“Hey there, lovebirds,” he says, slipping into the booth opposite Kursk. “Didn’t expect to see you slumming it at Marla’s.”
I sigh. “Hi, Chet.”
Kursk watches him, expression unreadable.
“You trying to bulk up your boy here?” Chet asks, gesturing to the two burgers, pile of hashbrowns, and milkshake Kursk has already inhaled. “Guy looks like he wrestles bears for a living.”
“I do,” Kursk says, deadpan.
Chet laughs. “Oh, you’re funny. I like that.”
“No jest.”
“Sure, bud. Say, what gym you go to? You bench, like, what—four-fifty?”
“I do not know this number. I lift boulders.”
Chet lets out another smirking laugh, then leans forward on his elbows. “You know, back when Olivia and I were together, we used to come here all the time. She’d always order the?—”
I kick him under the table.
He chokes on his smug.
“Anyway,” he says, recovering. “We used to arm wrestle for who paid. I won most of the time, didn’t I, Liv?”
I don’t reply. I’m too busy staring at histrap.
Kursk raises one eyebrow. “You challenge your mate for coin?”
“Not a mate,” I mutter.
Chet shrugs. “Just a little fun. You ever try it? Arm wrestling?”
Kursk’s grin is slow. Deliberate. Dangerous.
“Yes.”
“Well then.” Chet claps his hands. “Let’s go, big guy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Oh no,” I say, too late.
They clear a spot on the counter.
Marla herself, all five-foot-two and eighty-something of her, wipes down the laminate with a sigh. “Don’t break anything, or you’re both washing dishes for a week.”
Chet rolls up his sleeves. Kursk just sets his elbow down like he’s slamming down a tree trunk.
Their hands clasp.
There’s a hush over the diner.
Someone puts down their fork mid-bite.
“On three,” Chet says. “One. Two?—”
CRACK.
The table splits.
