Good For You

He pul s on a hooded jacket and a pair of Vans before walking me to my car. My lips are swol en and my skin is flushed head to toe. Like gravitational attraction, I can’t resist his pul when he’s within my reach. My teeth chatter as he presses me against my car, unzipping his jacket and folding it around us both, the hood up and shading the edges of our faces from the unobstructed moonlight overhead. “Cold?” he asks, and I shake my head. The shudders racing along my core have nothing to do with temperature. If anything, I’m burning. His mouth returns to mine and it’s no longer strange, no longer new. The feel of his heartbeat and the sinewy muscle layered over it is familiar under my hands, as is the manner in which he coaxes my responses forward, every nuanced turn and dip anticipated.

I drive home thinking this is me in manageable portions.

Chapter 42

REID

“Man, you suck.” This is John’s professed assessment of me when I sink the last solid bal on our second round of pool. Translation: I don’t suck and he wishes I did, because I’ve already beat him once and am about to make it twice.

“So, since there’s a pool table between us,” he says,

“and I’m sorta sober—enough to dodge if I have to—I have a question.” Considering that the only time I’ve ever been physical y violent with John was over Dori, I assume he’s letting me know that she’s the subject of this proposed interrogation. He’s either a lot braver or a lot stupider than I thought.

“Right corner pocket.” As I lean to take the shot, he clears his throat and I scratch. At my glare, he throws both hands up as if he had nothing to do with it. Standing the butt of the cue stick on the floor and holding it like a staff, I say,

“So talk.”

After taking al day to line up, he pockets his last two bal s with one shot, and then sinks the eight bal . Bastard.

I rack the bal s for another round as he gulps down the last of his beer, which makes me more curious about what he’s got to say. “Your turn to break,” he says.

“Not until you start talking. And please tel me this has nothing to do with my love life.”

He sighs, chalking his stick, not looking particularly guarded but not getting any closer, either. “Wel I don’t know, you tel me— is it about your love life?” He air-quotes love life.

John real y is oblivious to how many times during our relationship I’ve wanted to punch him. This is one of them.

“Cryptic, John. What is this, a very special episode of 90210?” I slam the cue bal into the rest and scatter them across the table.

“Fine. Just… don’t get al hands-on. It’s about that Dori chick.” He’s directly opposite of me stil , the wide expanse of table between us. Smart.

“What about her.”

Palms up, he says, “See, you’re doing it already, man.”

“What?”

“Looking like you’re gonna beat the shit out of me, that’s what. How am I supposed to be a bro and ask the hard shit if I’m afraid you’re gonna kil me for it?” He takes his shot and sinks the thirteen.

While he’s lining up another shot—remaining, conspicuously, on the other side of the table—I say, “Keep from talking about what I should do to her and you can ask whatever.” He sinks another stripe and quirks an eyebrow.

“Within reason,” I add.

“Okay. You’ve skipped out on a few parties lately. For like, the last several weeks. You get a text, you leave.” One shoulder lifts and fal s. “And?”

He eyes me. “Okay. The texts are from her?” I nod, leery of where he’s going with this, and he rol s his eyes. “Reid, I’ve known you since we were sixteen. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I think I’m pretty qualified to say— what the hell, man? You’ve never—I mean never—gotten remotely pissed over anything I’ve said about a girl you’ve hooked up with. Not to mention going al caveman apeshit.” He misses his third shot and I line mine up.

I wonder if John’s jealous in some way. Not that I can ask him that—I’d never hear the end of it. “What’s your point?” I sink my shot, move around the table to sink another. He’s fixated on a couple of girls playing one table over, one of whom angles indecently over her table in the shortest shorts possible. Glancing over her shoulder, she’s making certain we’re watching.

I’ve pocketed another two bal s by the time he answers.

“Uh, my point is, are you seeing that?” He tips his head at the two girls, who are openly appraising us and by the looks of things, about to come over.

I stand straight. “Yeah, John, I am a guy. I noticed. I just don’t care.” Every guy in the place noticed them the moment they walked in. Heads swiveled, bodies turned, mouths hung open. Your standard male reaction to females in tight, short, cle**age-baring clothes.

“See, that right there—what is that? You don’t care?

What does that even mean?”

“Hey.” Both girls saunter up right behind him.

“Hey, yourselves, ladies.” John’s standard hunter smile is in place. “What can we do for you?”

Short Shorts has an expression that matches John’s, but she’s aiming it at me. “You guys are pretty good. Thought we could get some pointers. We’re wil ing to buy the next round for your trouble.” They know who I am. Girls don’t buy the drinks, guys do. And in a pool hal ful of guys more than wil ing to do just that, they come to our table and offer to buy? I couldn’t be less interested.