“I don’t really—you know, just being here bothers me.” Smoothing the bedsheets, Dylan looked around the room. “I just—”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Did we fuck this one up?” Dylan’s eyes begged him to say “no.” Mike couldn’t. He wasn’t a liar by nature, not even a social liar, and right now he didn’t have an answer. Whether they could reach Laura or not, on her terms and her timeline, would be key. Trying right now, when she was raw and hurt and bewildered, wouldn’t do anyone any good.
“I don’t know.” Dylan grabbed a shirt, some ratty Rush concert t-shirt his older brother must have bought at a concert in the late ’80s, and tossed it on. Mike wanted to say the exact right thing. Perfect words that would solve this problem. That, however, was the problem with words—he never could use them well enough to make any mess better. In fact, he always seemed to make it all worse when he opened his mouth.
Action made so much more sense.
“What time is it?” Dylan asked, looking around the room for the clock. He fingered a hole in the hem of the shirt, worrying it bigger.
“It’s gotta be past two. And good grief, man, you’re a billionaire. Buy a new shirt. Hell, buy the band Rush. You can afford it.”
“Geddy Lee’s not my type.”
Mike stared out the window. “The night is black, without a moon.”
“And if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice. What’s next, Mike? You gonna rickroll me?”
“Over pancakes?” Mike grabbed the keys to his car, a new Jeep Grand Cherokee. Loaded. Paid cash.
Dylan’s eyes lit up. “Jeddy’s pancakes? They’re open twenty-four hours. I could go for some chipotle maple sausage crepes.”
Ugh. “Whatever happened to a simple short stack?”
“You are so vanilla.” Mike arched an eyebrow dramatically in response. Dylan backpedaled. “OK, OK, not so vanilla. Just boring.”
Mike’s feet itched to run. Pancakes first. If he carb loaded, he could bang out a good half marathon later. “Jeddy’s it is,” he agreed. Dylan fairly bounced out of the house. So easy to please.
“The ride’s a good hour.”
“Worth it!” Dylan shouted as they ran for the jeep.
If only chipotle maple sausage crepes solved everything.
“You what?” Josie’s voice was as close to a shriek as Laura had ever heard, her face flushed with shock and awe. “You WHAT?”
Laura literally ducked and covered, her face so hot she imagined it would burn her fingers if she touched it. “I know. I really am a slut.” One call to Josie and her friend had come over bearing a large box of Godiva chocolates, a bag of salt ’n vinegar potato chips the size of a third grader, and new fingernails: Beetles album covers. Abbey Road was currently shoved in Laura’s face, accusing and menacing.
“A slut? Hell, no! You’re a goddamned queen! Holy shit, Laura! You’re living every woman’s dream!”
That was not what Laura expected to hear.
Not one bit.
“Huh?” She peeked up at Josie from between her fingers, like taking a glimpse of a scary horror movie. Little Josie was buzzing like a hummingbird, face flushed, upturned nose and pursed lips making her cuter than ever. Laura had hated how Josie was “cute” while Laura was “smart.” Josie was “petite” while Laura was “big boned.” Josie was “pretty” while Laura had “such a pretty face.” Not that it got in the way of their friendship all these years, but the parents, the adults in their life —everything and everyone had to fit neatly into a category. A word. A phrase. And if you didn’t—
You ended up in a threesome with two guys who were still mourning their dead shared girlfriend.
Maybe categories weren’t so bad.
“OK, not every woman’s fantasy, but uh, most of us...” Josie’s voice trailed off and now, to Laura’s surprise, it was her friend’s turn to be embarrassed. “Two hot guys, both after you, wanting you in their bed and in their hearts—and they’re not gay? Huh? So you get two guys’ attention all the time. Who wouldn’t want that? You fucking lucky bitch.” Josie spat out the last word with contempt. Not the kind of contempt Laura was primed to hear, though. This was the sound of jealousy.
“Hold on! HOLD THE FUCK ON! So you have wanted a threesome?” Laura leaned forward. Her turn to wag a finger in someone’s face. To her surprise, it felt good. She saw the appeal.
“Sure. Ever since that one time in college.”
Laura’s eyebrows shot up. “You did? You had one?”