“Nice,” I say.
“I’m tellin’ you, this is gonna be myyear.”
“Oh, yeah? How’s that?”
“Friday night, man. Me and Sparky went down to Fireballs for happy hour, and we met these chicks. Dude—theoutfits.The one girl wore this belly shirt with, like, undertitty peeking out.”
“Undertitty?”That’s a new one.
“Don’t laugh, bro! That shit was hot.”
“Did you get her number?”
“Youknowit,” he says.
I call bullshit.“So, what happened? Did you take her home? Call her? What?”
“I couldn’t take her home,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Her friend was a major cockblock.”
I smirk.
“She was! She was a double-bagger too. I hate that, y’know? When the busted chick rules the roost and makes sure that if she can’t get it, nobody can?”
I laugh. “What are you even saying right now?” This man is anattorney. Like, for ajob.The only reason I can be friends with such a dirtbag is because I know his daddy issues are even worse than mine. Not that he’d ever talk about it—unless you get him good and sloshed.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “Whatevs. I texted her yesterday.”
“And?”
“She’s down.”
“Yeah? Down for what?”
“You know. Down for whatever, I guess.” He smiles.
“So, when are you seeing her?”
“Not sure,” he says, taking a gulp of his coffee. “She said her mom’s real sick or something. Said she’d let me know.”
Sounds like code forPlease never text me again. But I nod anyway. “Good stuff, bro. Sounds like she’s got real potential.”
“You should’ve come with us, C. Fireballs is thespotright now.”
Fireballs is a dumpy shit-den where fresh-out-of-college kids go to eat ten-cent wings and drink cheap beer on tap. With zero regard for fire regulations, the bouncers let people in until they’re packed shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines, and it often smells a little like a mix of body odor and hot-sauce-flavored puke. For all I know,Grace Landingwas Undertitty Girl. “Yeah, next time. Hey, what was her name?”
“I forget. Leelee or Lala or some L name like that. Why?”
“Just curious. She sounds real sophisticated, bro.” I laugh.
Dom smirks. “I’m sorry, hot shot. What’dyoudo this weekend?”
“Nothing, really. Laundry. Grocery shopping. This,” I say, referring to our time right now. I neglect to mention the fact that I was verbally accosted via the Internet. He’d jump all over that.
“It makes sense that you work in estate law. You behave like a dead person.”
“I behave like a grown-ass man,” I say.
“You know what place is lit right now?” he continues.
