Page 28 of You & I, Rewritten

Shit…shit, shit, shit.

I am not a complete idiot when it comes to sports, but basketball history? I literally have no idea.

“Dude, Itotallyknow this one. Do you trust me?” Dean says, nudging my side as he leans in closer.

“It’s all yours…it’s not like we’ll beat these two anyway.”

“Alright, pretty girl…the first person to ever score a three-point basket was in 1979 by Chris Ford of the Boston Celtics.” He leans back into the couch, crossing his arms and giving Klair and Graham an equally smug stare.

Klair’s smile grows wider as she places the card in her lap. “That’s… weirdly correct!”

Dean and I both jump up from our seats, enthusiastically pumping our fists in the air. We conclude our unnecessary but totally fun celebratory dance with a tight bro-hug and I can’t help but laugh at Dean’s infectious personality. It’s easy to see why Klair likes him so much.

“I hate to ruin this adorable moment,” Graham says, grinning ear-to-ear as Dean and I turn our attention toward him, still mid-embrace, “even with that answer…which was very impressive, by the way…”

“Thank you, kind sir,” Dean says in a horrific attempt at an English accent while giving Graham a slight bow, resulting in a round of laughter from us all.

“…but unfortunately, Klair and Istillwon by like a hundred points.”

The weight of defeat causes both Dean and I to dramatically slump back down onto the couch.

“Aw, don’t beat yourselves up! Graham and I are just superior in every way,” Klair says as she starts clearing our plates holding the remains of our delicious charcuterie spread.

“Well, we did our best…at least we lost with dignity,” I say toward Dean, completely ignoring her.

“We can sleep soundly tonight knowing we didn’t kick anyone when they were down…unlikesomeoneI know.” Dean extends his fist in my direction, which I bump with my own.

“Ooh, this one’s a keeper,” I say to Klair, which makes them both smile.

“Isn’t he?” she says quietly, turning toward the kitchen.

Is she blushing? Since the game is over and Graham has stood up to help Klair, now is as good a time as any to bombard Dean with all sorts of prying questions to see just how much of a keeper he truly is.

“So Dean…we haven’t had the opportunity to really get to know one another withoutthese twoknuckleheads around,” I say, tilting my head in Klair and Graham’s direction. “Tell me everything there is to know about you in five words or less.”

He rubs his hands together, a wolfish smile growing on his handsome face. “Too easy— architect, Boston, dogs, pizza, lucky,” he rattles off without giving it too much thought.

Iknew he was an architect; Klair had mentioned that after the first time they hung out. I picked up on Boston by the subtlety of his accent, but it also explains how he knew that NBA question. And anyone who defines themselves by dogs and pizza is automatically golden in my book.

“Lucky?”

“Hell yeah, have you seen and/or met Klair? I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he says, leaning closer so his comment is just for me. “It’s probably crazy or far too soon to be saying things like that, but honestly? I can’t help it, man. I’m sure you can relate, huh?”

I turn toward the kitchen, taking in the scene of my best friend and boyfriend laughing hysterically while throwing grapes at one another. Klair dodges Graham’s fruit strike as she releases a handful of grapes in his direction, almost all of them bouncing off his face and scattering across the floor - the exact opposite of cleaning the kitchen.

Is this real life? It certainly isn’t one I’ve ever thought possible or even one I believe I’ve deserved, but seeing the two of them like this—my two worlds colliding this way—fills me with more hope than I’ve felt in a really long time.

“It’s not crazy at all, Dean…I knowexactlywhat you mean.”

* * *

“Y’all didn’t think we werejusthaving a quiet night in, did you?” Klair shouts, her voice struggling to cut through the horrifically off-tune voice coming from the stage in front of us.

After another cut-throat round of trivia, she convinced the rest of us to go out for another drink and somehow, we’ve found ourselves in the middle of a very crowded and very familiar karaoke bar in Brooklyn—the same spot that Klair and I used to sneak out to in high school with our barely-passable fake id’s.

“I feel like I’ve just taken a step back in time,” I say, noting that not a single thing about the packed bar had changed in the last decade. From the random collection of flashing neon bar signs to the always-sticky tables, it’s exactly how I remember it.

“It’ll be just like old times. Dean—you and Graham go grab that table,” she says pointing at a vacant four-top near the stage. “And we’ll grab some drinks.” Grabbing my hand, Klair leads us toward the bar, knowing that the only chance the four of us will get served on a night this crowded is if it's her ordering.

---