Mason did look good, though. Now that hockey season was over, he’d cut his dark hair shorter, which had the effect of drawing attention to his jawline. He was wearing a tight black tee that made all the hours he spent at the gym abundantly clear, a pair of aviators tucked into the neck of his shirt.
“Yep,” I said, feeling the heat from another body behind us. Charlie leaned over me, taking a quick look through the window.
“I’m better looking,” he declared, then went back to his station.
Things got more awkward when Delilah insisted on Sam coming out to say hello. I apologized as he made his way to the table, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing his hair off his face. He shook hands with Mason and Patel, but Delilah threw her arms around him, mouthing “holy shit” to me from over his shoulder.
“Come over after your shift tonight, Sam,” Delilah told him. “And bring that handsome brother of yours.” Sam raised his eyebrows and looked to Patel, who just grinned and shook his head in amusement.
“I think Charlie has plans with his . . . Anita later, but yeah, I’ll come over. After washing off the sausage and sauerkraut,” he added, “unless you like that sort of thing.” He grinned at Delilah, who beamed back. Mason watched the exchange with a smile on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The three of them were already drunk by the time I got home. I could hear Mason and Patel arguing in slurred voices about whether beards or mustaches were the superior form of facial hair before I got inside. Delilah was sprawled over Patel’s lap on the couch reading a Joan Didion memoir, her tank top riding up her stomach. She was very clearly not wearing a bra. She lifted her head when I walked in, her eyes slow to focus on my face.
“Persephone!” she called, holding her arms outspread and waving me in for a hug. “We misssssed you!” I bent over to give her a squeeze.
“Looks like you survived without me.” Empty beer bottles were lined up in a row on the kitchen counter. A few of Dad’s records were scattered on the floor, but someone had managed to put on Revolver. There was a melting bowl of ice and a bottle of tequila open on the coffee table, and the guys each held glasses of the clear liquid.
“Come sit, babe,” Mason said, pulling me down onto him and planting a kiss below my jaw. “No offense, but you kind of smell.” I elbowed him in the stomach.
“I’ll go shower.” I moved to stand, but Mason held me tight, running his tongue up my neck.
“Mmm . . .” he murmured with a chuckle. “Tastes like pierogies.”
“Very funny. Now if you’ll allow me to excuse myself, I’ll go clean up.”
I lingered longer in the shower than I needed to. I knew that Sam would be arriving any minute, and I was half dreading it and half excited. It felt like this huge part of my life was closed off to him, and now I could introduce him to the people I spent time with when he and I weren’t together. I wanted Delilah to see him. I wasn’t worried about Sam and Mason. Mason wasn’t the jealous type, and Sam wasn’t the confrontational type. And I thought maybe if I saw them in the same room together, I would be reminded that Sam was just a regular guy. That maybe I had built him up as this mythical creature, a perfect friend and potential boyfriend who wouldn’t seem so precious and rare out in the real world.
When I came out of the bathroom, Sam was sitting at a dining chair he’d pulled up beside the couch, his still-wet hair combed neatly off his face. He was wearing the dark denim jeans that I knew were his nice jeans and a white button-up, the sleeves rolled past his tanned forearms. His feet were bare. He looked good. He looked grown-up. I, on the other hand, was wearing a pair of terry cloth shorts and a pink Barry’s Bay pullover. Mason passed him a full tumbler of tequila, and they clinked their glasses together before tossing back a gulp. I could see Sam struggling to keep a straight face; he wasn’t a drinker.
“Don’t you usually drink that stuff with limes and salt or something?” I asked, joining them.
“We neglected to bring limes,” Mason explained. “But this is really good shit, so it’s wasted on shots anyway.” He filled another tumbler and passed it to me. I took a small sip and coughed at the burn.
“Yeah, really good shit,” I rasped, still coughing. Mason pulled me toward him, and I froze, realizing he wanted me to sit on his lap.
“Come keep me company, babe,” he said, tugging harder. I perched awkwardly on the end of his knee. Delilah, who had made it to an upright position, threw me a questioning look. I moved my eyes toward Sam, who was watching Mason’s hands trace curlicues on my bare thigh. His brows drew together, then he downed the rest of his drink. Delilah’s gaze swung between the two of us, her eyes widening with understanding, a drunken smile forming on her lips.