“What do you mean you’re allergic to weddings?” Scot asked best friend, Greg. “You can’t be allergic to weddings! There’s no such thing as a wedding allergy. What’s going on, dude?”
“What do I wear on my feet?” asked Greg.
“Well that’s a stupid question. Relevance?”
Greg looked Scot straight in the eyes while kicking him in the leg. “What do I wear on my feet, moron?”
Scot looked down, still puzzled, at Greg’s bare feet. He thought for a moment. No shoes today. But they were in Greg’s dorm room. Greg never wore shoes in the dorm room. Or socks. What DID Greg wear on his feet? He gave it another moment before remembering that this conversation was not about feet. “Greg, I don’t give a rat’s butt what you wear on your feet. I want you to be my best man and the wedding’s in three months …”
“I know that, dude.”
“… I want you to be my best man. Amanda’s breathing down my neck about getting the wedding party together and getting her names …” Scot took a breath. It felt rehearsed.
“Amanda’s always on you about everything, man.”
“… ANYWAY – will you be my best man? You’re my best friend and I don’t want anyone else standing next to me on the big day.” Exhaling, Scot glared at Greg.
“Dude, what do I wear on my feet already? Answer me that before I say yes or no.” Greg wasn’t backing down on this. Scot nearly turned to leave, angry, frustrated, ready to find a new best friend.
“Greg, I have no idea what you wear on your feet. I’ve only seen you barefoot. How about if I check your closet? Would you like that? Or under your bed?” Scot could feel the sarcasm dripping from his lips. Not the way to talk a friend into something. “I mean, I could probably tell you what moles you have and how many hairs are on your big toes, but I don't remember seeing a single pair of shoes on your … ooohhhhh.” Understanding dawned in Scot’s eyes, shadowed by sadness. Then his voice hardened. “Do you mean to tell me that you won’t be in my wedding? That we’ve been best friends all the way through college and you won’t be in my wedding because of SHOES?!? You’re crazy!”
Still toe to toe with Scot, Greg smiled slowly, waiting for Scot to calm down. It had been clear from the beginning of Scot's relationship with Amanda that Greg didn’t like her, didn’t like the short leash she kept. Counting slowly backward from 20, Greg stared and waited before speaking.
“I am allergic to shoes. Really. Can’t wear ‘em. Why do you think I live in freakin’
“I always thought …”
“Dude, you never asked,” Greg continued. “Is this whole thing set up already? Tell Amanda that you’re getting married at the beach and everyone will be barefoot. Chicks dig that whole barefoot beach wedding thing.”
There it was. The reaction Greg was waiting for. Confusion, then understanding, then excitement, then ... then fear.
“Amanda will never go for that. This is the wedding she’s waited her whole life for. She has it planned to the letter. If I suggest that now, she’ll take my head off.” Scot was actually shaking now.
“Then find a new best man. If she really loves you, she’ll do this for you. It’s your wedding too.” Greg was done. What he wouldn't give to be a fly on Scot's wall tonight. There’d be fireworks for sure.
Scot, looking whipped and frustrated, turned to leave. “Allergic to weddings, huh?” he asked over his shoulder. “I’ll let her know you said that. She told me you’d say no. I’ll get back to ya about the beach. Thanks for being straight up with me.”
Watching Scot go, Greg chuckled to himself, got out his Nike’s and prepared to for his afternoon run.