They set the mattress down and leaned it against the wall.
“OK, Shallow Hal,” Miles said, shaking his head.
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got all the meat a dog could want on his bones in three lifetimes. No—make that thirty-four triple-F lifetimes.”
Miles continued shaking his head. “You’ve reached a new low, Cozzalino.”
Frank struggled to keep a straight face. “Come on, now—a guy’s gotta have something to play with. Violet’s got nothing but mosquito bites. Why even wear a bra, y’know? Just use masking tape to hold your nipples down.”
Miles fetched his beer from the bathroom and took a swig. “I didn’t get with Shauna because of her jugs, Shallow Hal.”
“But you sure couldn’t live without ‘em, now, could you?”
“Even if she was flat as…” Miles’ eyes roamed the ceiling, probably searching for a simile not too cliché.
“As Violet?” Frank suggested.
They both snickered.
“Even if she was flat as a parking lot,” Miles said, “she’s still the best damn woman alive.”
Frank couldn’t argue with that. It often seemed like Miles had somehow stumbled on the last good one left on the planet. Maybe jealousy was behind him trying to rain on Miles’ parade. “So if she decides to have a breast reduction, you’d go along with it?”
“Now I didn’t say all that.”
Frank guffawed. Miles chuckled a little himself.
They went back for the box spring. It was rigid and much lighter than the huge, fancy mattress.
Miles shot him a concerned glance. “I think I know when you’re pulling my leg, dog. But just to be sure: you’re not serious about Violet’s nubs, are you?”
“What, that they’re microscopic? Yes, they are.”
“No, bonehead. That that’s why you two are drifting apart.”
“No.” Frank let go a serious, sad sigh. “You know what it is…part of it, anyway? We were out at the movies one night, and bumped into some mutual friends in the lobby. Started talking. She’s chattering away with her girlfriend, I forget about what, but I hear her refer to my Mustang as ‘our car’.”
As he shuffled backwards, Miles glanced away from peering over his shoulder to briefly study Frank.
“Our car.” Frank repeated. “Like it belongs to her as well as me. Married people start talking like that, y’know, when everything the guy owns suddenly becomes community property and they both pretend the same transformation takes place with her stuff. It was too weird.”
Miles nodded.
“I don’t want to live under the same roof with Violet,” Frank went on. “We can only stand each other for about two or three days at a time. Then one of us is gonna go crazy. There’s just no way I could ever ‘stop the world and meld with her.’ I’d be a masochist if I tried. ‘Our stuff?’ No. We need more demarcation, not less.”
They dropped off the box spring, then went back for the headboard and frame parts. They assembled the king-sized bed in the master bedroom, then returned to the bathroom to finish laying the tile. When all was done, they celebrated with more beer.
“Just in time,” Frank said, gaze roaming over the finished bathroom. “That Subway sandwich is calling my name.
“I really appreciate the help,” Miles said. “There’s no way I could finish all this in one day without you helping.”
“No worries,” Frank replied, and knocked back a swig of Jaegermeister. “Has Shauna got a lot of stuff?”
Miles frowned, nodding. “More knick-knacks than you could believe. But her and her friend should have that all boxed up, time we get there. Heaviest thing, I think, will be her dresser. But the couch will be awkward getting down the stairs. Entertainment center. Computer desk—we’ll have to take that apart, probably. Then her bed, Katina’s bed…”
“She’s keeping her bed?” Frank asked.
“For the guest room, here. And can you believe she wants me to throw away all my living room furniture?”
Frank visualized the tattered, beat-up couch, easy chair and coffee table he had passed coming in, all of which appeared to be salvaged out of dumpsters. “No, man. I can’t imagine why she’d want that.”
“Have I warned you about her friend?” Miles asked.
“I don’t think so. Who’s her friend?”
“Celeste,” Miles said, pronouncing the name as if demon-possessed.
“What?”
“She’s a ball-breaker,” Miles said. “Or she can be. Has been.”
“Great.”
“We’ve been cool for the last few months,” Miles said, “but it’s hard to forget how she was at the start. She hated me from jump.”
“What’s her deal? One of those angry women who hate all men?”
“Just real suspicious of white boys tasting brown sugar, I guess.”
“Ahh. Well, I can’t wait to meet her. I’ll make sure to wear my protective cup.”
Miles checked the time. “If we get going now, maybe we can get the heavy stuff into the truck before they’re back with the food, and they won’t be in the way.”
“Sounds good to me,” Frank said, and they finished off their beers. 3
Celeste and Shauna chatted and laughed all the way to Subway and back. It was like old times.
They were still giggling about a guest on the latest Dr. Phil show as they approached the apartment stairway. Male voices carried down from above. They recognized the top of Shauna’s dresser bobbing beyond the railing. Then it rounded a corner and Miles Bowser, the love of Shauna’s life, appeared holding one end of it up as he backed down the steps carefully. He was tall, and sinewy, radiating natural masculine strength. The dresser must have weighed half a ton—she had tried to help Shauna move it once in the pre-Miles days—but he had solid control over it.
Now the man helping Miles came into view. He had dark hair and mischievous hazel eyes. His mouth was twisted in the type of grin someone has when they just said something sarcastic. He wore sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, and looked buff. Large muscles, glistening with sweat, bulged with the effort of holding up his end of Shauna’s dresser.
Both men recognized Shauna and shouted cheerful greetings. Then the man noticed Celeste and the smartass grin faded. If this were a cartoon, his eyes would have bulged right out of his face as he did a spring-loaded double-take.
Oh, no, Celeste thought. I don’t need this.
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Overcoming Page 24