"We were on a shift together three days ago, idiot," I say, throwing my empty water bottle at him. "Of course I exist."
"Yeah, but you used to be here twenty four seven," he counters. "You barely left the property, lurking upstairs like our own little hunchback."
"If you call, uh, living in my apartment 'lurking,'" I say, taking the chair across from him and propping my feet on the coffee table.
"Speaking of," he says. "Can I have your apartment now that you're shacking up with Abby?"
"We're not 'shacking up,' you dick," I snap. "She's my best friend, and I've been helping her through her pregnancy. In case you forgot, her husband died."
"Whoa," he says loudly. "I'm just kidding, man. I know it's not like that."
"She's already worried what people might be thinking about her," I say angrily. "The last thing she needs is someone making offhand shitty comments about how she's chosen to get through this."
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I didn't mean anything by it. I think what you're doing is great, Jack. Seriously. I'm not judging at all."
I let out a weary sigh, running my fingers through my hair.
"I shouldn't have snapped at you," I reply. "I'm just…protective of her, I guess."
"Makes sense," he nods. "You're a good man, Captain."
"I'm not your Captain," I say, rolling my eyes. "You've got to cut that out."
"You will be eventually," he shrugs. "I'm just getting ahead of the game."
"Anyway," he continues, swiftly steering away from the tense moment. "Me and Garrett are on duty tonight, but come out with us tomorrow. Bring Friday Beers back, just for one night. Don't tell anyone I said this, but we miss you dude. And between you and me," he says, dropping his voice low. "I'm sick as hell of being the one to babysit Garrett. Please relieve me of that duty for one night."
"I can't," I say automatically. "I'm watching the reunion special with Abby and building the rest of the nursery furniture."
"Y'all and your fucking reality TV," he scoffs. "You know it's all fake, right?"
"You cannot make these people up," I argue. "No one could write a script as good as season two of Vanderpump Rules."
"I don't even know what that is," he says, looking disgusted. "But c'mon, can't it wait until Saturday? Come out with us, have a few beers, act like you're young and single for once."
What a weird concept. I haven't felt young in a long time.
And you don't exactly feel single, either.
Now isnotthe time to try and analyze that thought, so I shove it to the back of my mind and try my best to look apologetic.
"Sorry, dude," I say, and I genuinely am. Friday Beers used to be one of the things I looked forward to most. Now, it feels like the last thing I want to do. "Rain check."
"Sure," he says with a knowing look. "Rain check."
We both know that's not happening.
***
"I always feel better myself after these things," Abby says through a mouthful of popcorn while two indistinguishable blonde women scream at each other on the screen. "Even at my worst, at least I'm not behaving like that."
"I don't know," I joke. "I've seen how you act when your fries are taking too long. You could hold your own on a Bravo show, no doubt."
She throws popcorn at my head, the kernels bouncing off my skull and into the blankets.
"Hey, don't get butter in my bed," I cry in outrage. "That's not what I want to smell while I'm falling asleep."
"You know where the clean sheets are," she says dismissively. "You know this house better than I do at this point."
