Page 137 of The Best Men
“Are we?” I glance down at my joggers and my FLI T-shirt. “I haven’t looked this shabby in ages. We both look recently fucked.”
Mark just shrugs. Then he pulls the door open to reveal another dude. This one is wearing . . . a polo shirt. Carefully trimmed hair and pressed khaki shorts complete the look.
I suppress a smile. Mark’s work husband is cut from the same cloth.
“Dude, I’m so sorry,” Mark says. “I spaced on tennis. Come in, will you?”
“Whoa,” Brett says with a chuckle, entering as he takes in Mark’s ragged appearance. “Did you get drunk last night? I’ve never seen you looking so wrecked.”
“Um . . .”
I laugh from the sofa. Can’t help it. Wrecked is one way to put it.
“. . . Not exactly,” Mark says as Brett’s gaze swings toward me. “I have company this weekend.”
“Hi,” I say, giving Brett a little wave. “I’m Asher.”
Brett tips his head to the side, and I can practically see the equations working behind his eyes. “You look familiar. Do you play soccer?”
“I used to. We call it football, though. Now I’m a photographer.”
“Huh,” Brett says slowly. “Nice to meet you.”
I stand up and offer my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Brett. I’ve heard a lot about your prowess at the chess board.”
“That’s interesting,” he says, shaking my hand. “Because I haven’t heard the firstwordabout you.”
Uh-oh.
“It’s complicated,” Mark says at the exact moment that I say, “It’s new.”
Then we both turn and gaze at each other with wonder and amusement. Because it is, in fact, both complicated and new.
Brett chuckles uncomfortably. “Mark? Is this part of the reason you got divorced?” He’s still doing the math apparently.
“Nope,” he says, popping the P at the end of the word. “But it’s the reason I’m finally enjoying being divorced. I’m bisexual.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“Want some pancakes and bacon?” Mark asks.
“Sure.” Brett shrugs easily, and I see that he finally understands the equation. “Is there more of that coffee?”
“You bet. Let’s eat.”
We crowd into Mark’s smallish kitchen. He shoos us both to the table with our mugs of coffee. “Do you do . . . whatever Mark does?” I ask him.
He laughs loudly. “Yeah, but I’ll spare you the details.”
“Good. Because dumb jocks are Mark’s type. I don’t really understand finance. Although I do enjoy spreadsheets.”
Mark snorts from the stove.
“Eh. Finance can be a drag. But it pays the bills. Do you at least play chess?” Brett wants to know.
“Sorry, no.”
“Ah, well.” He sips his coffee. “Nobody’s perfect.”
