I snorted. My all-too-vivid imagination had no problem picturing the fine print on a tag around my neck. Might not be a bad idea, actually. It’d save me from having to explain why I didn’t date.
Damn it. I was ready to be home and in pajamas with my still-unfinished book, trying to wrap my brain around Schrödinger’s wave what’s-it. Anything that might push tonight—better yet this whole week—out of my head. But I had to see this through to the end, because for whatever reason, this guy was interested enough to show up tonight. And suggest I switch to water, which was kind of sweet. I needed to at least make an effort so we could get the whole it-will-never-work thing over with.
I had no idea where the game room was, exactly, but Phil had been leading them down the hallway to the right. Recessed lighting cast sumptuous highlights and shadows along the detailed trim work skimming the ceiling and doorways. The first door was closed, and the second framed what appeared to be a shared office space for the couple. I had better luck further along when I heard deep voices and the crack of cue sticks and ceramic. Although the hallway ended with a prim little bench and plants posing in front of a window, I realized the space to the left opened into another room.
I was about to walk in when I heard my name in the mumble of conversation. Instinctively, I rocked back to a stop. The last thing I wanted was to be present when Phil tried to tease Sal into asking me out on an official date or something. I really hoped he’d stopped at that third glass of wine, but I doubted it. As I turned to head for the kitchen, Phil’s voice was suddenly clearer.
“I don’t know, man, you’ve been asking a lot of questions. Sure you’re not having second thoughts?” He sounded close. If I moved, he might hear my footsteps, but if he came out of the room, he’d see me. Whoever had answered him sounded annoyed. “Okay, okay!” Phil laughed. “Just thought Sal should be aware of the competition!”
Suddenly, the missing parts of the conversation clicked into place. Jesus. Y’all shouldn’t be allowed to drink.
“There is no competition.”
I jumped at Sal’s voice. No competition. There wasn’t a competition because . . . Because he doesn’t care! Relief flooded from my center out to my fingertips and toes. Perfect. This night would end soon, and Maureen would leave me alone for a while.
A resounding crack of balls echoed out, and I took advantage of the commotion to step back down the hallway.
“Phil? Y’all down here?” I called out.
Sure enough, he poked his head out of the room. “Hey, honey! We were just talking about you. Started a new game . . . want in? We can team up.”
“Yeah, I’ll play. Against you. My team’ll whoop your butt, too. It’s rude to talk about people behind their backs.” I happily joined them. Sal wasn’t interested, and a game of pool with the guys sounded perfect.
As if synchronized with my mood swing, all the little angels I’d seen earlier popped back into view. Sal’s reddish one, and Adam’s and my shared galaxy of white ones—but now I welcomed them. I was free to be me, and if someone noticed me accidentally staring at nothing, oh well. I’d spit out a lie as usual. No biggie.
Adam handed me a stick. “Sal just broke, and you can go next.”
“Haven’t played in years. What’s the game?”
“8-ball. Wanna wager?” Phil teased, “If we win, I get to talk about you all I want.”
“Hell no, old man. ‘Cause it’d be rude for me to dish about my gracious host when Adam and I win.” The high from my sudden release of stress was much better than the stupid glass of wine.
Phil and Adam laughed, but Sal was peering at each of us in turn as if trying to figure out the dynamics of our friendship. Funny how quickly I’d added Adam—and Cara—to my short list of friends, but they felt right somehow. I definitely felt like I’d known Adam for years, which was probably the significance of the angels between us. We had similar energies, maybe.
I twisted my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck and studied the angles for my shot. The pool table was a piece of art, meticulously crafted with a surface of thick burgundy felt. It perfectly complemented the rest of the man cave, of course. Dark oak paneling and mouldings, thick columns defining the wet bar area, black leather stools and sofas—the room was just the right blend of casual pub and old English gentleman’s club.
I could feel Sal’s eyes on me, but that didn’t make me uncomfortable any more. Once I’d lined up my shot, I called the left corner pocket and knocked the cue into the 1-ball, sinking it with a satisfying thwunk. Adam gave me a thumbs up, and I offered him the next shot while I went over to Sal.
He looked really out of place and awkward. Clearly, in spite of his good looks, he wasn’t any better at fitting in than I was; yet, as soon as I’d turned towards him, his expression had brightened with a gleaming smile. I settled on the stool next to him and soaked in his body’s ambient warmth. Who needed a day at the beach when he was around?
“Having a nice time?”
He cocked his head as if giving serious consideration to my question. “I believe so.”
Adam missed the 2-ball and started harassing Phil, who was sizing up an overly complicated combo to sink it. I turned back to Sal.
“Your name . . . is your family Italian?” My question seemed to confuse him. “I was just curious
