West: God. Don’t start…
Dane: A guy can’t make sure his brother’s dialed in?
West: Dialed in? What the fuck are you even saying right now?
Sterling: What are you wearing?
West: Clothes.
Sterling: I’m picturing you in a dry-fit shirt and sweats. Please tell me I’m wrong.
Ricky: Go easy on him. He’s nervous.
West: I’m not nervous. I’m just having dinner with my wife.
That’s a lie, and I’m not even surewhyI lied, but it felt like the right response in the moment.
Ricky: Exactly. He’s got this.
Ricky: But for real. At least tell me you put the iron to your shirt.
West: …
Dane: Damn, that means he’s wearing Under Armor.
Sterling: Un-fucking-believable.
I frown at my phone as I type out a response.
West: The fuck is that supposed to mean? I know how to dress myself.
Ricky: Chill, we’re supposed to keep him calm. Tonight’s a big deal.
West: I AM calm.
There goes that lie again.
Sterling: Where’d you order dinner from?
West: Didn’t. I cooked.
Sterling: Oh, shit. Order a backup pizza. Just in case.
I let out a breath, realizing this conversation’s not helping, and type out what I’ve decided will be my final message to these assholes for the night.
West: Appreciate it, guys. I’ll text tomorrow.
I shove my phone back inside my pocket, and as soon as I’m finished lighting the candles on the table… the doorbell rings.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
My pulse races. I’m not sure what I’m feeling more, nervousness or excitement. But as soon as I reach the door and lay eyes on the woman who stole my heart and never returned it, I know the answer.
Excitement.
“Hey,” she says softly, and I step aside to let her in.
“Hey. You look… beautiful.”
