“How are you?” I ask, and her body stiffens.
“I’m getting a little tired of that question.” There’s a defensive edge in her voice I haven’t ever heard from her. My dark brunette friend has circles under her equally dark eyes and looks exhausted. She also looks thin. Dismissing the warning in her tone, I glance up at Mason. He appears exasperated.
“Mason,” I greet, releasing Anna and stepping over to him.
To me, Mason Becker is an anomaly in our circle of friends. I don’t know how Ben allowed a man who loved his wife to remain close all these years. It wasn’t as though Ben didn’t see how Mason felt about Anna. He just chose to ignore it. The rest of us? We weren’t so blind.
I trust my wife one-thousand percent, he once said to me when I questioned him. He didn’t need to trust Mason because he knew Anna would never stray. He also believed in Mason in a way I’m not certain I would if it were my wife he lusted after. However, Mason hated Jeanine, my ex-wife. The feeling was mutual.
Mason is a manwhore. He’s what I’ve heard women call model-worthy gorgeous. He has this artful hair, slicked back in wavy perfection, curling up on his neck. I swear he probably blow-dries his hair, the pussy.
He’s lived the glory of bachelorhood his entire forty-one years, never taking a woman seriously, other than a blip on the map named Samantha, the mother of his now five-year-old daughter, Lynlee. Mason never considered marrying her. It’s probably one of the few smart decisions he’s made in his life. They would have killed each other.
To Mason’s credit, he’s been living here since Ben announced he was sick. He stepped up to be the physical strength eventually needed to assist Ben with his condition. He was also an extra support to Ben’s family of two teenage boys and a middle-school-aged daughter. If only my friend was as great to his own child.
Mason and I clap backs before pulling away from one another.
“Where’s Logan?”
Our original foursome includes me, Mason, Ben, and Logan Anders, newly married to Ben’s younger sister. They live up the street about half a mile. There was discussion about Logan physically staying at the house in order to celebrate Ben’s life, as we are calling this reunion of sorts; however, we don’t want to overwhelm Anna, and with Logan’s new baby, it’s best he stays in his own home. Anna’s been warned we aren’t here to be catered to. For lack of a better explanation, we’re here to use the place, recall good times with Ben, and get drunk. Anna is not responsible for us.
“He’ll be here tonight with Autumn and baby Ben.” Autumn had a baby shortly before her older brother’s passing, and she and Logan decided to name their son after Ben. At forty, Logan became a father again, and it suits him. He already has a daughter from his previous marriage, and I need some serious dad advice from him as a new divorcé with out-of-control children. Not that Logan’s daughter is out of control. Lorna is an angel compared to my monsters.
On that note, the two hellions race past me, and I’m suddenly wondering where they’ve been and what kind of trouble they’ve already caused. I don’t remember being so . . . inventive at seven years old as these two seem to be. Oliver is the follower, while Trevor is the alpha of the two.
“Halt,” I call out, sounding militant. “Where have you two been?”
They stop with their backs to me, both ramrod stiff but not turning around. Guilty.
“What did you do?”
Trevor slowly turns, giving me the eyes of his mother, wicked and deceptive despite his innocent age. “He didn’t do anything,” Thing One admits, pointing a finger at his brother, which means Oliver did do something. I direct my gaze to the smaller twin.
“Oliver.” My voice threatens that I want the truth, but the truth is, my children hardly tell it. In so many ways, I’m puzzled by my own boys. They should listen. They should obey. It’s not that difficult. They are my children. I love them, but I’m lost.
“He didn’t do anything,” Oliver claims of his brother, leading me to wonder which one did do something and what exactly did they do.
“Speak,” I snap.
“I had to go to the bathroom,” Oliver finally states, and I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. The bathroom leaves all sorts of open possibilities and deep concerns. Dueling swords as they piss. Items down the toilet. Clogging the sink until water cascades over the rim. Taking hearty shits despite being such little people and leaving it for the next person to witness.
“It’s not like she saw us,” Trevor states.
“Who?” I bark, flipping open my eyes and glaring at my boys.
“The lady,” Oliver adds.
“What lady?” I lower my hands to my sides, and sweat beads on my forehead.
“The one next door,” Trevor admits.
“River?” Anna questions, giving a name to the witness of my son’s exhibitionist peeing.
“Who?” I ask, turning to Anna.
“The lady next door. The new neighbor. Remember, she moved in last summer.” Anna turns her attention to the boys. “Gold hair. Friendly smile. Nice laugh.”
Gold hair? New neighbor? Could it be who I think it is?
Trevor shrugs. Oliver says, “She didn’t laugh at me.” His face pouts like he’s offended that she might have, or maybe he’s upset she didn’t offer him the sound.
“Don’t worry, little man. She’s probably seen a little pecker before,” Mason says, and I roll my eyes. He has no idea what he’s just started.
“His pecker isn’t little,” Trevor defends, as if they have big dicks at seven.
“We aren’t discussing our body parts,” I remind them after having this discussion in the car ride from the east side of the state to the west. Three hours plus bathroom breaks included at least four discussions on how we are not talking about body parts with others. Dicks. Buttholes. Fingers in our nose.
“Wow, the cojones on that kid,” Mason teases.
I turn to Mason as Oliver asks, “What are cojones?”
“Nothing,” I say through gritted teeth, catching Mason holding his hand below his zipper and cupping upward. Spinning back to my boys, I see Trevor mimic Mason’s motion, and then he state, “I have cojones.”
“Oh God,” I mutter while Anna quietly snickers. Facing her, I find her smile is weak while the sound is enough of a reminder that my friend needs to laugh. Maybe not at dick and ball antics, but it’s good to see some kind of grin curl her lips. “Okay. No more talk of cojones and no showing the neighbor your pecker.”
“I didn’t show her my pecker. I had to pee,” Oliver reminds me.
“Can I show her my cojones?” Trevor asks, dropping his voice to sound rough and gangster.
“No, and just for adding this word to your vocabulary, Uncle Mason wants to take you two to the beach.”
Mason chuckles before coming forward to clap me hard on my shoulder blade. “Okay, little guys, let’s take our big cojones to the beach.” Mason passes me, and my boys break into cheers while racing to the car for their bags.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say to Anna as my shoulders fall in defeat.
“Well, if anyone is going to teach them about big cojones, it’s Uncle Mason.” Her comment breaks us both into laughter, and I open my arms once again to bring her in for a hug.