“I’m a poet!” I declare.
“Sure you are.”
When he tucks in first my seatbelt then his, I study him, and though I know I’m drooling, I’m also sighing.
Because, yes, he’s pretty. And Freya’s right about him being a future pro-hockey player. And I just know that his ass is going to feature in some boxer briefs’ ad at some point like Cole Korhonen. And he’ll have a jersey swinging in whatever arena is lucky enough to have him play there and as his BFF, I’ll get that jersey by default…
“Denny? You sleeping?”
My head flops forward. “Nah.”
“You were snoring.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Was. You still hungry?”
“Nah.” If anything, I feel nauseated. “Mom and Dad divorced, Z.”
He pauses. “Yeah, gorgeous. I know.”
Gorgeous.
Huh?
“Dad sucks.”
“He does.”
“Cheaters suck.”
“Your mom cheated too.”
“Self-defense,” I protest.
“Is cheating ever a defense?”
I slump in my seat. “What’s the point in relationships, Zach?”
“I dunno, D. It’s what you do, I guess?”
“Your mom and dad’s relationship sucked. Mine’s sucked.”
“Helmie and Davis’s doesn’t.”
“No.” I gust out a breath when a strand of hair flops into my line of sight. “Pecan’s lucky and he doesn’t even know it. I can’t imagine Davis fucking a puck rabbit.”
“Why do you call them that when you’re drunk?”
“Because bunnies are cute and those bitches have the personalities of vipers. Vipers eat rabbits?—”
“I’m not sure that’s their core prey.”
“Semantics. Therefore, puck rabbits.” I harrumph at his chuckle. “How long until we’re home?”
“Couple minutes. How are the blisters?”
“I think my feet will need amputating.”
