All three of us flip a card at the same time, and I shimmy my shoulders in triumph at my queen decimating their lower card values. I eagerly take my second shot of the night.
But that’s where my winning streak ends.
Shawn. George. Shawn. Shawn.
“Damn it!” I slam a fist on the table, rattling the four empty shot glasses as Shawn downs his third.
“I am the victor,” he declares. “I write history. And the history is: Francis can be trusted. True love conquers all. Even evil mushrooms.” He slaps my book down in front of me. “Set the record straight.”
Grumbling all the while, I flip to the back of the book and scribble out his dictate.
“Does this happen every book club?” George asks, and I manage not to bristle at the question. Helps that he sounds curious rather than judgmental.
“Only when we disagree about what happens after the ending.” Shawn scoops up the cards and slips them back in their box, missing the first two times because he was already a few beers deep before his three tequila shots.
“So, yes,” I add, collapsing onto the couch and enjoying the warmth of the liquor in my belly. The alcohol is slowly making being around George less of a thing. I find it easier to forget that he’s my super-rich flight instructor who tolerates me because of my brother, and to remember how cozy I was with his arms wrapped around my thighs and his head nestled beneath my boobs.
Usually, a war designates the end of book club and the start of movie night. Shawn might be tipsy, but he’s still plenty capable of making a massive bowl of popcorn. For next month, Shawn gets to pick the book—we trade off—which means it’s my turn to select the movie. But because I’m a magnanimous person, I hand the remote to George.
Also, I haven’t forgotten what today is for him.
The man looks like he’s never held a remote in his life, staring down at the thing, then back at me.
“Here,” I huff, scooting closer and taking it from him. “He’s got all the streaming. What are you in the mood for? And we can’t watch anymoreMasters of the Air, ’cause war stories make Shawn cry.” When I glance up at George, I realize the tequila must be messing with my depth perception. I’m much closer to him than I first thought I was. Close enough to watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Close enough to smell his cologne.
Damn, he smells good.
Because I’m not in full control of my body, I suck in a deep breath, filling my lungs with his delicious scent.
Would it be weird if I asked what his cologne is and then buy it and add a few drops to my laundry?
Who am I kidding? Whatever he has on probably costs more than my monthly grocery bill. No way I could ever afford to have a bottle of George Bunsen.
I face the massive TV mounted on the wall and start flicking through apps.
“Come on. Name a genre at least.” I try to nudge him with my shoulder but end up leaning a touch too heavily into his side. He doesn’t help me right myself. “No horror, either. Shawn is a wimp.”
Right on cue, “Don’t pick a scary one!” he yells from the kitchen.
George snorts, then clears his throat. “How aboutScooby-Doo?” He takes the remote and pulls up the live-action movie with Sarah Michelle Gellar.
I gasp and give him a grin. “Really? I love that one!”
George smiles, his focus on the TV. “Me, too.”
After selecting the movie, I give up the delicious air that exists around George to crawl on all fours to the chaise section of the couch, where I normally sit. There’s a strangled cough behind me, and I glance back to see George rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Maybe he’s upset about his mom. I turn away to give him a semblance of privacy, and I hope that watching a movie he likes is a helpful distraction.
There’s a fluffy blanket draped over the back of the couch, and I cocoon myself in it.
Shawn drops heavily onto the couch between us, clutching a party-sized bowl of popcorn covered in butter. “Scooby-Doo? Hell, last time I saw this was in college. Such a good movie to watch high.”
I reach a foot out of my blanket to poke him in the side. “You smokedmarijuana?” I say with a dramatic gasp. “Didn’t you listen to the D.A.R.E. program?”
“I’m a rebel.” Shawn throws a lopsided grin my way, then passes the bowl over.
Despite the goofy goodness of the movie, I nod off halfway through and only partially regain consciousness when I hear a whispered argument.
