“Hello?” calls Emily from the front door. “We’re here!”
“In the kitchen!”
A few seconds later, Emily and Jack join us, along with Annie and Will right behind them. “I brought beer!” Will says, holding up a case. And then he raises his other hand. “And ginger beer for those who want it.”
“You can just say you brought it for me,” says Jack with a grateful smile as he leans back against the counter. “Everyone knows I’m the only one who drinks it.”
A discreet look is shared around the room.
“Actually,” says Emily, leaning into him and hugging his waist as he curls his arm around her shoulders, “I think I’ll have one tonight too. Sounds good.”
“Same!” parrots Amelia. “I’m not really in the mood for beer.” It’s clear as day what they’re doing—creating a way for Annie to not have to drink alcohol without putting her on the spot.
This is what siblings are best for: enabling your lie.
“Yep, me too,” I say, even though I despise ginger beer. I’d rather drink James’s battery acid coffee. I’ve always felt like the outsider in my family, but in small moments like this I can trick myself into thinking I fit in. I’m one of them. A successful gal with her life moving in a forward direction and doing the right thing for the sake of the fam.
“Huh.” Will frowns. “Okayyyyy. I guess I’ll put the beer in the fridge?” He looks disappointed. Like he’s waiting for someone to save him, which is interesting. Does he not realize Annie is pregnant? It seems so odd to me that she wouldn’t have told him yet. He is not only her husband, he’s her best friend. So why is Will looking at her like he’d rather eat his shoe than drink a ginger beer?
Noah silently takes the case from him and shuts it into the fridge. He might as well have punted it off the cliff. None of us are touching that stuff tonight.
We all continue shooting the breeze, but I can’t focus. My mindis zeroed in on the clock. Why isn’t James back yet? He didn’t know we were going to be here, but still—he used to clock out at five o’clock almost every day. These days, I’ve noticed from my window where I’ve definitely not been creepily keeping tabs on him that his truck rumbles back up to the house sometimes as late as 7:45.
It’s 7:30 now. He should be home. Heneedsto be home, resting and de-stressing, like his doctor prescribed.
While Amelia is telling us about the juicy text a celebrity friend of hers drunkenly sent her the other night, I wander to the window and peek out.No truck.And as Will, Emily, and Jack are bonding over student teaching stories (Will starts his first semester in August), I check my phone’s time just to make sure the clock on the microwave is correct.It is.
Maybe both clocks are wrong.
My eyes hunt for a third clock and instead clash with Noah’s narrowed, speculative gaze. He’s locked on me.
“Worried?” he mouths.
I shrug. “About what?”
His response is a flat, unimpressed smirk.
Finally, around 7:50, James strolls through the door wearing his usual uniform—worn-out jeans streaked with dirt, a sun-faded tee, and that ever-present hat pulled low over his brow. He looks exactly the way James always looks, like he could fix your truck, build you a deck, or hold you gently if you needed it.
My blood sparks, knowing he’s in the room. That his eyes will meet mine any second. That the familiar dip in my stomach is coming.
If he’s surprised to find all of us crowded in his kitchen, he doesn’t show it. Then again, this house has been our unofficial headquarters since high school.
No, he’s not surprised we’re here; what he looks downright offended by is the sight of our ginger beers.
He pointedly looks at each of our hands and then asks, “What the hell kind of Nazarene college party did I just walk into?”
“We’re all feeling responsible tonight. Want one?” I ask him, drawing his attention.
Our eyes connect and—whoosh—my stomach dips low. I have never experienced anything like this sensation before. It is alarming. Distinct. And directly tied to the man approaching from across the room.
“I’ve been responsible all day. I’d like a beer.” He moves in, and because I’m semi-blocking the fridge, he touches my lower back with one hand, closing the other around my hip to gently maneuver me out of the way. He could have just asked and I would have stepped aside, but I like his method much better. His touch seeps through my clothes and skin and ping-pongs around my bones.
I still feel the ghost of his hands when he turns to me, gently plucks the can from my grasp, and replaces it with a beer, because he knows it’s what I really wanted.I would not be shy about giving you what you wanted.His eyes hold mischief while he swigs his beer, as if he can see the memory of his words floating through my mind.
They’ve been an ever-present chorus, quietly reverberating in the back of my head ever since he said them.
And this is when I notice everyone watching us with shocked expressions. Oh god. I think my face might be screaming,I want James!And it turns out, when James is your friend, he kinda gives outI want you toovibes. Is he this way with all his friends? Has James been a fuckboy all this time and I’ve never noticed?
