Wondering if Sloane’s going to walk home alone after work doesn’t help.
Thinking about how she was clearly pissed at me when I refused to leave and wouldn’t let her walk to work by herself this morning doesn’t help.
Contemplating that she might dump me before we get fake married, which leaves an unusual sensation in the pit of my stomach, doesn’t help.
My inability to suppress the memory of kissing her Saturday doesn’t help.
Wanting to jack off and refusing to because that will only make things worse doesn’t help.
Wondering if she’s actually masturbated to thoughts of me doesn’t help.
And Beck showing up in the early afternoon doesn’t help either.
When the band split, Beck went into modeling underwear, then later launched a fashion empire. He’s mostly out of the game now while he and his wife, Sarah, raise their two babies.
Dude’s the best.
Annoyingly happy, but also the best.
He’s the original reason any of us knew Shipwreck existed. He got a weekend house up here years and years ago, and he’s hosted parties and get-togethers and he lets us all use his house anytime it’s free.
He has me by a couple inches, and he enjoys the metabolism—and appetite—of a goat. He has Ava, his oldest, who just turned two, with him.
They find me splitting wood outside the camper I drove up here when I quit my job after I realized how much attention Shipwreck and the treasure were getting because of Cooper’s wedding.
And how solving this treasure hunt needed to become my full-time job.
Beck takes one look at me, then does a double take. “Whoa. You’re up in some shi—shitake mushrooms, aren’t you?”
“Mush-ooms!” Ava yells from his arms.
Beck winces. “Whoops.”
“Whoops?” I ask.
“Mush-ooms!” Ava yells again.
“You just ate twenty minutes ago,” Beck says to her. “Peas and carrots and a banana and turkey rolls and a big grilled cheese sandwich. You ate, we changed your diaper, and then we left. Remember?”
She glares at him. “Mush-ooms.”
He looks at me. “Ah, you got any portabellas? She’s having a growth spurt. I packed applesauce and cheese sticks and toast and grapes and Cheerios and this really great bean salad we had for dinner last night, and she really did eat a big lunch just twenty minutes ago, and?—”
“Mush-ooms!” Ava interrupts.
“You had leftovers from dinner last night?” I ask. Beck doesn’t leave leftovers.
Ever.
It was one of the things that both amused me and annoyed me most when we were traveling together as a band. Sometimes a guy just wants leftovers.
He grins. “It was our fourth side dish.”
Of course.
Four side dishes are one too many for even Beck in a single sitting.
Apparently.
