“That was so beautiful,” he says. He looks over at the sidewalk and Gray steps away from Rachel and turns to us. Nick tightens his fingers around mine.
“I bet you’ll be in each other’s pants in forty eight hours.”
“That’s not what I want,” I say. “I just want Gray to be happy.”
“Exactly. That’s why you need to do this.” He grabs my arms and pulls me close. “Kiss me like I’m Gray.”
Before I can respond he scoops up my face in his hands and leans down and kisses me full on the lips. Nick’s lips are huge and wet and smother me. It’s more like a face wash than a kiss and I can’t pull away because he’s holding my head in his hands so tightly I can feel each of his fingertips dig into my scalp. I try not to gag on his tongue.
He lets go and gazes lovingly into my eyes.
“I love you, Dilly Bar,” he says to me.
Now I don’t have to lie, because I love Nick.
“I love you a billion times a gazillion,” I say and I turn around to see Gray standing a few feet away, looking sick to his stomach, like he just stepped in a fresh pile of vomit on the sidewalk.
Gray
I feel vomit creeping up the back of my throat and I swallow it down. Dilly bar?
Dylan tells me she has to grab a few things from the front seat. Nick pulls her duffel bag out of the trunk, the huge one she brought to New Mexico last spring. I walk over to my trunk and open it up and shove a few baseball bats to the side to make room. Nick hands me the duffel bag, a sleeping bag and a pillow.
“You know, Dylan’s mentioned you before,” he says.
“Is that right?” I ask as I try to maneuver my crap with Dylan’s crap so all of our crap is together again, entwined under the same roof. Crap.
“You two used to date.”
Date. That’s a funny word to describe the path of emotional chaos that constituted our failed relationship. I give her luggage an unnecessarily hard shove.
“Something like that.” I look back at Nick and he’s watching me. Is this is another staring contest? I always win.
“She tells me everything, you know.”
I slam the trunk closed and narrow my eyes.
“Everything?” I ask. Like how once I got her off eight times in one day? How I probably hold an orgasm world record? What have you got, Dr. Boy? I blow out a sigh and tell him what he already knows.
“Then you know you can trust her,” I say. He narrows his eyes and nods slowly.
“Take care of my girl,” he says and turns and walks away.
I get in the car and shut the door a little too forcefully. Dylan sits down in the seat and closes the door and I can’t help myself.
“Did I hear him right?” I ask, and look over at her. “Dilly bar? Seriously, he calls you Dilly Bar?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it? Want to get out a pen and paper while I list all the things that are wrong with it? You have a great name. Why does he need to mutilate it?”
“It’s a nickname,” Dylan defends him.
“Oh,” I say and start the ignition. “So, what do you call him? S-Nick-er bar?”
It wasn’t the conversation-ending comeback I was hoping for because Dylan laughs out loud, this blasting laugh that comes all the way from her stomach. My lips tighten because it’s one of those contagious laughs that make you want to join in and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of thinking I’m enjoying this quality time together.
“It’s better than horses,” Dylan mumbles and clips her seatbelt into the lock. I ask her what she means.
“Your girlfriend’s personalized license plate? Horses?” Dylan says.
What is she talking about? My girlfriend? I swore off relationships over a year ago, just like I gave up pot. They both are equally bad for my health. But I know what car she’s referring to.
“Rachel?” I ask.
Dylan nods. “You know, I try really hard never to judge people Gray. I’ve always left the judging up to you. You’re a natural at it.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“And I’m not jealous,” she points out. “I’m just, a little disappointed.”
I can’t believe this. “What, you can date somebody and I can’t?”
“It’s not that. She just isn’t what I expected. I know you’re really picky about who you let into your life and—” she cuts herself off. Dylan is terrible at verbal insults. It’s one of her best qualities.
“Go on,” I say.
“No, I don’t want to be mean. She’s very nice. She has very clean fingernails and I respect that.” She frowns at her own abused nail beds.