Page 11 of Puck Daddies
“My best friends?—”
“All three?” Her eyes go wide.
I swallow. “Not boring now, am I?”
Aqua makes a delighted little clap. “My feral feminist heart is fed. Between Fitz the model?—”
“He’s not a model.”
“No, he just looks like one.” She grins. “Between Fitz the model, Rocco the giant Italian dreamboat, and Hudson the black-haired bad boy, you have quite the selection of fun ahead of you. I am so excited to hear how this goes. I’ll need details. Every last one.”
I snort a laugh and roll my eyes. “We have to close first…”
“On it.”
We close like we always do—fast and precise. Counters sprayed and wiped. Syrups restocked. The register counted down and tucked into the drop. The store is reset for the next morning. Aqua hangs the CLOSED sign and flips the dead bolt. “They’re not going to know what hit them.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, and she cackles. I roll my eyes and fetch my bag. “I need to stop at the store.”
“For condoms?” she asks.
“For tequila,” I say, and then add, because her eyebrows would otherwise crawl into her wig, “for courage.”
“Hydrate. Eat first. And if any one of those boys so much as looks unsure, you do not proceed.”
“I would never push them on this.”
She kisses my cheek, lipstick careful. “Text me an emoji when you get there.”
“What emoji means ‘I’m going to make a very good bad decision?’”
She considers. “Bee with the little hearts.”
“Sold.”
The sky is thinking about snow; the air has that metallic taste. I cut across two blocks to the bodega that stocks the tequila we used to pass around at bonfires after away games, because rituals matter. I grab chips and limes and a sleeve of plastic shot cups because we’ve learned our lesson about dishes at midnight.
When I get there, Hudson opens the door faster than any human should be able to open a door. Rocco is two steps behind him, hair damp from a shower, hoodie soft enough to sleep inside. Oliver—Fitz to the city, Oliver in my mouth—leans on the kitchen counter with that open stance that saysthis is your home too.
“I brought supplies,” I say, lifting the bag like a peace offering.
Oliver grins. “Are we doing a science experiment?”
“In a way,” I say, and my voice only shakes a little. “Shots?”
Hudson blinks. “Bad idea.”
“Two. For encouragement. Then water. Then decisions.”
Rocco laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “You have a plan.”
“You all taught me to love a good pregame.”
We move around each other like the kitchen designed itself to hold us. Lime wedges. Salt. Cups lined up. Chips in a bowl because I am not a monster.
“To new chapters,” Oliver says, raising his cup. It sounds so earnest it makes me smile and wince at the same time.
“To not being boring,” I say, and we all wince at that for different reasons.
