This is a short story about what would have really happened at the end of the movie, “The Best Man.” The ending always pissed me off. Enjoy!
As soon as she stepped off the plane Robin could tell something was afoot. Harper stood there, his aura deflated in some ineffable way, and wearing sunglasses, inside the airport. Regardless, she ran to him, hoping against hope that maybe she was just overreacting to the uncomfortable stirring in her spirit.
“Harper!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.
She held tight hoping that all would be normal. And then he launched into his explanation of his betrayal, and then began the begging. She agreed against her better judgement to still accompany him to the wedding but only because he was whining like Keith Sweat. Pathetic.
When they got to the church a group of Harper’s friends were crowded at the front door.
“You must be Robin, nice to meet you,” the dreadlocked friend said. The green-eyed one looked at her like a hungry jackal.
She smiled, but not with her eyes. These niggas probably encouraged Harper’s stupidity, she thought. Dumb muthafuckas.
She shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
Robin excused herself and went inside. Apparently Harper slept with the bride years ago and her man found out and beat the brakes off him. The groom was a whore too, so she couldn’t really figure out how their dicks hadn’t fallen off from rot yet. This would be a shit show.
There ended up being a wedding after all. Back at the church she tried to duck into the bathroom chew some Nicorette (her nerves were bad), and happened upon the bride, a sobbing ball of white taffeta. Women in Fashion Fair make-up orbited and fanned and consoled her. She caught a glimpse of Jordan too, who looked caught red-handed when Robin introduced herself. Robin thought for sure it wasn’t going down, but at the reception everything sparkled with the luminescence of love and forever. Only the bridal party, and Robin, knew how fucked up everything really was.
Robin tried avoid eye and crotch contact with Uncle Willie. Wafts of Stetson Man came up from his neck and his gold link bracelets clinked together as he guided his partner in little circles.
“Can I cut in?” Jordan asked timidly. “Someone wants to dance with you.” She pointed to Harper.
Bitch you already tried to. Another eyeless smile. Robin looked at Harper, so vulnerable, his pride shaken out over the rooftop of a New York hotel like wet laundry.
“Robin,” he started, “I know I’ve messed up.”
Silence. And slow dancing.
“And I want to let you know that you’re the woman for me. Robin, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Harper bent on one knee in the middle of the dance floor. “Robin, will you be my wife?” All eyes turned to the couple. The joyous spirit of matrimony still hung in the air.
Robin laughed. Not sweetly. She laughed a belly laugh, long and hard, from deep within her core. It communicated a clear response to his fervent proposal: Nigga Please.