by Everly Lucas
“Are we expecting more people?” Please say no. After a long day of nonstop interaction, one person is all I can handle. Especially if that person is the ever-bubbly Leah.
She finishes chewing a big bite of chicken and licks her fingers clean. “Nah. It was either this or sit at the bar with a bunch of self-satisfied, pretentious grad students. And I don’t feel like getting hit on tonight, do you?”
Laughing, I shake my head because, no, I don’t want to be hit on, ever.
“Wait, aren’t you a grad student?” I’m pretty sure I remember Ben telling me she was getting her post-bacc at Penn.
“Yeah, but I’m not pretentious. Usually.”
This girl cracks me up. My sides are splitting, and I’ve only been here two minutes.
A waiter with spiky black hair and colorful tattoos covering his arms steps up to take our order. Leah asks for a second helping of wings—how she plans on fitting them all in her miniature-person stomach is beyond me—and I order a plate of nachos and one of their to-die-for sangrias.
“Sounds yummy. I’ll have one, too,” Leah says. “Make mine a virgin.”
The badass waiter smiles and takes our menus, and Leah digs back into her wings.
“How do you make a virgin sangria? Isn’t wine the main ingredient?”
She brandishes her wing like a BBQ-glazed wand. “Magic!”
Sure, in the Potterverse that’s perfectly sound logic, but… “Isn’t it just punch at that point?”
This earns me an exaggerated roll of the eyes. I know, I know. I’m a spoiler of mystery and ruiner of fun.
The drinks arrive, and then the food, and Leah and I fall into an easy chat about classes and work and her impending motherhood. When she sees me nursing my drink, she mocks my pathetic wimpishness. Like a typical redhead, I rarely back down from a challenge, so I suck the rest of the glass’s contents through my straw in one long pull. Then I order another and down that almost as quickly. I am the lightest of lightweights, plus I’ve barely touched my nachos, so I’ve got one hell of a buzz going, bordering on full-on drunk.
Leah pushes her plate to the side, takes a sip of her punch—I refuse to call it sangria—and folds her hands in front of her on the table. Shit. Humorous Leah has left the building. I fidget in my seat, uneasy about wherever this is headed.
"Okay, enough pussyfooting around,” she pronounces.
Her lips pop up in an impish smile half a second before she bursts into a giggle fit, presumably from saying the word pussy, because this is Leah we’re talking about. She's the only person I know above the age of four who can pull off being crude while maintaining max adorability.
After a few throat-clears and a struggle to get her features in check, she slaps her palms flat on the table and asks, "Are you or are you not in love with my brother?”
The question catches me so off guard, I almost blurt out the truth, but I manage to bite my tongue just in time. “If I’m in love with him, don’t you think he should be the first person I tell?”
She smiles, satisfied. “Good answer.”
Convinced we’ve settled that awkward matter, I pop a cheese-loaded tortilla chip in my mouth. Before I get the chance to swallow, Leah asks a follow-up question.
“And Andy?”
Holy what?
My gasp of pure shock sucks a sizable chunk of half-chewed food down my throat. Grabbing the cloth napkin off my lap, I do my best to hack it up before it lodges itself in my windpipe.
Is she trying to kill me? What the hell kind of question was that?
Long after I’m able to breathe and speak normally, I stay silent, my mind reeling. Leah remains expressionless on the other side of the table, and I realize I should’ve answered her by now. The answer should’ve been easy.
Hoping to toss the conversational ball back to her, I ask, “What about Andy?”
There. That should give me another second to organize my thoughts.
Still impassive as fuck, she poses the most horrific question imaginable. “Are you or are you not in love with Andy?”
No, of course not.
That’s what I say in my head, but my heart is a little less certain, and I want to strangle the bloody bastard for it. My mouth just opens and releases an unintelligible string of chirps.
This is so not good.
Leah has a front row seat to whatever awfulness is playing out on my face, but she watches me with sympathetic eyes, waiting patiently for me to pull myself together. She’s so much like her brother in this moment, it hurts.
“Look, Claire, I like you,” she says, no doubt realizing that words and I aren’t on speaking terms at the moment. “You’re smart and fun, and you think I’m hilarious—a very attractive quality in a person. And you make my brother happy.” That last part has my eyes tingling with guilty, unshed tears. “But you’ve got to work this shit out, girl. Ben’s not as observant as I am”—Seriously? He’s the most observant person I’ve ever met, so Leah must be scary-gifted in that department—"so he probably hasn’t noticed that dreamy look in your eyes whenever Andy’s around. But it won’t take him long to figure out you’re in love with his best friend.”
“I’m not—"
She holds up a hand to stop whatever was about to come out of my mouth. Not that I’m even sure what that was going to be. “I’m not here to judge. They’re both great guys, and if they weren’t my brothers, I’m sure I’d see the appeal. But if you’re going to give your heart to Ben, you have to give him all of it. He deserves that, don’t you think?”
This time, I answer without hesitation. “He deserves that and so much more.”
He deserves better than someone like me, my old insecurities chime in. This time, they might have a point.
Leah gives a nod of approval and drops the stern look, opting instead for an easy grin. “Whew! Glad that’s over.” You and me, both, sister. “Now, how about dessert?”
Her eyes light up as she peruses the dessert menu. Meanwhile, I’m a sloppy mess of mismatched thoughts and emotions, trying to sort them out and failing spectacularly.
I do love Ben. He may not know it yet, but that doesn’t make it any less true. He’s the one who helped guide me out of the darkest period of my life. He’s the one who makes me feel safe and happy and all good things.
Leah’s right. Ben deserves my entire heart, and I’m going to give it to him…even if it kills me.
Twenty
Ben
The rising sun casts a warm, golden glow over the Schuylkill River. With heat building in the air, I don’t break stride as I strip off my shirt and tuck it into the waistband of my shorts. It was still dark when Andy and I started our run along the Kelly Drive Loop, but seven miles in, I watch the sunrise creep up the front of Boathouse Row. A single racing shell slices across the otherwise undisturbed water, ripples fanning out behind it.
In quiet moments like these, I feel calm and focused in a bustling city of millions, and it’s why Andy and I make this run every Saturday.
I was tempted to beg off this morning. My flight had a four-hour delay in Chicago, and it was after two a.m. when I finally fell into bed—without Claire. If O’Hare International Airport were a person, I’d snuff the fucking life out of it for making me wait another night to see my girl.
Without fail, every time I got a text from her this week, my dick would twitch. At night, when I could see her face and hear that sweet, seductive voice of hers, I’d grow hard as a rock and have to get myself off to thoughts of her the second we said goodnight. I don’t think she would’ve objected to phone sex—there were a couple times I could’ve sworn she was about to suggest it—but I figured there’s no rush.
But last night, when I was supposed to be with her after nearly a week apart, shit was feeling pretty damn urgent.
Lurid fantasies of Claire plagued my mind every second of yesterday. I’d be stripping her naked in the park, with everyone watching, or she’d be riding my cock in bed while I sucked one of her pale pink nipp
les into my mouth. But mostly, it was just one fantasy repeating over and over—the moment my cock enters Claire for the first time. I’ve pictured it in so many different positions and settings, but in every scenario, just as I’m about to push in, Claire says, “I love you.”
“Fuck.”
Just the memory of those fantasies knocks the air from my lungs, and I have to stop running. Hands on my knees, I struggle to catch my breath. This is the effect she has on me, now that I’ve tasted her. And here I thought she made a mess of me before we kissed. I had no clue how bad it could get. Or how good.
“The fuck, Benny?” I look up to see Andy facing me, jumping in place to keep up his body’s momentum. “You get a cramp or somethin’? Man the fuck up—I’m starvin’.”
Part of the Saturday morning run tradition is capping it off with a massive breakfast at Parkway Corner Deli, a few blocks from where we finish off the Loop. We load up on protein and Gatorade and walk the rest of the way home, fat and happy.
I attempt to straighten up and make it halfway before I feel a sharp tug in my side. “Shit. Yeah, man. Just give me a second.” I start walking, knowing that standing still will only make it worse.
Andy jogs backward to keep mocking me with his lopsided smile, giving me all the motivation I need to pick up the pace, no matter how much it hurts. I’m a grown man, damnit. I can power through a little pain. The smug bastard just can’t let it go, though.
“You sure you don’t need me to get you somethin’?”
I grumble, guessing where this is headed.
“Maybe some Midol? A maxi pad?”
“You’re a real fucking comedian, DelVecchio.”
His booming laugh startles a flock of geese near the river’s edge, and they take flight to escape whatever beast made that jarring sound. Following their lead, I surge ahead, leaving him laughing in my dust.
“You gonna eat that?”
Without giving me a chance to tell him that, yes, yes I am planning to eat every strip of bacon on my plate, Andy snatches a few pieces, plus half my hash browns, and drowns them in maple syrup. He knows I hate maple syrup.
“Apparently not.”
We’re at our usual table near the front window—two people with enough food to feed six. There’s a fine mist falling, and it’s obvious we’re in for one hell of a summer storm later. The kind where the sky turns a hazy orange and the rain does nothing to diminish the amount of moisture trapped in the air.
With the drought we’ve been in this past month, a torrential downpour would be welcome. Especially if it lasts into the night and gets so dangerous, it wouldn’t be safe to send Claire home. Ideal situation, right there.
“Did you talk to Claire at all this week?” Andy asks around a bite of pilfered bacon.
My gut sinks, going from hungry to queasy in the span of nine words, but I bite off half a sausage link to avoid answering his question.
He still doesn’t know how much changed on Sunday. He has no clue Claire and I haven’t gone a single night without hearing each other’s voices and seeing each other’s faces, albeit from a distance. She and I agreed to keep this to ourselves for a while, but now I feel like an asshole for going behind my best friend’s back.
“They’ve got this picnic thing tonight, with all the restaurants on Baltimore Ave.” He spins the cap of his Gatorade bottle between his finger and the table, and I do my best not to look guilty. “It’s at Cedar Park. That’s not far from her, right? Dock Street’s got these pizzas that—"
“We kissed.”
Fuck, that was loud. I don’t have to look around to know all eyes are now on our table. Aside from a hard swallow and uncharacteristic silence, Andy doesn’t give anything away. But silence alone is all I need to get an idea of what’s going on in his head.
This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go down. He was supposed to be in a stellar mood and at least four beers deep before I said those two words. And I was supposed to be prepared. Cutting him off mid-sentence and blurting it out in a public place was not part of the plan.
Maybe it’s better this way. The Band-aid has officially been ripped, and we can proceed to the moving on part. I am by no means in denial.
Andy pushes his chair back, the cringeworthy sound of metal scraping tile drowning out every other noise in the diner. He doesn’t stand, just rests his elbows on his knees and drops his face to his fisted hands. I wait for him to speak or, hell, just look at me, for fuck’s sake.
When he lifts his head, he’s his normal self…but not. His lips bear the trademark Andy smirk, but his eyes aren’t in it. Leaning back in his chair, he locks his fingers at the back of his neck, giving the appearance of being totally at ease.
Cocky half-smile firmly in place, he puts me out of my misery. Sort of. “Was she good?”
What the fuck? Does he want me to punch him? Would making me more of a villain make this easier on him?
He laughs, but the sound is all wrong—passive-aggressive and cold. Andy’s brand of aggression has never once been passive. It’s not his style.
“I’m just fuckin’ with you, man. So, how’d this happen?”
Claire’s business isn’t mine to tell, so I keep the details to a bare minimum.
“It was crazy. She had a breakthrough, figured some things out about herself, and she just…blossomed.” I’m still in awe of her overnight transformation. I don’t think that’ll ever fade. I’m going to be in awe of that woman every day I’m on this earth.
And then, because I can’t shut myself up, I say, “You should’ve seen her.”
Andy’s brows pinch in the middle. Gone are any traces of his pseudo-casual affect. “It’s probably good I didn’t. So, you guys are together now?”
Oddly enough, the question I don’t know the answer to is the easiest one to answer. “We’re not anything, at this point. Just taking it day by day, I guess.”
He nods, accepting my vague explanation for what it is. Midway through one of those nods, he freezes and looks up at me from under a dark, furrowed brow. “How many days have you been takin’ it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve been away all week, and I know you ain’t seen her since you got home, so how many fuckin’ days have you been takin’ it?”
Shit. If there’s one tried and true way to tell if Andy’s pissed, it’s when his accent thickens. He worked hard to eliminate “ain’t” from his vocabulary, but when his temper flares to frightening levels, the deep-South Philly in him rises to the surface.
I really fucked this up—more than I thought I had. The only thing I can do now is be straight with him.
“It was Sunday.” I watch an angry twitch at his jawline because—fucking coward that I am—I can’t look him in the eyes.
“Let me get this straight. It’s been almost a week, and not once did you think this might be somethin’ you should share with me?”
My mouth opens, ready to explain why I held back the truth and that I was planning to tell him soon, but I’m not quick enough.
“Nah, you know what? Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you had your reasons,” he says, verbally and physically waving me off. I don’t buy it.
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to…” I have no idea why I started that sentence when I don’t have a clue how to end it. There’s not one part of this I didn’t mean to do. I meant all along to kiss Claire someday, even if that day was fifty years from now. I meant to keep it from Andy temporarily. The only thing I didn’t mean to do was hurt him, though I knew that was bound to happen, to some extent.
“No sweat. Really.”
He eats a few forkfuls of hash browns while we sit in silence. After downing half his Gatorade, he clears his throat. “There’s actually somethin’ I wanted to tell you, too. I’ve been thinkin’ it’s time I get my own place.”
Of all the things I thought might come out of his mouth, that one didn’t come close to making the list. Andy’s lived on the first floor of
my house since I bought it five years ago. Before that, we shared at least three different apartments throughout our twenties. In college, we roomed together sophomore through senior years. He’s just always been there. I kind of figured he always would be, at least until one of us got married. Hell, maybe even then.
So, yeah, this? This comes as a shock.
“You don’t have to do that. Things are going to be weird for a while, I know, but we’ll all get used to it.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“I’m not saying it’ll be overnight, or anything. Look, I know you like her, but I love her. You knew that, right?”
He and I never talked about it, but, for my part, I didn’t think we needed to. He knows how badly I’ve wanted a family and how long I’ve waited to find the woman I want to start it with. From moment one, it’s been obvious that woman is Claire. Obvious to me, obvious to him, and probably even obvious to her.
Not once has Andy talked about a family. Fuck, the man’s never expressed a desire to be with a woman for more than a month. Not in any serious way. So, sure, I’ve known he’s interested in Claire, but I just assumed we were on the same page—the page where Claire and I belong together and he goes back to his old promiscuous lifestyle.
“Oh, believe me, I knew it.” The arctic tone of his voice takes me by surprise.
“So then what’s the problem? I mean, come on, it’s not like you—"
“It’s not like I what?” His white-knuckled fists pound the aluminum table, rattling it so hard, my coffee spills over the rim of its styrofoam cup. “It’s not like I what, Benny? It’s not like I’m capable of feeling anything deeper than a fuckin’ kiddie pool? That’s all you see when you look at me? That’s all you see after seventeen fuckin’ years of bein’ friends—of bein’ brothers?” This time, he shoves his chair back with enough force to send it crashing to the floor. “Well, fuck you.”
Seeing a large man Hulking out in his dining room, the owner steps out from behind the counter. I try to send him an apologetic, reassuring glance, but he’s clearly ready to usher us out. I need to calm Andy down, or we need to make our exit.