The occasion Mike had squashed. Squash this, he thought, wiggling just enough to take the edge off his discomfort. Mike nudged past their knees and took his place on the other side of Laura. She looked to the left and to the right and seemed bemused.
Grabbing the remote from him, Laura’s soft touch made him close his eyes and exhale. Garlic. Elephant amounts of garlic on his breath. Mammoth levels of garlic.
Leaning in toward her, he smelled it on her breath, too. Mike probably reeked, too, which made him relax. OK. It was all good. If everyone smelled like an Italian restaurant, then there was no need for breath mints.
Laura settled on a comedy he and Mike happened to have watched a few weeks ago. They exchanged a wordless glance of understanding; don’t question it. The film was funny enough to enjoy again, and she seemed to be a bit nervous suddenly. Whatever it took to keep everyone happy was what they needed right now.
Even if it meant laughing all over at a movie they’d thought was just OK. Besides, right now, his attention wasn’t exactly focused on the television screen, with Laura’s warm body next to his, the rise and fall of her chest in his peripheral vision, her fingers worrying the wine glass stem. She wriggled and settled in place, crossing and uncrossing her legs, finally gulping the last of her wine and leaning forward to place her empty glass on a coaster.
Heat from her body disappeared and left him feeling colder than he’d expected, and then Mike burst into laughter, followed by Laura’s surprised giggle. Something funny in the movie. He could only give it half his attention because the entire room came into sharp focus suddenly, as if he were watching them from above. A quiet night, capped with a decent, funny movie about some modern woman who was insecure, some man who’d hurt her accidentally, some big misunderstanding that needed to be unraveled, supported by each person’s best friend as plot devices.
Add a second man and you had, well, them. All three.
Here they sat, laughing at it on the big screen.
Mike’s legs were stretched out on the coffee table, ankles crossed. Laura leaned back in and slouched a little, head cocked to the left. Dylan clutched a pillow and let the glow of the TV wash over them all. They were just three friends hanging out, watching a movie after a great meal.
The tiramisu he’d soon spring on them was soaking in flavor.
He was soaking in all of this.
Self-assured, he stretched his arm behind Laura and rested one hand on Mike’s shoulder. A little smile played on her lips as she pretended to be completely absorbed by a movie that really only needed five of your brain cells to compute.
Mike caught his eye. Looked at his hand. Nodded.
Life was good.
Chapter Three
Knock knock. “Wha?” Laura sat up. Who in the hell knocks at 6:11 a.m.?
Bang bang bang. “Laura?”
Josie. “Lost my key!” came her muffled voice through the door.
I never gave you a new one, Laura thought, shuffling to the door. Daylight was a glaring bitch this morning, sunlight aggressively spilling through her apartment.
“You know, they have these places,” Laura said sharply as Josie walked past her, into the kitchen, and grabbed the coffee sack, plopping it next to the coffee machine. “They’re called coffee shops. Professional coffee people make it for you and you give them these green pieces of paper and you get to drink it.”
“Green pieces of paper?”
“Or silver coins.” She yawned. “Or plastic cards.”
“But they don’t have stories about threesomes like you do.”
“Oh, I’m sure if you ask around enough someone will.” Laura scooped the coffee with a slightly shaking hand. Could you have a tiramisu hangover? Jesus, Dylan had used a lot of rum in that delightfully scrumptious dessert. Pressing a few buttons, she got the coffee going and plopped down in a kitchen chair.
“You’re here to interrogate me, aren’t you?” she said, resigned.
“So whassup?” Josie stretched the word out in an annoying mimic of an old beer commercial’s frog actors. “You a little sore today? That Dylan might be short but I’ll bet he has a dick the size of a coke can.”
“Ewwww!” Close, she thought. But she’d never tell Josie that!
“I just crossed over my own line.” Josie held out her palms in a surrender gesture. “Sorry. TMI. I blame caffeine deficiency.”
“Blame your genetics. Your mom’s way worse. Remember how she announced to everyone in the marching band our freshman year that you needed to use non-chlorinated tampons because you couldn’t bear to experience another rash—and then had pictures to warn other girls away from—”