“How was Peter after?”
“After what?”
She lowers her sunglasses, looking over their tops, wiggling her eyebrows. “At his place, your place, you know…after.”
“He had to open the shop today so we didn’t stay the night together.”
The light vanishes from her. “Wren.”
“What?”
“I don’t like the frown. Take off your sunglasses.”
“It’s bright out.”
“Off!”
Doing as I’m told I hold them, and my gaze, on the boulder. “What?”
“Girl, look at me.”
Why is it so difficult to do that? My eyelids weigh twenty pounds each. “I don’t feel good.”
She jumps from her boulder to mine and touches my hand. The kindness gives me the strength to face her. “Wren, where have you gone?”
“…I don’t know. I feel lost.”
“I’m going to give it to you straight because you’re in it and you can’t see. We’ve all done it. We hang our hopes on some dude right from the beginning because he seems like he might be it. And when things get shitty we don’t let go.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Isn’t it?”
Staring at her I get really quiet on the inside as the sunlight seems to fade around us, oxygen leaving with it. “I thought Peter was a nice guy and that was a shift for me, you know, in the right direction. I usually fall for the bad boy type.”
“But is Peter a nice guy?”
Thinking about it, I’m reticent. “Yes?”
“Has he been nice to you?”
“He’s a nice guy in general.”
“Is he nice to you?”
“He’s not bad to me,” I lamely offer.
El waves her hand, “Oh honey, you fell prey to a manipulating wimp who got you around his pinky, a girl out of his league to boost his puny ego and his puny dick, and now he’s stringing you along so he can feel like he’s the shit.”
I stare at her, stomach flipping over. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 20
ERIC
T ony, Mott, and I roll into a brunch hotspot just before eleven on this bright Autumn Thursday, wearing our ‘Sunday best,’ as the church-going folk call it. Heads turn to watch as we sit ourselves down without thinking to wait for a hostess to help us out. Only problem is now we don’t have menus, but that’s quickly remedied by a busboy who recognizes us, giddy with excitement as he rushes them over, hands shaking.
Coach picked this place as a congratulations brunch for just the four of us, celebrating Monday night’s game in Chicago.
“Guess we’re early,” Tony proudly says, slapping his napkin on his lap.
Mott looks at him, vibrato rumbling his deep voice, “You haven’t ordered yet.”
“So?”
“So leave it on the table.”
“That’s not the rule.”
“Since when.”
“Never.”
“Wanna bet?”
I’m reading the menu, ignoring them because this is how they always are. All I care about is, “Oh man, I’m going to get scrambled eggs, French toast, double side of bacon, sliced avocado, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.”
Tony snickers, “Avocado?”
Eyeing him I ask, “You know how good that fruit is?”
Mott mutters while reading the menu, “It’s a vegetable.”
“It’s a fruit,” both Tony and I correct him, in unison.
Mott glances between us from under thick eyebrows. “No shit?” He goes back to making his choice.
“Tony, let me explain the wonders of the best fruit ever invented by God. Avocados are not only delicious additions to pretty much anything except dessert, they have the good kinds of fat that help the machine you call a body absorb nutrients. They’re great for the eyes, loaded with antioxidants. They can lower cholesterol.”
“You don’t have high cholesterol.”
“I’m talkin’ here! They’re also packed with fiber which helps digestion, have twenty different vitamins and minerals, and they carry more potassium than bananas.” I pick up and drop my napkin like I’ve spiked a microphone.
Tony eyes me. “You’re a nerd.”
“Because I read?”
“Yes.”
“Rather be a nerd than a Tony.”
He chuckles, “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
A male server approaches our table with no sign of knowing who we are. Good, because we partied pretty hard Monday, checked out the Windy City Tuesday and flew in yesterday. We’re longing for a little quiet today.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
We order a round of coffee and juice, and tell him we’re expecting one more guy. He nods and vanishes.
Mott puts his menu down with all the gentleness of a rhino. “Coach is never late.” His big mug spreads into a grin, voice louder than most. “Look at the lovebirds suckin’ face before noon.”
Tony and I glance over and see a couple in a booth, the guy with his back to us, kissing a girl with long brown hair, her face blocked by his streaked black mop.
“Shit,” I mutter, feeling my stomach turn over as I realize who it is.
I’ve stayed away from the bar after that day in Piedmont Park. Even on the weekends when the team goes, I’ve avoided it, made excuses. Yet I still haven’t been able to get Wren out of my head.
I’ve never wanted anyone like this.
And I keep expecting it to fade.
But from the emptiness in my gut right now at knowing she’s in his arms, it hasn’t. I really don’t need to see her kissing that guy when I want her kissing me.
Shifting to face front again, I grumble, “Is the waiter comin’ with those waters anytime soon?”
“We didn’t order water, Cocker.”
“Oh…right.”
Mott grins, “They finally came up for air. Hey, he’s looking over here atcha.”
“Eric?” Peter calls to our table, adding, “Wow, Tony Sanchez and Mott LaRock!” as he recognizes who I’m with.
Oh fuck, here we go.
Last thing I want is to act friendly.
But I’m no coward either.
Turning in my chair toward the booth I lock eyes with a girl who isn’t Wren. Confused, my eyelids narrow like she might change form if I stare hard enough. Then they flicker to Peter, and by the look on his face he just realized he’s not with the girl he’s supposed to be with,
