Page 97 of Relationship Goals

“As happy as a clam,” Michelle says around a cracker. “Never seen someone who always seems like he’s in a good mood.”

I snort. “That’s his game face.”

“That’s his resting bitch face,” Michelle corrects, but she smiles at me.

“Wine?” I ask, then fill up her glass with some of the white wine I grabbed from the store without waiting for her response.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Nope. Just trying to get rid of this.”

She peers at me. “Are you not drinking anymore?”

“It just makes me feel gross lately. Besides, the studio has me on this workout program, and if I have more than one drink, I’ll sincerely regret it later.”

“Less than ideal,” Michelle says. “Do you mind if we switch to water after this?”

“Dude, that’s totally fine.”

“Thanks, dude,” she says, and holds up her glass. “To hydration.”

“To hydration,” I repeat. I clink mine against hers, and I snort before wrapping myself up in the fleece like a burrito.

The camera on the TV is going down the line of the starters, and last up is Tristan Gold, the keeper. Luke’s talked about him a little, and it seems like out of all the guys on the team, the goalie is the one he’s closest to.

“Tristan seems nice.”

Michelle makes an ugly sound of derision. “Seemsis doing a lot of heavy lifting there.”

I turn to her slowly, which ends up being incredibly dramatic, and Michelle rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t even ask me about it.”

Princess, clearly sick of how much we’re talking, jumps off me and prances away.

“Nope, you’re not getting off that easy.” I narrow my eyes at her, then nudge her with my socked foot. “Tell me.”

“You’d have to pour that bottle of wine down my throat,” she says.

“That can be arranged,” I tell her sweetly.

She rakes her hand through her dark glossy hair, which tumbles over her shoulders in supermodel waves today. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

There’s no hint of humor in the statement, and for once, I decide to shut up.

I like Michelle, and we’ve developed an easy friendship over the last week. Which either speaks to how friendly we are, how lonely we are, or some combination therein.

“Do you have a lot of friends?” I ask her.

“Are we friends?” She sips her wine.

“You’re under a fleece blanket on my couch. I’m gonna say yes.”

“Then I have a couple,” she says, her lips stretching in a smile that seems anything but super happy.

“Mood,” I tell her. And the mood is: depresso.

She drains half the glass of wine, then sets it back on the coffee table, grabbing a piece of jalapeño-dotted smoked cheddar.

“Why do you think it’s so hard to make friends as an adult?” She breaks off a tiny piece of cracker, and I try to pretend like I didn’t hear her voice crack.