“Like, in a shallow way?” I ask somewhat hopefully.
Am I so desperate to find Will Grant unappealing I’m willing to reduce him to shallowness—the very same thing I got mad he reducedmeto when we were seventeen?
“No, in an attracted-to-blonds way,” Brooks says. “Why, are you shallow?”
“Depends on your definition of the word.”
“No depth,” he deadpans.
“I can be a little obsessive about the way I look,” I admit. “So yeah, I guess so.”
He chews on his lip. “I think it’s pretty bullshit we tell women who are obsessed with the way they look that they’re shallow, instead of recognizing that it’s body dysmorphic disorder and cultivating a society that doesn’t uphold unrealistic beauty standards.”
My mouth drops open as Will reappears. “Getting to know eachother?” He tosses a can to Brooks, who catches it with one hand, then holds it up to me in acheersgesture.
“Oh yeah,” Brooks says.
Will collapses onto the spot of free towel beside me. He slips two stacked plastic cups that sayTake Your Cloves Offbetween his teeth and cracks open a can of beer. It’s something local, with dark-purple branding. Not the same thing he brought, but we’re all collectivists for the evening. I watch greedily as he drops the cups hanging from his lips into his free hand, and then as the amber liquid from the can spills into the top cup.
So far, wiping out my attraction to him is going horribly.
I clear my throat and ask, “You guys reconnected after the run-in at Agricole?”
Will hands me my drink. “Basically, yeah.”
“Fate,” Brooks says. “Should have known you’d come home eventually.”
“I’m not home.” Will stiffens. “You know I still live in Manhattan.”
“We’ll see,” Brooks says.
Will glances away from both of us, and my mind keeps spinning. I guess I’m not the only person wondering if he’s considering a life change.
He finishes pouring the other can of beer into the second cup and stretches his legs out, leans his torso against the tree trunk, and takes his first sip.
“That child’s mother,” he says, nodding at Marshall, “is my high school sweetheart.”
“You really had to go there,” Brooks grumbles.
“Your ex-wife?” I ask.
“The very same,” Brooks says.
“The infamous Amber,” I say.
“Yup,” the guys say together.
Will grins. “I wasn’t even invited to their wedding.”
“You’ll be there for my next one,” Brooks promises.
“How come it didn’t work out?” I ask.
“Amber gave an over-the-pants hand job to another line cook at the restaurant. I found out through LinkedIn.”
I blink. “Does the line cook still work with you?”
“Yeah. He’s the dessert guy now.”
