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“At the bottom of Lake Shohola. You Italians scare me sometimes.”
All jokes aside, while I might not be wearing concrete boots by the end of the weekend, there is zero chance I’ll make it out of Bridgewater unscathed.
2
Chari
“Cheers.”
Groaning at my brother’s overly cheerful tone, I clink glasses with him anyway. A blast of cold air hits me from behind, and I curse for the millionth time this winter.
“I heard that,” Devon says.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Who’s winning?” the bartender asks my brother. Being one of Devon’s good friends, he knows about our current bet, and probably the dozens that came before. It’s something we do when we’re bored, which apparently happens a lot.
“You seriously have to ask?” I quip.
Mike reaches for an empty beer glass on the bar.
“I don’t know, Devon set himself up pretty good on this one.”
I try, and fail, not to smile. It’s totally true. I might complain about the winter weather every three seconds, but my brother is an infamous man-whore. This is one bet I could win, even if Devon keeps picking the closest seats to the door. Every time it opens, a blast of February air makes me bite my tongue.
My brother’s a man-whore, and a sometimes asshole.
But he’s also one of my best friends.
“So how exactly do you know Devon isn’t having sex?”
That’s the deal. I don’t complain about the weather. Devon doesn’t score a home run with one of his many dates. Whoever breaks first buys the loser a meal. Not very high stakes unless you count bragging rights, which, of course, we do. Of course, it’s hilarious to think of Devon bragging aboutnotgetting laid.
“I trust him.”
“Pfft.” Mike clearly doesn’t think that’s such a good idea.
Devon glares at Mike across the bar. “Maybe have my back instead of stabbing it?”
“Maybe have mine and get me a date with your sister.”
Mike makes comments like that pretty often, and given that he has an on-again, off-again girlfriend, I’m pretty sure he just does it to rile Devon up. My brother scowls as Mike takes the glass and heads to the tap.
“You are never dating my sister.”
I’m not. Mike isn’t my type. But that’s beside the point. Devon doesn’t speak for me, and I’m annoyed that he keeps trying.
“What if I suddenly decide I’m into edgy bartenders covered in tats?” I ask when Mike is out of earshot.
“Not funny.”
Dammit. Another blast of cold air hits my back. I should have gone with my gut and stayed home to Netflix instead of dragging myself off the couch a few hours after crashing on it. I love my third graders dearly, but teaching them all week doesn’t lend itself to late nights out on Friday.
“I wasn’t kidding,” I say and then take a sip of my beer.
Devon doesn’t know yet, but it’s going to be an early night for me. One and done. The only reason I agreed to let him drag me out was because he was coming to The Wheelhouse, which feels a lot like hanging out at home. My brother has already informed me this is just the first stop on this rodeo. He has a long night planned with his friends.
