“We need a wedding cake in three days, and you’re going to go for a walk with me instead?”
I shrug, fighting a smile. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
With a scoff, he laughs and shakes his head. Then, he drops his hands against his side. “I don’t bloody care about the cake, if we’re honest,” he says.
I pause. I suddenly want to ask if he cares about any of it. Is this wedding really that important to him?
“I do,” I reply casually. “That lemon cake was fucking orgasmic.”
“Orgasmic?” he asks with a laugh.
“It was,” I reply, as a light sprinkle douses my head. I pay it no mind as we continue our stroll.
“I don’t know if it wasthatgood,” he replies.
Suddenly, we’re both smiling. We’re alone, not fighting, comfortable, and that all feels like it means something.
And then, from out of nowhere, the sky opens up, and rain pours down in sheets.
“Oh shite!” I bellow, looking back at Colin, who is standing with his arms wide, stunned and getting visibly drenched.
For a moment, we stand frozen in place as if we’re both trying to decide where we should run for shelter.
“The gazebo,” I shout, because it seems closer. Then, I grab his arm and drag him toward the small shelter at the perimeter of the garden. We both take off in a run, laughter cracking through the sound of rain.
“I’m getting soaked!” he cries, and I turn back to look, and he is drenched from head to toe already. His wavy blond hair is matted against his head in wet locks. His skin is glistening from the moisture as it drips over his full pink lips and down the straight, perfect line of his jaw.
I’m so distracted by how stunning he is, on top of how slick the grass is, that my foot moves from underneath me, and I slam down to my ass.
Colin continues running while laughing at me, but a moment later, his right foot slips out awkwardly to the side, and he falls too. But his fall is worse.
Over the sound of the rain and our laughter, we can both make out the unmistakable sound of his trousers ripping at the back. Neither of us even bother trying to stand. I’m on my back, rain pummeling my face as I howl with laughter.
What a pair we are.
Colin has mud streaked across his arm and back. His tight gray slacks are split down the middle in the back, revealing his briefs underneath. He’s also laughing so hard that his face is red. He’s lying on his stomach, and he hides his face against the grass as he giggles.
For a moment, I’m transported back in time. It’s no longer today, three days before his wedding. We’re no longer in our thirties. For just a few moments, we are twenty-one again. We’re in Los Angeles, Dublin, or Amsterdam, living without consequence, enjoying life for the moment, reckless and untouchable.
When our eyes meet, I think he feels it too. I nearly forgot what it felt like to have a friend. To laugh so hard it hurts. To be with someone who truly makes me feel carefree.
Our laughter eventually dies down enough for me to climb up to my feet, but I notice Colin struggling.
“Blast,” he says through his laughter. “I think I really hurt my ankle.”
Taking his arm in mine, I help him to his feet, and it’s obvious right away that he cannot put weight on it.
“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he mutters. It is still pouring, and we’re still getting drenched down to the bone. The gazebo is only a few more feet away.
“Come on, Shakespeare,” I say as I put his arm over my shoulder. He hobbles a few steps, but it’s too slow, so I slide my arm under his legs and lift him off the ground.
“What on earth are you doing?” he asks, but he clings to my neck anyway. I take each step more carefully than the last as I deliver him to the shelter.
There’s nowhere to sit, so I set Colin on his good foot and gently lower him to the floor. He’s wearing a white button-down that is drenched and sticking to his skin. I can’t tear my eyes away from the translucent fabric and the muscles of his chest showing through.
Colin’s always been a bit on the slender side. Try as he might to bulk up more to my figure, he’s never had the meat on his bones that I do. And as much as he used to berate himself, I would reprimand him for it because he’s perfect. He always has been.
“I can’t believe my trousers ripped,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “How am I gonna go back to the house like this?”
