“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.
I shift into the corner of the couch—which is Avery’s spot, but on sports night, if you move, your seat is always fair game.
A while later an odd clicking sound draws my attention away from the game. I can’t place it until Avery steps into the living room. She’s no longer wearing sweatpants and a ratty, threadbare T-shirt. Instead, she’s poured herself into a slinky black dress that hugs every single one of her athletic curves. In all the years I’ve known Avery, and I’ve known her for a lot of years, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her in a dress. And I’ve never seen her wear anything this … sexy.
I’ll be honest. It’s kind of freaking me out, because ever since college, when she started dating my former best friend Sam, I regarded Avery as a friend—she just happens to have a chest that she usually flattens into a uni-boob with a sports bra. The fact that her ex, Sam, screwed her over and nearly caused our friend group to disband helps keep her in the friend zone.
Except right now it’s hard not to see her as the attractive woman she is. “You’re a little overdressed for soccer and beer.”
“Ha-ha.” Avery rolls her eyes. “I’m going out. Obviously.”
“You got a Spark House event or something?” I know we’ve got that alumni thing tomorrow, but I figured her being home tonight meant she didn’t have anywhere to go. And I’m not sure I would consider that work-appropriate attire—even if it is a night thing—especially since those hobbyhorse dudes look like they probably don’t do much in the way of socializing beyond comparing the size of their stuffed horse heads on sticks.
“Holy shit, Ave, you are smokin’.” Mark whistles loudly, drawing Jerome’s attention away from the game as well.
“What’s the special occasion?” Jerome’s eyes flare, signaling he’s as shocked as I am by the dress.
We’re all used to casual, dressed-down Avery, not this hair and makeup done, dressed-up version.
“I have a date.” Her cheeks flush, and she tugs at the hem of the dress.
“Whoa. A date? Dude must be killing it in the sack if you’re willing to put on this smoke show.” Jerome does the finger spin. “Let’s see the back of this number.”
“It’s a first date, so I have no idea if he’s killing it in the sack.” She turns, pulling her hair over her shoulder to expose the back of dress. The straps are thin. So thin, in fact, that there is absolutely no way she can be wearing a bra. Not to mention it dips low, exposing a significant amount of skin. The dress is also on the shorter side, hitting her mid-thigh, showing off her athletic legs.
Having lived with Avery for a while, I’m familiar with her underwear preferences. Sometimes our laundry gets mixed up, or I have to move her stuff from the dryer to the basket. She’s a boy shorts and full coverage kind of woman most of the time. Always basic colors like black and beige. No frills, nothing risqué. However, I do not detect panty lines. Which means she’s either wearing a pair of those seamless, ugly-as-fuck beige ones I’ve had the misfortune of finding stuck inside the leg of my jeans, or she’s wearing a thong.
For whatever reason, I would much prefer it to be the former rather than the latter.
“So? What do you think? Is it too much for a first date?” She props a fist on her hip and bites her bottom lip.
“I think if you want to find out if he’s killin’ it in the sack, that’s definitely the dress you should wear,” Jerome says.
Mark nods his agreement.