I got out of the car and debated smoking my cigarette now. Grabbing a last few quiet moments before going inside. It had been a feat of sheer willpower not to smoke it after leaving the library. The odds were I’d need it after dinner.
Sometimes I enjoyed these loud, casual gatherings, and other times I felt like a ghost haunting a happy family. As boys, Knox and Nash had accepted me for who I was. As men, we could pick up and put down our friendship at any time without consequences or hurt feelings.
But with Naomi and Lina now added to the mix, the relationship seemed to take on more responsibilities. If I disappeared to Washington or New York or Atlanta for weeks without contact, I had no doubt Naomi would track me down, demanding to know if everything was okay and when she could expect me back. Lina would, at the very least, expect a heads-up on my departure and a general timeline for my return. Both would take it personally if I went weeks or months without reaching out.
Women complicated things. And not just for the partners they chose. For everyone connected to their partners.
The front door banged open, and Knox ambled out just as headlights cut across the driveway. Muted music filled the night air over the rumble of engine.
Sloane’s Jeep pulled in behind my vehicle. The lights and engine cut out, but the music continued. It was “Man! I Feel Like a Woman.” I sighed. Some things never changed.
Knox reached me. He was wearing jeans and a thermal shirt in charcoal gray with one chewed-up sleeve.
“You didn’t tell me she was coming,” I said, hooking a thumb in the direction of the Jeep.
The song ended and the driver’s side door opened. Sloane slid to the ground, her cowboy boots landing with a clomp.
“Whose Rover?” she called out to Knox.
I stepped around the hood and watched her recoil.
“You didn’t tell me he was coming,” she snapped.
“This is exactly why I’m standing out here instead of opening my goddamn front door to you two,” Knox announced.
“What are you grumbling about now?” Sloane demanded, storming toward us. She was wearing leggings and an oversize ruby-red sweater that matched her lipstick. Her hair was half up and half down, with the length of it hanging in thick, careless waves. Casual. Touchable.
“Waylay and I had to listen to Naomi talk to herself for an hour about which one of you to uninvite tonight,” Knox explained.
“I believe the term is disinvite,” I said.
“Fuck you,” Knox replied.
“I don’t understand the conflict. I’m Naomi’s friend and her boss. Ergo, I win,” Sloane said testily.
“Yeah, well, Luce here is my friend. And apparently Naomi is worried about him,” Knox added.
I ignored the smug look on Sloane’s face. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I insisted, both annoyed and oddly comforted that someone out there was worried for me.
“Besides being a soulless cadaver hell-bent on bringing misery to all,” Sloane added.
“Just you, Pixie. I only live to destroy your happiness,” I said.
“That right there is the reason I’m freezin’ my ass off in my driveway instead of making out with my wife. So this is what’s going to happen. The three of us are going to go inside, and you two are going to behave like adult humans with impulse control. Or else…”
Sloane’s eyes narrowed. “Or else what?”
She always had the wrong reaction to challenges like that.
Knox’s grin was wicked. “I’m glad you asked. Since I don’t want Naomi to know about this and since I can only punch one of you in the face and since I’m a little bit afraid of you”—he pointed at Sloane—“I had to get creative.”
He held up two small boxes with wires running out of them.
Sloane was already shaking her head. “No. Nope. No freaking way.”
“Oh, yes freaking way,” he insisted.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Well, Lucy,” Knox continued conversationally. “These here are transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation machines, a.k.a. TENS, a.k.a. period cramp torture devices the girls at Honky Tonk deploy during their Code Reds every month. They tape these sticky pad things onto a guy’s stomach and proceed to shock the shit out of him to show him what they go through on a monthly basis.”
Sloane scoffed and crossed her arms. “You’re not seriously saying you plan to electrocute your dinner guests.”
“I’ll be honest. I don’t care about dinner or our friendship that much,” I said, pulling my car keys out of my pocket.