PMU Boxset 2

by MacMillan, Jerica

I huff out a laugh. He knows me too well. “I know,” I tell both him and myself. “It’s just been a while.”

  Another swift kiss. “It’ll be just like old times, I promise. Remember how we used to all hang out together? And I bet their living room here is bigger and has nicer furniture. One of the perks of at least one of them having a full-time job for more than a year.”

  Daniel’s in his third year teaching math and coaching football at one of the local high schools, and Elena is in her last year of law school, while Evan started a PhD program this year. I graduated with my Master’s in Library Science last spring, but only managed to get a job at a library system in one of Seattle’s outlying suburbs a few months ago. The commute sucks, but I’m hoping that once Evan’s done with the bulk of his in-person class load, we can move closer. Of course once he finishes his PhD, he’ll be on the hunt for a job as a professor, and then we’ll have to deal with potentially moving and me looking for a job all over again, depending on if he gets an offer good enough to make moving worthwhile. Though with the current trends toward adjunct professorships in academia, that might be a long shot. But those are worries for another time.

  Right now, it’s time to go face old friends, find a bathroom, and eat.

  We climb out of the car, Evan pulling our suitcase out of the trunk while I grab our pillows and my purse out of the backseat and we hustle to the shelter of the front porch. Evan knocks authoritatively, and we glance at each other while we wait for the door.

  Daniel answers, warm light spilling out when he opens the door. A wide smile on his face, he holds his hand out to Evan.

  They clasp hands and pull each other in close for hearty back slaps, exchanging the usual greetings and pleasantries. “You made it! How was the drive?”

  “Good. Wet. Uneventful.”

  “Come in, come in!” Daniel steps out of the way, letting us into their living room. Cream colored carpet meets the small patch of vinyl flooring that is the entryway, leading directly into the open floor plan living room. A large flat screen TV sits on top of an entertainment center to the left, with a matching sofa and loveseat combo opposite it, a simple espresso colored coffee table in the middle bearing an assortment of remotes and a few books. A breakfast bar separates the kitchen from the dining area, where a dark wood table is set with plates.

  “Hey, guys!” Elena calls from the kitchen, coming over to give us both welcoming hugs. And Evan’s right. Being back feels almost like no time has passed—the hugs, the warm welcome, the smell of pizza making my stomach growl.

  Daniel laughs at the sound. “I see you brought your appetite.”

  “Let’s get you all inside and then we can eat,” Elena says, gesturing for us to follow her down the hall to our right. “We have the guest room all set up for you. You can dump your things, and the bathroom’s right next door.” She leads us to a sparsely furnished bedroom on the right and gives me a rueful grin. “It’s not much, I know. We don’t have a lot of out-of-town guests, but the bed is comfy, and the blankets are warm. If you need extras, they’re on the top shelf in the closet, and there’s plenty of room to hang things up. I’ll let you get settled, and then we’ll eat. We got your favorites from Mangiamo’s.” With a smile, she leaves the room calling, “Come on out when you’re ready!” over her shoulder.

  Evan parks the suitcase by the closet while I toss our pillows on the bed and take off my jacket. I set my phone on the nightstand, the twin of the one on the other side, the only other pieces of furniture in the room other than the bed. The wall above the bed bears a colorful painting, and that’s it.

  Stepping closer, Evan wraps his arms around me, bending his head to give me another kiss. I snuggle into his chest with a sigh. “See?” he says, his voice rumbling under my ear. “This’ll be fine.”

  “I know. You’re right. But you know how I am.” I shrug, and he rubs my back, dropping a kiss on the top of my head before stepping back.

  “I do. Now go to the bathroom so we can eat. I’m starving.”

  Laughing, I do what he says, waiting in the bedroom for a moment of peace while he uses the bathroom before we head out to the living room together. Yes, my worries about things being weird don’t seem like they’ll come true. And sharing space with another couple for two nights isn’t a big deal, really. But I’m a creature of habit and a homebody, so taking a moment to breathe is important.

  Evan pokes his head through the door, holding out his hand to me with a happy smile on his face. Standing from the bed, I smile back, take his hand, and let him lead me out to the living area, where Daniel and Elena are waiting.

  “Grab a plate!” says Elena, gesturing at the table. The pizza boxes are open on the counter, and Evan hands me a plate, gesturing for me to go first. I always feel awkward at these kinds of things where I’m the first one to grab food. Like I’m selfish or think I’m more important. But Evan’s right behind me, and Daniel and Elena are grabbing their own plates. Clearly they’re trying to be good hosts by letting us go first, and Evan’s being sweet. So I squash down my awkward feelings and get two slices of pizza while Daniel rattles off the drink options.

  I claim a soda, and Evan gets a beer, and we sit next to each other at the table, digging in while Daniel and Elena get their food and get settled.

  “So how’s coaching going?” Evan asks as soon as Daniel’s seated and has a mouthful of pizza.

  Daniel flips him off while he chews, Elena snickering into her napkin around her own bite of pizza, and I grin while I sip my drink. I’ve always enjoyed watching these three interact. Elena treats Evan like a younger brother—I guess because she has one of her own—and Daniel and Evan were teammates and roommates for so long that their conversations are always full of inside jokes and goodnatured teasing that speaks to the depth of their friendship. As an only child, spending the last part of my undergrad with them gave me that taste of found family you always read about in books and see in the movies and on TV. I have to admit, I’ve missed it more than I realized since we left.

  Daniel talks at length about his team and their failed run at making it to state. “They played hard, but in the end, we couldn’t make it past the semifinals. Still better than our school has done in years, though, so we celebrated making it as far as we did and plan on getting farther next year. This was the best team we’ve put on the field in at least a decade, though. It’s fun working with them, watching them grow and improve their skills.”

  Evan nods and looks at Elena. “How about you? You’re almost done with law school, right? What’s next?”

  Dropping her eyes, Elena shrugs and picks a piece of pepperoni off her pizza and pops it in her mouth. Uh-oh. I think Evan may have inadvertently struck a nerve. “Well,” she says slowly, drawing out the word. “I still have one more semester of school. Then I have to decide where to take the bar exam and study my ass off. I have an internship lined up, so that’ll be good too.”

  “Will you be able to keep working there after you’ve passed the bar and are officially a lawyer?” I ask.

  She shrugs again. “Maybe?” But before I can ask for clarification, she turns the question around on me. “What about you? How are things? I know you had some poems published in a few literary journals. Are you still writing? How’s work going?”

  Blinking, my cheeks heat in a reflexive reaction to receiving attention for my writing. I should be used to it by now. I’ve taken creative writing classes constantly for most of the last decade, but it’s different when you’re talking about writing with other writers versus talking about writing with the driven law student with the prestigious internship who wants to fight for immigration reform and human rights. Somehow writing poetry and working in a library seems … small in comparison.

  Evan jumps in and answers for me. “She submitted a collection to a chapbook competition that comes with publishing as a prize, so we’re waiting to hear back on that.”

  “That sounds exciting,” Elena says, smiling. “What’s a chapbook?”r />
  Fighting back a giggle that’s part nerves, part genuine amusement, I wipe my mouth with my napkin and answer her question. “It’s what they call a short volume of poetry by one author. It’s actually a reference to the style of binding used for small booklets. But like Evan said, the winner gets a publishing contract and a cash prize. It would be exciting to win, but tons of people enter these things, so my chances are slim. I’m still sending poems to other literary publications, though. I have a calendar where I track everything.”

  Daniel’s eyes widen in his face. “That sounds kind of intense.”

  I shrug and sip my drink, looking down. “It’s not that bad. Once the system’s in place, it’s just a matter of keeping up. Since Evan still has tons of homework, I have plenty of time in the evening to work on it. Plus, all that unfettered thinking time while I drive to and from work … I use my voice recorder app a lot to capture thoughts when they come to me and refine them later when I get home.”

  “That sounds like way more fun than listening to the audio version of law textbooks like I do when I’m driving around,” Elena says wryly.

  Laughing, I glance at her. “I agree. I’d much rather write poetry than listen to law textbooks. And the library gig is going well. I’m starting to find my footing there. It’s a small community network, so you get to know the patrons pretty quickly, at least the regulars. And my coworkers are nice.”

  We spend the rest of the evening catching up, swapping stories about coworkers, professors, students, and life in a way that doesn’t work as well on video chats or on social media. And Evan was right. In a lot of ways, it’s like no time has passed. I’m glad we’re here.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Chris

  Grumpy and achy, I stand in the cramped aisle of the tiny plane and reach in the overhead bin for my carry-on with my good arm. The strap from the sling digs into the side of my neck, rubbing the skin raw, and I can’t fucking wait to see Megan, get her alone, and get this damn sling off. I don’t need it, but the therapist recommended using it while traveling as a reminder not to overuse my right arm with its bum shoulder and also as a visual cue to let others know that I’m injured.

  Because broadcasting my weaknesses is my favorite thing to do. Ha.

  I’ve been up since early this morning, even though I caught an evening flight to Spokane, and it’s been a long day. I spent the early morning packing and getting ready to leave, wishing I could’ve gone with Megan when she came to Spokane days ago, missing her more than I have a right to considering it’s only been two fucking days. Once that was done, I spent the day with my coaches and therapists in endless meetings and sessions to review my progress and discuss whether I’ll be in playing shape in time for the postseason.

  I was hoping the answer on my progress would be a resounding, “Yes, of course. Progress is good. A few more weeks, and you’ll be ready to go.”

  But the reality is that it’s still a matter of time and guesswork. I’m under strict orders to maintain my stretching drills, but to take it easy on the weight for now. I apparently went too hard, too fast, and now the inflammation is back, so it’s an ice, heat, anti-inflammatory rotation plus gentle stretching and rest for at least the next few days while I’m here.

  Which, on the one hand, is easier to do while traveling. But on the other, it pisses me off because I want to be better by now.

  And apparently this setback is at least partly my own stupid fault, and that doesn’t make me any happier. Neither does sitting in a seat on the tiniest airplane in the commercial fleet for the last hour, but at least it means I’m minutes away from seeing Megan.

  As much as I want to lower my good shoulder and plow through the people blocking my way, I’m aware that’s not acceptable behavior, and so I keep a tight rein on my irritation and wait patiently for the doors to open and people to slowly make their way off the plane.

  Once free of the jetway, I lengthen my stride, maneuvering around everyone and making a beeline for the exit from the secure area. And come to a sudden stop once I make it out.

  Because there’s Megan, radiant with happiness, holding a sign with my name on it, as though I wouldn’t recognize her.

  A smile—the first genuine smile all day—tugs at my lips, and I close the distance between us, eyes only on her, completely unaware of anyone or anything else around us.

  She drops the sign as I stop in front of her, wrapping her arms around my neck and hanging on when I pick her up with my good arm clamped around her and kissing her thoroughly.

  Not for long enough, but we are in a public place, and it’s definitely harder to hold her up with just one arm. Reluctantly, I lower her back to her feet and end the kiss. She smiles up at me, her hands cupping my stubble-roughened cheeks, pulling my lips to hers for one quick, sweet kiss. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

  My brow wrinkles in concern. Megan’s not a cryer. She’s stone cold when she’s angry, and if and when she does let out her tears eventually, it’s in private. “Hey, now. What’s with the waterworks? Has staying with Lance been that bad? I mean, I lived with the guy for a couple years, so I get it, but I would’ve thought Abby would’ve toned that shit down by now.”

  She lets out a gurgly laugh. “I’m just happy you’re here is all.” She steps back and laces her fingers with mine, taking my suitcase with her free hand since I’ve got the damn sling on. “Did you check a bag, or is this everything?”

  “I had to check my garment bag with my suit.”

  With a nod, she leads the way to baggage claim, standing next to me, leaning against my side while we wait. I wrap my arm around her, happy to just soak in her presence without a word.

  After grabbing my bag, she leads the way to the car, and we make small talk as she drives us through our old stomping grounds to the downtown hotel where we’re staying the next few days.

  “How was staying with Lance and Abby?”

  She shoots a smile my way, the streetlights illuminating her face, and whatever weirdness had claimed her when she met me in the airport seems to have dissolved. “It was good. They’ve got a nice place now, so I got an actual bedroom instead of the couch.”

  “Do they still have that same couch, though?”

  She looks affronted at the suggestion they would’ve replaced the couch she shared with Abby when they lived together ages ago. “Of course. Why wouldn’t they? That couch is the best.”

  I chuckle. “I don’t know. Maybe they wanted an upgrade from college-student chic?”

  “Pssh.” She flips a hand, dismissing my comment. “Anyone would be lucky to have that couch. Plus, Abby’s too frugal. She doesn’t like replacing things that aren’t overtly broken or falling apart. I predict that Lance will be able to convince her to buy a new couch when that one either breaks or the fabric starts fraying in multiple places.”

  “Good point,” I agree with a smile. That does sound exactly like Abby. Even when they got married, she had a hard time registering for new dishes and kitchenware because she insisted that what they had was perfectly fine. Megan, in her duties as maid-of-honor, forced Abby to at least register at a few stores and told her she could exchange anything she didn’t want for things she actually needed or return them and keep the cash after the wedding if having new dishes bothered her that much.

  Of course Megan was counting on the fact that Abby would think she’d seem ungrateful for doing that, and so she ensured that her friend would at least get an upgrade from the mismatched thrift store dishes she’d been using for years. “It would be one thing if they were purposely mismatched and went well together,” she’d complained to me, “but they’re just grab-whatever’s-cheapest-on-half-price-day-at-the-thrift-store mismatched. I just want her to be happy.” And the artist in Megan insists that people are happiest when they have beautiful things.

  And I have to admit that since living with her, I am happier. Arguably, that’s more about her than the things she surrounds herself
with, but having her decorate our space certainly doesn’t hurt anything. Our condo is a riot of colors and textures, but they all harmonize with each other, and even when she’s not home, I feel better in that space than I ever did in the house I shared with Matt and Lance for a while with its crappy second-hand furniture, bare walls, and discount store bedding.

  Mostly, though, it’s Megan. Her energy infuses our space, and being with her always makes me better.

  Which is why I’m so glad to be here with her again. And when it’s time to go, I’ll be happy we’re returning home together.

  Reaching over, I settle my hand on her thigh as she navigates the maze of one-way streets, finally stopping in front of the valet stand in front of a small, boutique hotel. The lobby is tiny, but sumptuous, full of dark woods and lush fabrics. We skip the check-in desk and head straight for the closet-sized elevator, because Megan checked in before coming to pick me up.

  Once we’re in our room, I hang my suit up in the closet next to Megan’s dress so it won’t be wrinkled for Coach Hanson’s retirement party tomorrow before relieving myself of the sling, twisting my neck this way and that to work out a few kinks and gently stretching my tender shoulder.

  When I turn, Megan’s eyes are on me, tracing the lines of my body that press against my fitted hunter green thermal henley.

  She raises her eyes to mine when she notices that I’ve caught her in the act of checking me out. With a smile pulling on her lips she says, “You are a beautiful man.”

  “Thank you.” I smile back, slow and sexy, reaching for her and reeling her in until I have her in my arms.

  She sighs and wraps her arms around me, her cheek over my heart. “This is much better.”

  A warm bubble of happiness swells in my chest. “You missed me?”

  With a huff of laughter, she lifts her head and meets my eyes. “Of course. And you missed me.”

  It’s a statement, not a question, but I nod my confirmation anyway, dropping my head to claim her mouth. “I always miss you when we’re apart,” I whisper against her lips. Missing her is a familiar feeling, especially during the football season. I’m frequently gone, and while she sometimes comes along, she also has commissions and shows to work for plus her schedule of art classes that she teaches for fun and a bit more steady income. Not that she needs it, because my income is plenty steady—at least for now. Though if my shoulder injury doesn’t start getting better soon, I suppose that might not be true forever. But teaching art makes her happy. And what makes her happy, makes me happy.