"Yeah, let's skip the suicide," I said, laughing. "And we're neither teenagers nor stirring up the village gangs by gettingtogether."
"Why not say we're lovers?" Alex asked. "Tell people that it's purely carnal, and you just fucked me in the coatcloset."
My beer was halfway to my mouth when those words tumbled from Alex's lips, and I froze. "Yeah," I said, setting the glass down. "That oneworks."
My brain was busy rewinding and replaying the moment whenyou just fucked me in the coat closetslipped past her battered lips. It left my skin feeling hot and tight, and my pulse racing to catch up with these notions ofAlex, naked, sex, now. My cock shook off its slumber and glanced around for some indication that it was time to get up and gotowork.
"Or," she started, gesturing toward me like there wasn't an ongoing discussion of fucking her in a semi-public location, "we're dating, casually. It was a fix-up by mutual friends, and we're taking it slow. Casual." She nodded and held up her finger. "I like that one. It sounds plausible, and it's safe for mixedcompany."
"That's important," I said, dropping my free hand under the table. This wasn't the right time to be inadvertently unzipped. "When I fuck you in a closet, you'll be the only one who needs to knowaboutit."
I went back to my beer because what else was there to say? That I was thinking about flipping that cute little skirt up over her ass and making this night even more interesting? That I was debating whether I'd have to keep her quiet so that no one outside this hypothetical closet could hear me owning her body? That I was acutely aware our arrangement involved none of that and I was a handsy motherfucker who couldn't stop touching her? That I couldn't manage the competing desires of my heart—ofLauren—andmycock?
Beer. Soul food for sadfools.
"It's good of you to clarify that," she said. "We never did finalize thesex in small spacesportion of ouragreement."
With my thumb, I drew circles on her ankle as I watched her dig into the nachos again. This woman was a bottomless pit. "Have you ever been to a Red Sox game, Alex?" Iasked.
"I was supposed to go to a game with Hartshorn and Acevedo last summer, but it didn't work out," she said. "I think they went, but I was tied up with a patient. The next time we were all free on the same day, the season hadended."
"You're tight with those guys,"Isaid.
She laughed at that, deep and loud like a woman was supposed to laugh. "Hartshorn is on the floor beneath me, and he's lived in that building since the dawn of time, or so he'd like us to believe," she said. "Acevedo was on the floor above me until he moved out a couple of months ago, and he's ahoarder."
It was my turn to bark out a laugh. "Ishenow?"
Alex reached for her glass and sipped. "Not the way we typically think about hoarding," she said. "He hoards people. The oddities and strays and lost causes." She motioned between us with her drink. "I hope this doesn't come as a shock to you, but we're part of hiscollection."
I glanced around the tavern, studying the assortment of games on the televisions and patrons seated at the bar before looking back to Alex. "I hadn't thought of Nick that way, but you might beright."
"He's a good guy," she said. She selected a chip and took a dainty bite from the corner before meeting my gaze. "Hartshorn, too. Good surgeons, good friends, good neighbors. But we can't manage to get our shit in line to do much more than grab lunch or dinner together. Not often. We're a little too scattered to plan for baseball games. To make matters worse, Acevedo's only interested in cutesy married shit now, like dinner parties and winetastings."
"I'm going to fix that. The Red Sox part, not the cutesey married shit," I said. Without releasing her ankle, I swiped my phone to life and called up my ESPN Sports app. "Plenty more games in the regular season, and then there's the playoffs. Obviously, we're looking toward the World Series, too, but let's not jinxthings."
Alex tilted her head as she took tiny bites from her chip. Long moments passed with nothing more than quiet crunching. Finally, she said, "Are we addinganotherdate?"
I brought my hand to my chest. "I cannot abide you living in this city without a proper introduction to Fenway Park," I said. "It's necessary,Alexandra."
She brushed some crumbs from her skirt but kept her eyes averted. I was certain that she was blushing this time, but I wasn't sure whether it was my request for more time with her or the use of her full name that brought color to her cheeks. Regardless of the source, those blushes always struck me with the sense that no one had ever done right bythisgirl.
None of that made sense. Alex was pretty and funny and interesting, and there should've been several non-douche-waffley guys lined up for herattention.
"While we're at it," I continued, "you need to visit the Hatch Shell and the Waterfront. A ride on the Swan Boats, too. Don't worry about keeping track of all this. I'll make you abucketlist."
"That's an interesting idea," she said, a yawn swallowing up her words. "Sorry. I slept this morning but I'm still underwater from my schedule thispastweek."
"I should get home, too," I said as I stood and slipped some bills under my half-empty beer glass. "If I stay out much later, I'll turn back into apumpkin."
"I have a hard time seeing that," she said, dragging her gaze up and down my body. It felt nice, her appraisal. I wouldn't mind feeling it more often. I wouldn't mind another conversation about sex in closets—or any other room—either. "Short and round, sure. But not orange. I can't see youorange."
She set her wet shoes on the floor, her face pulling into a grimace as she stepped into them.Her bottom lip was swollen and purple. All of those offenses, courtesy of me.Oh my fucking god.I had a thrilling history filled with tales of spilled beverages, ever-present yet mysterious stains on my clothes, and tripping over my own feet, but tonight's series of events was vying for thetopspot.
"Ah, well," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. I motioned for Alex to lead the way through the tavern, not out of some throwback chivalry but an authentic concern that I'd assault her again. "I'm one of those bizarre white pumpkins. The kind that no one wants because they'resuspect."
"They really are," she said as we reached the sidewalk. "Suspect, that is. People probably prefer those warty gourds to the ghostpumpkins."
The air was a thick, clingy contrast to the chilled tavern. My shirtsleeves were rolled to my elbows and my tie was long banished to my car's cup holder, but that did little to combat the humidity. The evening had taken a sharp turn from the pleasant breeziness we'd enjoyed in the Chapeltons' backyard, and a heavy sky was pushing down on us as a summer stormgathered.
