We pull up in front of his parents’ house a few minutes later. Dom opens the door and bows a little. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I say stiffly.
He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “This is me. Your ninety-nine-percent-chance-to-marry guy. I’m sorry about what happened. You’re right. I won’t get behind the wheel before I get more sleep. Crack a smile, will ya?”
He is back to being playful, sweet Dom. But I’m still worried. I’m going to be the one driving on our way back. The thought of having him behind the wheel scares me now.
I muster a smile. He thanks me quietly.
Laughter and the sound of a football game roll in from the living room. We follow the noise. Soon, I come face-to-face with Gemma, Brad, and Joe. The latter looks casual, in worn jeans and workman’s boots. Not like a man who could devastate a girl’s entire universe. Who could make her lose her mom, and maybe her boyfriend, and definitely her sanity.
The city always corrupts you, Mom used to say. But corruption is bloody fun!
We stare at each other like two people with big fat secrets in their pockets. Dynamite that could detonate the entire room.
“Hey,” I say, staring at Joe.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“You look tan! Had a nice vacay?” Gemma jumps up, stepping between us, almost like she can pick up the tangible tension.
A tornado of air-kisses and pleasantries follows. I hand Gemma the flowers and present I got for her—an assortment of handmade soaps and candles—and she puts it aside, next to a pile of wrapped gifts. We all retire to the dining room for dinner. Dom and Joe heatedly discuss the new gym equipment that was installed in their building. Brad has ordered pizzas and chicken wings so Gemma doesn’t have to cook. He makes the obligatory dad joke about how he worked hard to prepare this meal. We all say grace on Gemma’s request and dig in.
Joe and I exchange glances as Gemma tells us about her sixtieth-birthday surprise. Brad took her to watch ballet, which he hates, and to a yacht club restaurant—which he also hates because “no one should pay ninety bucks for a lobster in Massachusetts, goddammit.”
Joe laughs. “No one should pay a dollar for a lobster.”
“But maybe love is simply putting up with the other person’s bad judgment and questionable taste in order to keep them,” Brad contemplates aloud. Joe’s foot brushes mine under the table. I don’t know if it’s accidental or not, but I do know I definitely shouldn’t have felt that shiver.
Dom reaches for my hand. “What does it say about me that I think Lynne’s taste complements mine?”
“That you’re pussywhipped?” Joe asks flippantly.
“Language in this house!” Gemma roars, but she is laughing.
“Happy wife, happy life.” Dom wiggles his eyebrows.
“Putting the cart before the horse, I see.” Joe tears into his chicken wing. Like a savage. Just as I suspected. Mom’s never wrong. Which is why I’m weirded out by how Dom eats chicken. It doesn’t go with his mild, sweet nature.
“I’m a horse now. Awesome,” I mumble, feeling the tension building at the dinner table and trying to diffuse it.
“Listen, man, I love you. I will die for you if need be. But.” Dom salutes Joe with his beer bottle graciously. “You’re just jealous because I’m out of the game and don’t have to go on Tinder anymore.”
“You’re right on one account.” Joe takes a pull of his Guinness. I cough out my drink, mutter a weak apology, and lock myself in the bathroom for a quick session of clutching the sink and hyperventilating. I stare at myself in the mirror, shaking my head.
“Of course it’d happen to you, Ev. Of course.”
By the time I come back, Dom and Joe are laughing, reminiscing about the time they both wrapped themselves in bubble roll and jumped from their tree house, resulting in a broken arm for each of them. Their relationship is so bipolar. I’m picking up on intense protectiveness vibes, and a lot of love, but also an underlying competition and bitterness. This doesn’t look like something born out of a girl. I think it is deeper. Older than my relationship with both Graves brothers.
After dinner, we spill back to the living room. Gemma starts opening her presents, which is a whole ceremony. First, she opens mine. She seems to be genuinely delighted. “Everlynne, it’s fantastic. Thank you so much. I’ve been wanting new candles for a while now!”
Then it’s Joe’s turn. His gift is swimming in fancy tissue paper. I crane my neck to peer into the box and see what it is. When she picks it up, tears prickle her eyes.