“Huh?” Declan’s eyes are glued to the screen. Our team is down by a goal and they’re currently in control of the ball.
“Sunday. We’re supposed to meet up with the soccer alumni. We’re going to see a game, remember?” I extended the invitation to Mark and Jerome, but they’re both busy. Jerome has some afternoon date planned with his current girlfriend—he’s also not sure if he’s planning to break it off or not. Usually that’s a sign he’s bored and ready to move on, but it’s really not my place to say. Mark is going fishing with his dad for the weekend, so it’s just me and Declan making the trip.
“Oh, fuck, yeah, of course I’m still in for that.” He drops his feet and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Come on! Get with the program, Donahue! You were right there!
“And we can take your SUV?”
“Yup, for sure. I’ll drive,” he says.
I pull up the weather app. “Good, it’s calling for heavy rain, and I can’t get my car in for a tire change until Tuesday.”
“I got you covered, Ave.” He pats my knee, then jumps off the couch and shouts victory when our team manages to get the ball past the goalie.
I wait until he’s seated again before I ask, “Do you need me to put an alert in your calendar?”
“Nah. It’s already programmed up here.” He taps his temple. “Oh, you’re up on the crossword puzzle. I got carried away and did twelve instead of ten. Sorry about that.” He looks under takeout boxes until he finds the newspaper crossword. There are a couple of grease stains and possibly some buffalo chicken sauce on it. Declan and I always share the weekly crossword puzzle.
“I was hoping it was my turn.” I grab the paper and scan the answers. “Did you have trouble with eighteen?”
He gives me an as if look and then smiles when he realizes I’m kidding.
For the vast majority of women, it would be considered a panty-dropping smile. I love him, but he’s got more baggage than a packed airplane, and I’ve already been down that road once before.
3
JUST ONE OF THE BOYS
DECLAN
“Mark, these must be for you.” I drop the box labeled MILD on the coffee table.
“Don’t judge. I’ve had heartburn lately.” Mark scoops them up.
Mark never goes above medium, and even then, he hiccups and sweats buckets. “Do you think that might be attributed to the fact that you’ve been here for less than an hour and already polished off three beers?” Avery grabs the box of suicide wings out of my hands before I can check to make sure the contents match the label.
There’s a place down the street that has the best pizza and wings, but they often mislabel the boxes, so most of the food requires a sniff test prior to consumption. They’ve labeled the suicide wings MILD on more than one occasion in the past. Once, Mark ate a supposedly mild one without the requisite sniff test, and we thought he was having a heart attack. He sweated all the way through his shirt and his face went beet red. He proceeded to chug half a gallon of milk and instantly regretted that as well.
“It’s all about balance,” Mark says defensively. He pulls an economy-sized pack of TUMS out of his backpack, pops the cap, and shakes a bunch directly into his mouth.
“How many bottles of those are you going through in a week?” Avery asks.
“Uh, two, maybe three?” He offers them to the rest of us like they’re candy, not chalky antacids.
“That’s not normal.” Jerome reaches for the honey garlic wings.
“Maybe you need to see a doctor?” Avery tosses her first wing bone into the discard bowl in the middle of the table and goes for the nachos. She tucks her hair into the neck of her shirt and leans over the box as she shoves three loaded chips into her mouth, one after the other.
Despite Avery growing up in an insanely tight family who hosted family events in a dining room with a table that’s probably as long as this entire condo, she eats like a pig. Unless she’s in a restaurant. Then she uses all the right forks and spoons and knives and is extra delicate. It’s hilarious to watch because Avery is very much the opposite of delicate.
“Nah, I’ve been trying to up my hot sauce tolerance for the past month, and I just need to slow my habanero roll.”
Avery’s phone chimes from somewhere on the coffee table, under the discarded bags and take-out boxes. When she finally finds it, she checks the alert, and mutters, “Oh shit.” She grabs two more loaded nachos, shoves them in her mouth, and springs up off the couch, rushing down the hall.
“What’s that about?” Jerome asks.
“Dunno.” I shrug and dig into my wings. Avery always has a million things going on, so it could literally be anything, but usually it’s work or sports related. Work tends to be her primary focus, as it is mine, apart from nights like these, anyway. The four of us always get together for Monday Night Football. Then we play in a rec soccer league on Wednesday nights, and every other weekend me and the guys hang out like we are tonight. Avery works most weekend evenings for whatever event they’re hosting, but maybe tonight her sisters are taking control of things. Usually Avery’s the one to handle all the people aspects of the events, since she’s pretty much the face of Spark House—not that she would agree with that title at all.