The pub is loud and smells like beer and fried food and Stacey's impending victory.
"That's eighty dollars." Stacey lines up another shot. The cue ball cracks against the eight ball. It drops into the corner pocket with a satisfying thunk. "You want to go double or nothing?"
Nacho stares at the empty table. "How."
"Skill." Stacey chalks her cue stick. "Pure, unfiltered skill."
Pedro shakes his head. "You're a pool shark."
"I prefer 'strategically talented.'" Stacey grins and pockets the cash Nacho hands over. "Who's next? Carlos? You look like you need to lose some money."
Carlos raises his beer from his seat at the bar. "I'm good. I'll just watch you destroy Sergio's ego instead."
Sergio pulls out his wallet. "My ego is fine."
"Sure it is." Stacey racks the balls for another game. "Come on, coach. Let's see if you're better than your brother."
I sit at the bar with Harmony, watching my pack get systematically demolished by my best friend. Harmony nurses a ginger ale, her chamomile scent sweet but tinged with something sharp. Stress, maybe. Or exhaustion from the drive.
"You okay?" I ask her.
Harmony fidgets with her straw. "Just tired. It's been a long day."
"You can head back to the house if you want. Carlos won't mind."
"No, this is nice." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Watching Stacey win is therapeutic."
On the pool table, Stacey gives Sergio a running commentary on his failures. "See, that's your problem. You're thinking three moves ahead when you should be thinking about the current shot. You're overthinking it."
Sergio lines up another shot. "I'm a coach. Overthinking is my job."
"Not in pool, it's not." Stacey demonstrates with an effortless bank shot. "Pool is about feel. Instinct. Letting your body do what it knows how to do."
"You sound like a motivational poster."
Stacey sinks another ball. "I contain multitudes. Also, you owe me forty dollars."
By the time we leave, Stacey has taken over two hundred dollars from my pack and bought three rounds of drinks with their money. Nacho looks vaguely impressed. Pedro looks like he's taking mental notes for a rematch. Carlos can't stop laughing. Sergio shakes his head but he's smiling.
Harmony is quiet on the drive home, her scent shifting between sweet and sour in waves.
The next morning, I wake up with Sergio’s elbow in my ribs and Nacho’s leg crushing mine. Carlos’s hand on my hip, and he’s snoring in my ear like a chainsaw.
I try to move. Fail. Try again. Manage to extract one arm.
Sergio mumbles from somewhere beneath the pile. "Stop wiggling."
"I can't breathe. Sergio!"
He shifts, pulling me more firmly against his chest. Which dislodges Carlos, who rolls into Pedro, who elbows Nacho, who makes a sound like a disgruntled bear.
Pedro's voice comes out muffled by a pillow. "We need a bigger bed. I always feel squashed. Like I have no room to move."
I manage to sit up and look over. Pedro's on one side of the bed, by himself. It's as if he's moved us all from his space.
Carlos protests. "Really. More space. You need to be confined when you sleep."
"And you need something over your mouth. I keep thinking there's an earthquake. The noise you make and the whole room shakes," Pedro says in his defense.
