MILE THIRTEEN
DICKY MEN
The herby aroma of pizza fills Garrett’s vehicle as we pull up to Anker’s house. This may be my new favorite Friday night tradition. In lieu of happy hour at Harkey’s, for the last three Fridays we’ve done pizza at Ankers.
Though, Garrett still hasn’t agreed to learn to make fancy cocktails, but tonight he did agree to bring Ditka along. It’s not uncommon for Ditka to come over to Anker’s place when it’s just us. Plus, my brother is Ditka’s sitter on the rare occasions Garrett is out of town, so he has a litter box, treats, and a few toys for him at the ready. Tonight, Ditka will be my cuddle buddy, while his daddy and Anker watch hockey.
They’re both diehard LA Bobcats fans, and with Anker still on crutches, they sold their tickets for tonight’s game to watch at home. While a Friday night listening to them play wannabe hockey coach from the couch is unappealing, an evening cuddled with Garrett’s furry squish-monster and eating garlic knots is top-tier.
“Thank god, I’m starving!” Anker’s whiny bellow greets us as we walk through his front door.
“Why, hello, dear brother. Lovely to see you too,” I tease, unleashing Ditka the moment I hear Garrett shut the doorbehind us. The feline trots down the small hall towards the kitchen, his bell jangling all the way.
“Hello. I’m starving!” he shouts from the living room.
“Are the chips and salsa you’re eating not holding you over?” Garrett snarks.
“Man cannot live on snacks alone,” he says between loud crunches.
With a head shake, I place my cane beside the door and slip off my heels. “Should we set up at the table?”
“No need for fancy. Just pop a squat here,” Anker says through a mouth full of food.
Pop a squat?Face scrunched, I tilt my head toward the living room. This isn’t like Anker. He lives for fancy. Pizza nights aren’t merely a casual affair for him. He’s the only human I know who pulls out actual plates and wine glasses for pizza, but this has been his state over the last month.
I shuffle fully into the living room. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”
Anker is propped up on the couch, his booted left foot resting on top of a stack of pillows on the coffee table. Mesh shorts and a hooded sweatshirt replace his typically put-together outfit. Even with my limited vision, I can tell that he hasn’t shaved in several days, and his dark brown hair is messy.
“I see you’re in your couch potato era,” I quip with a wave of my hand.
“Says my blind sister.” He bites into another chip.
“That’s one.” With an eyeroll, I wag my finger.
Few people joke with me about my vision. Anker is certainly one of them, but he only gets one teasing blind comment a day. It’s an old rule my dad set for us as teens to ensure Anker never weaponized my disability. Though, he never would. Anker’s teases aren’t meant to be cruel.
“I’ll set things up in the kitchen and we’ll bring plates into the living room,” Garrett says, coming beside me.
“I can help, since Count Cucumber is couch-ridden… Careful, big brother, if you sit too long, you may pickle,” I sass.
“That’s a lot of judgment from the woman who remains curled up on the couch all day on Christmas with an audiobook.” Anker bites into another chip.
“Audiobook? More like one of her erotic audios,” Garrett teases, his low timbre sending heat zipping up my spine and invading my cheeks.
“Eww, Jensen… On Christmas and in our parents’ house,” he groans.
“Gives a new meaning to the term stocking stuffer.” Garrett bumps my shoulder, seeming to delight in torturing Anker.
“All I have to say is that I have a newfound appreciation for candy canes,” I coo with a wiggle of my hips.
“Oh god!” Head tipped back, Anker lets out a dramatic groan.
“Candy canes?” Garrett clears his throat.
“Don’t be judgy or I’ll make you do the dishes.” I poke his bicep. “Let’s go set up.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. You go change.”
