Wrangled

My hypnosis is broken. I lift a challenging eyebrow at him. “Really? You call that chugging, big guy?”

I strut right up to his counter, press the tip of my bottle on its edge, give it one forceful crack of my fist—which pops the lid right off—then lift the beer to my own lips and kick it back.

I chug mine down in half the time.

Chad lifts his eyebrows in surprise, despite himself.

When I finish, I gently set the bottle on the counter where I leave it, then daintily wipe my lips with a single, sassy finger. “And that, partner, is how a classy man chugs.”

At that, Chad belts out with laughter, which quickly dies as he stares me down, an amused grin left on his dumbfounded face. “Just when I think I got ya figured out, Mr. Goodwin …”

“Nope, don’t you even with that ‘Mister’ stuff. Isn’t the whole ten-year reunion thing making you feel old enough?”

“Nah.” He pushes away from the archway and comes up to my side, propping an elbow on the counter. “With you standin’ here in front of me, after all these years, lookin’ the way you do … I feel like I’m eighteen all over again.”

The humor leaves my eyes. “Looking … the way I do …?”

“Yeah. Shit, you’re not gonna make me say it again, are you?” He squints critically at me. “Didn’t you hear me say you look like you’ve taken good care of yourself? Or did those words go in one ear and right out the other?”

I just stare back at him, uncertainty in my eyes.

He sighs, then licks his lips again before he speaks. “Reunions are weird. Is it doing somethin’ to you, too? Or just me? I feel like it’s diggin’ up all these old memories I thought were long gone.”

“Sure,” I agree, my throat tight. My hand finds the empty bottle I just set down on the counter, where I start fidgeting with it. What is up with my nerves, suddenly? I feel so jumpy. “It’s … doing something to me. A few things, actually.”

“Want another beer?”

“No, I’m …” I glance back at the fridge, feeling anxious.

“What’s crawlin’ up your ass?” He nods at me, his eyebrows pulling together. “You look like you need one. Just get one. Help yourself. I got at least two cases, easy.”

I’m standing close to him.

Like, really close.

My eyes drift to his chest, where the buttons of his shirt are undone, showing a peek of his pecs.

His big arms simply spill out of that shirt.

He’s so close, he could bear-hug me or tackle me to the floor, just like he used to when we were teenagers and he’d bully me.

I found it so traumatizing before.

So humiliating. So scary.

Why is that same memory now flooding my nervous system with heart-pounding, dizzying excitement? It leaves me helplessly wondering if I was secretly excited by it back then, too.

Did I actually enjoy the attention?

And if I did, what does that say about me?

“Lance?”

I meet his eyes at once. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Chad throws a thumb over his back. “Down the hall.”

Without another word, I ditch the bottle on the counter, whip around his breathtaking, muscular form, and dart into the dark hallway. At its end, I encounter two doors. I push through one of them at random.

And then I’m staring into a bedroom.

I think it’s his.

There’s another flannel blanket like the one on the couch, this one folded in half and thrown over the end of the bed. It faces a wide dresser under the window, its surface crowded by trinkets, empty bottles, and shot glasses. The window has a heavy curtain that looks like flannel PJs (I’m not making this up; flannel overload) and on a wall nearby, I count no less than four long shelves full of poseable action figures. The closet door is wide open, spilling with unhung laundry, pants, shirts, boots, and one bright green plaid pair of boxers that catch my eye for no reason in the world.

All I’m saying is, it’s crowded and I’m the only one in here.

“Other door,” Chad calls out at my back.

I jump and spin around.

Chad is watching me from the kitchen, where he leans against the frame of the narrow archway with an amused smirk on his face, arms crossed.

I give him a stiff and bewildered nod, then push through the other door. Now I’m staring at my odd reflection in a bathroom mirror, which stands over a crowded counter of beauty products—creams, lotions, and countless bottles of who-knows-what.

I didn’t take Chad to be the skin-hygiene-conscious type.

Maybe I don’t know the guy at all.

After closing the bathroom door behind me, I simply stand there in front of the mirror and breathe slowly, gathering my wits. I don’t have to pee. This was just an excuse to have a moment of me-time, a moment of self-reflection, a moment of …