the wire transfer from the sale of their antique furniture and savings straight to my bank account.

Once the money was safely secured in my account, I knew I had to get them out of harm's way.

I lied and told them that the wedding venue had a scheduling conflict and the ceremony was being postponed by a few weeks.

Before they could ask too many questions, I booked them a spontaneous, allinclusive beach resort trip to Cape Cod and drove them straight to the airport.

Only when their plane took off did I finally breathe a sigh of relief.

As long as Gloria couldn't reach them, I could handle the fallout without my parents being caught in the crossfire.

Right then, my phone buzzed. "There's a fireworks show by the harbor tonight. Want to watch?" It was Gloria.

As usual, the text was written with perfect, sterile punctuation—as if she were drafting a legal memo. I replied with a simple: "Sure." I wanted to see for myself.

I wanted to see exactly how far she and Barrett had gone. The wind off the harbor was biting. From fifty yards away, I spotted them.

Barrett was laughing, holding out his iced boba tea and slipping the straw directly between Gloria's lips.

This was the same Gloria who claimed to be a germaphobe, who hated sharing food with anyone. Yet she didn't flinch.

Instead, her features softened as she took a slow sip, smiling up at him.

Their hands rested close together on the railing, the moonlight catching matching silver bands on their pinky fingers.

In that exact moment, the first firework erupted in the night sky, illuminating the intimate warmth on their faces.

Gloria looked up and finally noticed me standing there. "I got you one," she said smoothly, handing me a sealed plastic cup as if she hadn't just been sharing an intimate drink with my best friend.

The cup was dripping with condensation, packed with ice and extra sugar—the exact way Barrett liked his drinks. But I hated sweet drinks.

And cold liquids made my stomach cramp violently. I stared directly into Gloria's eyes, speaking slowly and deliberately. "My. Stomach. Is. Flaring.

Up." Gloria blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. "Oh." Barrett cradled his cup, offering a sheepish, dimpled smile. "My bad! I completely forgot Wes has a sensitive stomach.

Bad Gloria, you should have remembered!" Gloria’s lips twitched upward, her eyes soft as she looked at him.

Barrett pulled me down to sit on the bench beside him, acting as if nothing was wrong. "You know, when you walked out of the tailor shop the other day, Gloria was worried sick." They were incredibly synchronized.

Gloria said Barrett felt guilty; Barrett said Gloria was worried. I didn't play along this time.

I sat in silence, staring directly at Barrett, waiting for the real reason they had called me out here. Feeling the pressure, Barrett shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Gloria.

Gloria cleared her throat, hesitating before she finally forced the words out. "Since you returned the suit...

I was thinking you could just wear that white buttondown shirt I got you for your birthday. It looks fine." "And?" I asked, my voice flat.

Gloria and Barrett exchanged a brief, telling look. "For the processional tomorrow," Gloria said, "I was thinking I could walk down the aisle holding your hand on one side, and you could hold Barrett’s hand on the other.

You’d be right in the middle. What do you think?" I stared at her, completely dumbfounded, wondering if I had actually misheard her.

A groom in a casual white shirt, flanked by a bride in a custom gown on one side and a best man in a twothousanddollar designer tux on the other, walking handinhand down the aisle.

The sheer absurdity of the image was staggering. The cold harbor wind carried her ridiculous explanation straight to my ears.

Even though my heart was already dead to this relationship, a fresh wave of bitterness still managed to break through. "Gloria," I said quietly, "do you remember what you told my parents when we got engaged?" "Of course I do," her voice softened slightly. "I told them I would always give you the absolute best." Then, she pivoted without missing a beat. "And because of that promise, I want your best friend to be right there by your side during the most important moment of your life." I looked at her face—so calm, so utterly convinced of her own logic—and realized I had never truly known the woman standing in front of me.

After a long pause, I swallowed the tightness in my throat and forced out a single word. "Okay." Gloria let out a breath she’d been holding, her shoulders relaxing. "I knew you'd understand, Wes.

I knew you'd see it makes sense." The wind off the water was freezing, but it had finally, fully woken me up. We drove back to our apartment in silence.

The moment we stepped inside, I picked up the cardboard box containing her belongings and placed it in her arms. "There's an old tradition," I said. "The bride and groom shouldn't spend the night before the wedding under the same roof." "Go stay at the new house tonight.

I'll meet you at the venue tomorrow." Gloria stared at the box, her expression turning into a scowl. She clearly didn't want to leave.

But as she looked at me standing firmly in the doorway, blocking her path, she let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine.

You always get so superstitious about these things." "Get some rest tonight.

I'll see you at the hotel tomorrow." She turned and walked down the hallway, pulling out her phone to send a text before she even reached the elevator.

I didn't need to guess who it was for. I shut the door, locked it, and dialed the real estate agent's number. "The apartment under my name—list it.

Below market price for a quick cash sale." Then, I grabbed my suitcase and walked out of the home where I had spent the last five years of my life.