“I need a beer.”
And a sanity check. Are they actually preparing a meal together?
If this is the Twilight Zone, I hope it isn’t the case of be careful what you wish for. I used to watch the show with my dad and remember the episode about the man who wishes for power and wakes up as Hitler. Then there was the guy who creates a world populated with clones of himself, only to realize he hates himself. If I had a wish, it’s to see Cole and Trace come to a truce. I want that so badly I’m tempted to stay just to encourage the synergy that’s currently swirling around them.
Cole removes a Bud Light out of the fridge, pops the cap, and slides it across the counter to me.
“Thanks.” I look over the spread of food—taco meat, hard shells, and all the fixings. “Did you have the ingredients delivered?”
Trace laughs, and the delicious sound liquefies my limbs.
“What’s so funny?” I grip the counter for support and chug the beer.
“No one delivers out here.” Cole says. “We’re lucky to see the postman on a regular schedule.”
“Where did the food come from?” I circle the island and grab a tomato and paring knife.
“There’s a Walmart twenty minutes up the road.” Cole hands me a cutting board and slides a tray of taco shells into the oven.
“Really? In the middle of nowhere Missouri?” I dice the tomato, smiling at the image of Cole pushing a cart in a superstore.
“Ninety percent of Americans live within fifteen miles of a Walmart.” He opens another Bud Light and swallows a large gulp.
Trace grinds a block of cheese against a grater. “Did you know eight cents for every U.S. dollar is spent at Walmart?”
“No.” I chuckle. “Are you looking to expand your empire and buy them out?”
“It’s not for sale, and if it was, it would be way out of my price range.”
We finish preparing the meal and eat at the island. I choose the seat on the end, so I can watch them together. When they’re not ignoring each other, their conversations focus on fishing, casino business, and the upcoming baseball season. At some point, the lighthearted discussion switches to my favorite topic, and I spend the next ten minutes regaling them with Beyoncé trivia.
“Her song Bootylicious put that word in the Oxford English Dictionary.” I finish off my second beer and switch to water.
“I’m calling bullshit on that one.” Trace takes a sip of scotch from a crystal tumbler.
“Look it up.” I flick a finger at his phone, where it sits beside his empty plate.
“What’s the story behind her name?” Cole stacks our dishes and carries them to the sink.
“It came from her mother’s maiden name.” I stand to help him. “Celestine Ann ‘Tina’ Beyincé.”
“Bootylicious.” Trace reads from his phone, his expression perplexed. “Of a woman…sexually attractive.” His gaze lifts, sliding all over me before meeting my eyes. “You were right.”
I tremble beneath his imposing glare. “I’m never wrong when it comes to Beyoncé.”
“Your entire face glows when you talk about her.” Cole hands me a rinsed plate to put in the dishwasher, his grin dented with dimples. “Keep talking.”
“She wrote Crazy In Love in two hours. With a hangover.” I load the top rack while scraping my mind for more facts. “Her middle name is Giselle. She was on Star Search in 1993 at the age of twelve. She’s allergic to perfume. I can go on and on, but I’d rather talk about you guys.”
“We will never compare to Beyoncé,” Trace says dryly, but I don’t miss the playful flicker in his eyes as he approaches.
He nudges me out of the way and helps Cole finish the dishes.
I move to the far end of the island and wipe down the surface. It’s crazy how similar they are in some things, like the whole dominating, hyper-alert, intimidating manner in which they control their environments. But they’re so very different in other ways.
Cole rinses the dishes, completely unconcerned about the water splattering everywhere. Trace immediately cleans it up, scowling at the other man. Cole drinks beer and rides a motorcycle. Trace drinks Scotch and wears suits. Cole lets his hair fall, messy and tumbled, right out of the shower and hopes for the best. Trace has a process, involving product and finger-raking until every strand is textured and styled to perfection. Cole smiles easily, and Trace doesn’t smile at all. Cole reacts first and apologizes later. I’m lucky to get a reaction or an apology from Trace at all. But none of those things are important in the big picture.
What matters to me are traits they both possess. They’ll dance with me when I ask, whenever, wherever. They’ll hold me when I need it, tightly or tenderly. And they love me, even when I fuck up.