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“What are you talking about?”
“The wedding? I thought I was one of your best friends.”
This seemed like something Decca might like some privacy for, not that there was much privacy in the small house. I went to the kitchen to get another place setting for the table. Another glass for the wine. It also seemed prudent to blow out the candles and turn off the music.
“It was a small wedding. Tiny. Only immediate family. His, since I don’t have any family.”
“I’m not family? I thought… Never mind. I’m happy for you, Decca.” He gave her a bear hug. “For both of you. Congratulations,” he said to me when they came to the table. “I’m shocked, and I don’t know how you got her to say yes, but you’ve got a great woman.”
“I know.” I said, looking at my woman as her cheeks reddened.
She pinched her lips together and turned away. I plunked the pot of sweet potato and quinoa chili on the kitchen table and got ready to maintain my composure through what would be an absurdly tense dinner.
Three hours and a six-pack of Modelo later, Chris and I were arguing about college football in the living room.
“Tennessee’s having a good season,” Chris said, coming back in from the kitchen. Even as a bonding event, I maintained a strict two-drink rule and was tapped out for the night. I was satiated—asmuch as I could be from vegan chili—and among what turned out to be surprisingly pleasant company.
“Season? They’ve played all of two games. Their Swiss cheese defense and a bad running game will lose it for them soon enough.”
“Just one year, during my lifetime, I want Vanderbilt to win the Title.”
“Vanderbilt? Never gonna happen.” I shook my head. “Tennessee might have a chance, though, now Saban’s retired.”
“Nah, Vandy will rise. You heard it here first.”
“Right. I’ll remember where I heard it. Because no one’s ever said it,” I said, leaning back as the ticker scrolled by with odds for tomorrow’s games and the stats and news of lesser sports.
“I didn’t know you liked football,” Decca said over the rim of her wineglass.
I looked at her face, scrunched up in distaste. Chris’ own piqued expression looked from her to me.
“I try to follow all sports. You never know when scores and plays are going to start a good conversation with someone.”
“You ever play?” he asked.
“I played DB in high school.” I shrugged. It was fun, but I didn’t like to dwell on my adolescence very much. I hated who I was back then, and the truth was, I mostly played football to attract girls.
“Kicker. Obviously.”
“You any good?”
He snorted. “Backed up the starter all four years. In the first game I ever played, senior year, I had a punt blocked, came down on the safety’s helmet, and tore both of the CLs in my left knee.” At least he was able to laugh at himself.
“That sucks, man. At least you’re doing well for yourself.”
“What is a DB?” Decca asked.
“Defensive back. Covers the receiver,” Chris said. “Wait, how many Saturdays have y’all spent together? You don’t know he follows football? What am I missing?”
“Well, we—”
“It was kind of—”
We both started to answer at the same time. Both unsure of what to say. I gestured to Decca. Chris was her friend. I didn’t know what story she wanted to go with. Or how far she wanted to go.
“It was a bit of a shotgun wedding,” Decca said slowly, looking wide-eyed at me.
“Shotgun? Are you pregnant? I thought you never wanted—”
