“I tried the apps,”Logan groused, picking up his veggie burger. “It’s a wasteland out there.”
“It’s because you look like a hippie sasquatch,” Gabe said.
Face screwed up, Logan reeled back. “Try not to be too jealous of my lustrous locks,” he said. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t grow a full beard if you tried.”
Logan held out a fist, I bumped it. While my beard was full, Logan’s veered into mountain man territory. Combined with his man bun and the cow placenta that often clung to his work boots, he was far from a pretty boy.
While Gabe was the clean-cut, collared-shirt guy, the two of us got more feral by the year. Gabe had tried to keep up with us and grow a beard in high school, but it never turned into anything more than a few errant hairs across his cheeks. We’d never let him live it down.
Gabe was only three months older than me. We’d shared a crib as babies and I’d been bigger than him our whole lives, but he’d always had this older brother energy.
It was no surprise to anyone when he ran for mayor, it felt like he’d been doing the job since grade school.
The guy had this way about him. People loved him. Listened to him. He was patient, friendly, and a great leader.
While I was acing AP calculus, he was winning debate competitions and homecoming king.
When a group of people walked in and passed us, he turned on his professional smile and waved at them.
“Doesn’t it get exhausting?” I asked once they’d settled at the bar. “Smiling all the time and kissing babies and shit?”
He grimaced.
“He’s a small-town mayor. It’s not like he has any actual power,” Logan teased. “What’s he going to do? Issue parking tickets?”
“Nah.” I shook my head. “He has no ticketing authority.”
“What does he have authority over? Zoning ordinances?” Logan threw his head back and barked a laugh. “Guess he could zone us to death.”
“Death by municipal ordinance.” I brought a hand to my chest and leaned back like I’d just been stabbed. “My nightmare.”
Gabe glared at us over his sandwich.
Elbows on the table, Logan angled forward, grinning. “When are you gonna make Lainey Mrs. Mayor?”
“We’re not together,” Gabe said around a mouthful of food. “It’s been years.”
Scoffing, I gave him a side-eye. “What about Paul’s bachelor party last year?”
“That was a backslide,” he grumbled. “A one-night thing.”
“Tell her that. I’m pretty sure she’s picking out china patterns,” Logan mused.
“Are you five hundred years old?” Gabe snapped. “How do you even know what achina pattern is?”
Logan’s lips tipped down thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It’s an expression.”
“A weird-ass one.”
Reed chuckled. “I’m just saying, you’re youngish. You should get out there.”
“I date.” He shifted on his stool, grimacing. “Just not anyone in town. I’ve met people through committees and events in Montpelier and Burlington and Concord. Sometimes I go down to Boston.”
“Concord? You date New Hampshire girls? Do they have teeth.” Logan laughed at his own shitty joke.
“Asshole.”
“You know I’m kidding.” The rivalry between Vermont and New Hampshire had been going on since long before any of us were born, so we’d been talking shit about them all our lives.
