I think Dane is falling in love.
“That’s adorable.”
“Why? It’s her last name,” he deadpans. “I’m not going to call her Lars.”
“Why not? Everyone else does.”
“I’m not everyone.”
Beck keeps probing. “But you don’t want more with her? How do you manage to remain detached after this long?”
It’s me who can easily answer that. “Our buddy has the uncanny ability to cut and run. Those bad habits go way back before he met me.”
“Alright,” Dane grunts. “Enough of the third degree. Let’s focus on why you’re acting like a soggy paper bag left out in the rain.”
My frown slips at that.
I crack my neck, not wanting the conversation to shift to me, but at the same time, I might actually go insane if I don’t talk to someone about what happened.
“It’s Amanda,” I confess.
Dane nods. “The chick you were with at the climb?”
“She’s the one.”
“The one?” Dane echoes, noting the specific language I chose there. “Is it that serious?”
Memories from the last couple of months hit me in sardonic waves, each one succeeding more than the last in taking me under.
Her groggy smile as I put her under after the accident.
Her victory dance after climbing the wall.
Her nervousness at the stair climb.
Her hitched breath when my hand was on her thigh on Halloween.
The way she tried to hide from me after her date.
The way she realized she never could.
The river.
The bikes.
Her shower.
Her bed.
Over and over, one after another, they crash into me, and all I can do is swallow down the knot they leave in my throat.
“She is,” I whisper. Then, I lift my brows. “Or rather, she would be—if things were different."
“What things?”
“The fact that her son is one of my best friends, for starters.”
Dane blanches. "Wait... Amanda is David's mom?"
David and Dane met one weekend in college when David came to visit me. Dane is also about the only person I’ve opened up to about David’s family situation, and specifically how it affected me.
I take another sip of my drink on a nod. “Indeed, she is.”
Dane is silent for a moment, then says, “Man, just talk to him. David will understand.”
“That might have been an option. Before.”
“Before?”
“Before he walked in on me in his mom's bed.”
Beck and Dane both let out an oof, exchanging glances without either of them having a comforting word to offer after that.
What is there to say?
“Do you want a shot?” Dane finally says. When I glare at him, he holds up a placating palm. “Just saying, now would be the time to take one. You can’t even drown your sorrows the old-fashioned way.”
“I’m capable of coping without alcohol. Fuck you very much.”
“Damn, you really are touchy.”
I can’t argue that, nor can I sell the fact that I can cope at all. But lucky for me, the front door of Shipwrecked bangs open then, and Larsen blows through it like a damn hurricane, her hair disheveled, eyes wide.
I nudge Dane off the barstool. “You’re excused from my pity party. Go take care of your girl.”
“Not mine—”
I cut him off. “Don't be naïve. Fucking communicate, man. Trust me—letting pride or fear keep you from a girl that incredible will be your biggest regret.”
Dane looks like he doesn’t want to leave me after a depressing comment like that, like he’s just realized his friend needs him. But Beck is shoving him off, too.
“Go,” he echoes. "Before I change my mind and grill you more.”
Without further delay, Dane leaves us for Larsen, and then Beck’s glare is heavy on me.
I ignore it, taking another long pull of my soda before I smack a hand on the bar. “Well, now that that’s over.”
“Sit,” Beck says, grabbing my arm before I can get my ass more than a few inches off the stool.
I sigh, sagging back down.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“I figured you had enough going on.”
“Don’t deflect. And don’t keep your shit from me just because you think I can’t handle it on top of my own. We’re friends, Greg. I’m here for you when you need me. Period.”
I nod, tail between my legs. “You’re right. I’ve just… I’ve never been good with opening up, especially with stuff like this.”
“Stuff meaning relationship stuff? Because that I believe, since I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in one.”
I scratch the back of my neck with a shrug.
“Have you tried talking to your friend since this all happened?”
“Many times.”
“And?”
I level a glare at him. “What do you think? No response. I’m sure he’s blocked my number by now.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Remember how I said I got hit in the eye with a hockey puck?” I ask, pointing to the fading bruises on my face.
Beck blanches. “He was the hockey puck.”
“Indeed,” I confirm, hand falling onto my lap.
“So, he was pissed. I mean, we talked about this at the café with Lars — what guy wouldn’t be upset that his friend and his mom were hooking up?”