Theo pauses, his eyes narrowed, but he’s clearly considering my take. “You did it to fuck with Ronnie?”
I see the spark in his eye, and I know where this is going. “Yes, your enemy.”
Sometimes I soothe him with monkey bread. Sometimes I soothe him by distracting him with his other enemies. “And Webflix, by extension, since Ronnie’s show is with them,” he adds, like he should be twirling a mustache in an old-timey movie.
I keep going, so he knows I’m on the good side. “I had to sell it, so I kissed her in front of them. They made it seem like she was desperate over Dax, and fuck that.”
“Fuck Dax,” Theo echoes. After a few seconds, he unleashes a huge sigh of relief. “You are a motherfucking genius. I knew it. You are the playmaker.”
I feel a little oily taking that compliment from him, even though I know this lie of omission is better than the truth. Since there won’t be a fifth time with Mabel.
“Exactly. And we want people to say good things about the bakery, so if this little charade helps, so be it.” Then, I tell him about the pickleball challenge, so he knows we’ll need to fake date for that.
“You’d better make sure she destroys them. If you have to fake-date your way through that, you need to do it.”
“I will,” I say, wishing I weren’t looking forward to spending time with Mabel on the court.
But I seriously am.
30
THE LAWN MEN
CORBIN
In my yard the next night, under Christmas lights that Charlotte and I hung twinkling from a maple tree, I toss a bag at the cornhole board, but miss badly, the bag skidding to the grass.
“Bummer. Can’t win everything,” Miller says, blowing on his nails and peacocking because he keeps winning game after game. He taps his chest. “I mean. I can. But you? Not so sure.”
I hand Miller the striped bag of mine from the ground. “Would you like this for your trophy case? A memento of when you came to my backyard and won a lawn game?”
He takes it, holds it up, and considers it. “As a matter of fact, I think I would.”
“You need something for your trophy case, Lockwood,” Tyler says from his spot a few feet away. He’s one of our friends from the Sea Dogs, our cross-town rivals, and he tries to hang out with us when he can. His kids are in the garage with Charlotte, watching a movie.
“This will be your first recognition of any kind, right?” Riggs asks. He’s on the deck, stretched out in an Adirondack chair.
“Right,” Miller deadpans. The dude has won multiple awards as a top goalie. “And I will display it proudly.”
“All right, let’s see who wins this round,” Tyler says, then goads Ivan and Lake into joining in the next game.
I join Riggs on the deck, pouring myself an iced tea from the pitcher. Don’t want to drink liquor since Charlotte is here with me tonight. I pick up the glass and then flop into the chair next to my teammate’s, glancing at the few remains of the spread that had covered the table earlier. We plowed through all the sandwiches and left no crumbs.
“How are you doing, man?” Riggs asks.
“Good.”
He scoffs. “Don’t give me a rote answer. How are you really doing? You’ve got a ton to manage. The kid, the regular job, your side hustle.”
I appreciate the thoughtful question. Most guys are afraid to ask how another dude is doing. We haven’t been taught that in a lot of cases. But Riggs tries to practice the hard stuff.
And he’s not wrong, so I give a better answer. “It feels doable. I feel good. Maybe because we’re playing well, or maybe because the bakery’s first week was a success. But then again, I’m not the one who’s at the bakery all day long. Mabel is.” A smile tugs at my lips as I think of her regular reports and how much I look forward to them. She sends me photos of empty trays with only crumbs left, pictures of the card reader displaying the sales at the end of the day, and mouth-watering images of what she’s baking. Those pictures give me life. “She’s doing a great job.”
Riggs arches a brow, then shakes his head, like something amuses him.
“What’s that for?”
He smirks. “Nothing.”
