I blinked. "Oh shit, really? I've been looking for one of those—"
"Wes." Dylan, from the doorway, still holding the container, watching this with the expression of a man who had seen this behavior for twenty-three years and had made his peace with it. "Who are you going out with?"
"Nobody," I said.
Knox looked at me. "What's his name?"
I tried to think of a lie.
"Don't lie to us," Knox said, because he was smarter than me. "You're holding two jackets and you've been standing here like you’re about to throw up. What's his name?"
"It's not—" I stopped. Started. "I'm just going out."
"On a date," Knox said.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't not say it."
Dylan sat down on the couch, moving one of the unplugged chargers. He had the look. The older brother look, the one that meant he'd already done the math and was waiting.
"Is it the guy from Broderick's?" Dylan said. "The one Jenkins told me about?"
"Which one from Broderick's?" Knox said to Dylan before I could answer.
"I think he was the tall one."
"There were two tall ones hitting on him."
"The one with the—" Dylan did something with his hand near his face.
"Oh," Knox said. "Him. What about that trainer? From the Hawks game? Morr, didn’t you fuck?"
"Jason? No, Jason was—” I started.
"The journalist," Dylan interrupted.
"Let’s fucking hope not. That guy had a podcast," Knox said. "What about the bartender?"
"Which bartender?"
"The one he kept making out with at O'Connor's."
"Oh." Dylan considered it. "No. He keeps texting Jenkins."
"Still?"
"Apparently."
"I'm standing right here," I said.
"Is it the flight attendant?" Knox said.
"No," I said. "It's not any of those. It's someone new. Can we please—"
"Someone new," Dylan and Knox said at the same time.
They both looked at me. Assessing. I was a problem they were solving and I was not a participant in the solving, I was the problem.
