I check my mobile.

Nothing.

I had expected to hear from Ryan by now, but nothing. Dead silence is what greets me every time I check the tiny screen of my phone.

This annoys me. It shouldn’t, but it does. You’d think the least he could do is contact his best man and tell him when he was planning to arrive.

So far, he’s told me where everyone is staying, and I’ve booked my own room at the Aman. He told me I had to write his wedding vows. Apparently, this woman who’s managed to finally drag Ryan to the altar insists they’ve got to write their own vows.

According to Ryan, he can’t think of a single fucking thing to say. Refusing this part of the best man job had fallen on deaf ears. I had to do it, as simple as that.

No ifs, not buts, and definitely not a no.

Maybe when I get a look at this woman, I might find inspiration. So far I’ve got ‘I, Ryan,’ and nothing else.

I mean what the fuck is wrong with the traditional marriage vows anyway?

I hope Ryan hadn’t pulled some new age chick out of the gene pool, one of those hippie types. That would explain a lot. She probably used some type of incense to bewitch Ryan and then pounce upon him in his weakest moment.

With Ryan only telling me about this engagement and upcoming wedding a few weeks ago, it’s the only explanation that makes sense.

And now, he isn’t here. Where the fuck is he hiding?

If the bastard won’t show any time soon, I may as well visit the exhibition at the Punta della Dogana. The art gallery is renowned for what some consider as the largest private collection of twenty and twenty-first century art.

It’s not like I’m going to get to see it with Ryan. He’s not into art, and when he finally shows his face here, he’ll no doubt be busy entertaining his bride.

Along the way, I study my tourist guide. The art galleries to visit beside the Punta include the Guidecca 795 Art Gallery, the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, and Galleria l’Occhio. The Punta takes my fancy because of the historical significance.

History fascinates me, particularly European and art history.

The Punta is situated in the old customs house, built in the 1600 at the most appropriate spot in Venice for its use. The Sea Custom house was built at the very entrance of the Grand Canal, to ensure no ship coming into the city would go without paying its duties.

It’s still is in its original position where the Grand Canal and the Guidecca Canal meet.

I take the gondola to get there. From the gallery, the hotel is also within a gondola ride. I mean if you’re in Venice, you simply must make use of these watercrafts.

Venice is definitely not the city to visit if you don’t like water or have a fear of boat rides.

Personally, I love being on water. It has a calming effect on the mind. It’s almost meditative for me to be on water.

When I get to the Punta, I check my phone yet again, still nothing from Ryan.

Should I worry?

I take a deep breath and decide that it’s a little early to start worrying. There’s more than a day to go ‘til the wedding, plenty of time for the bastard to get here.

Maybe he’s just making the most of the last few hours of his single life.

Why anyone would want the shackles of marriage around their dick is beyond me. Why have just one when you can have several?

Thinking about marriage sends a little shiver down my spine. It would take one very special lady to drag this man down the aisle. I doubt such a woman even exists.

Freedom.

Single life brings plenty of freedom with it. And I’m not only talking about the freedom to choose pussy. No, sir.

There are other freedoms, more important ones; like watching what I want on television, listening to the kind of music I want to listen to and when I want to listen to it, and visiting whatever art gallery I want to visit.

As I pay the entry fee, I grab a brochure. It talks about the extensive and elaborate renovations carried out on this ancient building. Apparently, it was a combined effort.

Japanese architect Tadao Ando was responsible for the renovations, funded by French billionaire Francois Pinault.

“Enjoying the art, signore?”

I turn around and find myself facing an attractive gallery attendant.

Quickly, I look her up and down. She’s got black hair, delicious looking red lips, and the darkest chocolate eyes I’ve ever seen in a woman. Her lips are curled up a little at the corner into the tiniest hint of a smile.

“I’ve only just started,” I reply and go to walk on.

With the imminent call or text from Ryan, I decide now isn’t the time.

Like a lost puppy dog, she follows. She’s clutching a clipboard to her chest. I notice her tight white blouse gape at the button just above the gap between her breasts.

Briefly, my eyes linger there before they travel back up to her eyes.

“Signore staying long in Venice?” she asks with a thick Italian accent.

I smile and shake my head. If it weren’t for the sign attached to her blouse stating her name and job as gallery attendant, I’d be inclined to think she was in another line of work.

“A few days,” I reply and stop in front of a tiny replica of a balloon animal.

“In those few days, you may need to have special entertainment?” she blinks suggestively at me as she says this.

Resisting the temptation to burst out laughing, I choose to ignore the invitation.

Sure, she’s pretty enough, but not my type.

And I’m not in the mood. Ryan’s sudden wedding, I hate to say, has left me rattled. I’m still trying to come to terms with it.

Sure, in my heart, I know it’s not unusual for a man to start thinking about settling down with one woman, but for this man to be Ryan is hard to swallow. Out of our group, Ryan is the last person—besides myself—I would’ve picked to be the tie-the-knot type.

“If you’re interested, I could show you something special out the back?”

Her hand with blood red nail polish rests on my forearm.

Wow.

Was she really offering to give me a quickie at the gallery?

“Let’s see,” I evade, giving her a direct brush off.

I don’t like to be rude. And you never know what might happen as we meander through the gallery. My eyes move from her to the artwork on display in the room I’ve just entered.

The piece of art intrigues me. Before I can flick through my art guide to read about it, my uninvited guide offers her explanation.

“You’re privileged enough to see here an original Dan Flavin work of art. He’s an American artist.”

I cough to hide my laugh.

Either this woman hasn’t been given any training, or she’s an imposter.

“Unfortunately, I have to correct you there,” I start and consult my brochure to be sure. “You see this is a piece from Jeff Koons, not Flavin. Both are American artists, though.”

I get no further. The young lady’s eyes have zeroed in on another solo male tourist.

With a shake of my head and a little chuckle to myself, I continue on my own. It’s just as well. If she had not decided to leave me to it, I would’ve had to give her the brush off.

A couple of hours later, I leave the gallery.

There’s still no word from Ryan. Bastard. At the very least, he should have the decency to fill me in on his movements.

It occurs to me I’ve only checked for message on the phone, not my emails. But this mistake is quickly fixed. There are plenty of new emails, and none of them are from Ryan.

As I wait for a gondola to take me to the hotel, I wonder what the fuck was going on.

At first, I mentally double-check all I know.

Ryan had sent me a message that says I have to be at Venice the day before Carnival starts. The reason was his upcoming wedding.

So today was the day before Carnival, check.

And I’m in Venice. No doubt about it.

I jump into the gondola just pulling up alongside the footpath and tell the gondolier where I want to go.

What if the bastard changed his mind already? I mean what other reason could he have for not being here yet?

As far as I can tell, there are only three possible explanations for his absence.

The first is death. If he’s dead, he won’t be here, and he wouldn’t be able to send me a message.

Second could be a serious injury, and again, he might be so badly hurt, he can’t use his mobile.

The third—and the most likely, is he’s changed his mind.

Of course, I wouldn’t blame him one bit.

I mean I can’t see myself marry, ever.