Page 4 of Fighting

My friends, unfortunately, seem to be of the fair-weather variety. Other than Liam, who’s around here somewhere with his partner.

I’m not trying to be an eavesdropper, but when I hear something like “you need to relax,” I can’t help but lean in.

“You played caretaker at the bachelorette weekend,” Delia says to Nessa, who’s a couple of inches shorter than her, even in heels. “Now let’s get you a drink. It’s your turn to let loose.”

I turn, being sure to smile in that way that makes my dimples pop, and say, “I can offer you top shelf tequila if that will sway you.”

“Yes!” Delia cries, while Nessa mutters her half-hearted acceptance.

Delia bounces on her toes and glances around the room before her eyes land on the bartender. He meets her gaze before shaking his head and returns to counting his tips.

With nobody watching the bar, Delia reaches one long arm over and grabs two glasses and the salt dish. Placing the goods before her and Nessa, she brandishes a triumphant smile.

“Hey, Matty,” Delia says. “Truth or dare?”

I smirk. “What about truth or drink?”

With a nod, she elbows Nessa, who is assessing her pointy manicure and doing her best to ignore me. Her nails look like claws. Yikes.

“Fine.” Nessa heaves out a breath, and before I know it, her lips curl up in a smirk. “Me first. How often do you wash your sheets, playboy?”

“That’s easy.” I rest one forearm on the bar and cross my ankles. “The morning after company or once a week. I’m not a heathen. My cleaner comes on Fridays.” I give a simple shrug. “Okay, Doc. My turn.”

Her nostrils flare in annoyance.

Maybe I’m sick, but the sight sends a bolt of excitement up my spine. I love riling her up. “Where is the strangest place you’ve flicked the bean, Dr. Rabin?” I tease, using the name of her podcast on sex and relationships. Hosting ‘Flicking the Bean with Dr. Rabin’ is only one of the many hats she wears as a shrink.

She picks up her glass and downs the tequila, then narrows her eyes on me. “Have you ever sexted the wrong person?”

With a laugh, I shake my head. “No, never.”

Delia clears her throat, breaking our banter, and I turn her way. I don’t want her to pull Nessa from me just yet.

“Have you ever considered kissing Jim Kelly just to see if he’d react?”

“I’d rather kiss a peacock,” Delia says.

Nessa giggles. She actually giggles.

It’s light and airy, so unlike the harsh tone I am usually met with.

I sip and savor the way they good-naturedly tease one another and fall into another fit of laughter.

During her freshman year of high school, the little genius was in my eleventh-grade English lit class. While she was ahead of her grade, I was repeating the course. That’s when I realized that getting a rise out of her was more fun than being ignored.

I hold my smile, though in this moment, I can’t help but think about one story I can recall from that year. The one about the sad clown named Pagliacci.

Pagliacci, out of costume, goes to the doctor because he’s depressed—which I am not; I’m just not thrilled about this weekend’s events.

Anyhow, the doctor tells him to go to see the clown, Pagliacci, who is performing in town that night, suggesting that it will cheer him up. That’s when the punchline hits. He is the clown.

That’s what I do at family functions. I smile. I avoid worrying my parents. I ensure everyone else is doing okay.

Our game continues as the room thins out, going from after-party to after-the-after-party status.

“My turn,” Nessa shouts over the music, pouring a refill for us both. “Marry, kiss, or kill the bridesmaids.”

“No fair,” I tease. “Lily Long is already taken, and Delia Shane here has that weird thing going with Seth Whitter.”

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