I turn on her. “You! What is this?”
Her shoulders shake and she covers her face, still lost to mirth. “I taped it to your backup camera,” she gasps through the laughs.
“Truce!” I declare. “I call a truce. No more pranks, dear god, please.”
Her expression lights up in pure venomous delight. “I win?”
“You win. Take the throne. Please get this off the screen.”
My gaze lands on the image again and I squeeze my eyes shut. So manly. Dr. White would have a field day with this. She chuckles a little longer and swings herself out of the truck. Out of my peripheral vision, her fingers paw at the image, but I don’t dare look.
Hate Samara.
Hate her well.
The whole premise of scary movies is that it’s all fine. It’s in the TV. No big deal. Then she comes out of the fucking TV.
My heart is still near jogging rate when Jocelyn returns to the truck, cackling. I shoot her puppy-dog face, and she wilts.
“I’m sorry.” She scratches behind my ear like I’m a real dog. “Will you forgive me?”
“You’re buying my dinner tonight.”
She sighs. “Fine.”
When I try to back up, the truck won’t go, and she laughs again, releasing the emergency break. “Safety first, Asher. Duh. Couldn’t have you slamming on the gas in sheer terror.”
Frustrating, heart attack–inducing woman.
“I can’t believe you caved,” she says once we’re on the road.
“You know all my weak spots, and you’re willing to fight dirty. It isn’t fair.”
Her smile is pure devilry. “You wanted fair, you should have put down rules.”
A fine point, really. Oh, well. You live, you learn, and I’ve internalized my lesson. Never engage Jocelyn Mattox in a battle of pranks. She’s not above making me pee my pants.
Roosevelt’s is a small gastropub, part hipster-industrial chic and part prohibition-era speakeasy. They locally source their menu and specialize in craft beer.
Yayoi loves it. She gets this thing called the Roosemelt that’s basically a grilled cheese for DINKs.
When Jocelyn and I arrive, the place is slammed, but Yayoi and Geoff are already seated and have drinks. As I slide into the booth, Jocelyn beside me, I tilt my head at the three empty glasses in front of Geoff and the single cup of water before Yayoi.
She shoves a pee stick in our faces. “Happy birthday to me!”
The extremely faint positive pregnancy test is wrestled from her hands by Joss, who gasps. “Really?”
At Yayoi’s nod, Jocelyn jumps from her seat and bear hugs Yayoi.
I raise my eyebrows at Geoff. “That was quick. Congrats, bro.”
He chugs the rest of his fancy beer and jiggles it in the air toward a person I assume is our server. “Another, please?”
“You okay there?” I ask.
“I don’t know how to be a dad,” he whispers.
The server arrives at our table, and Jocelyn returns to her seat, asking about the beer selections.
