Vince

Davis studies me like there’s a horn sprouting from the center of my forehead. I just told him about my proposition to Jackie. I’m guessing he doesn’t approve.

“Are you out of your mind?” There’s a bottle of water in his hand rather than a Sam Adams, so I’m tempted to ask him the same question. I lift my draft and take a drink, letting him continue. “You need to tell her to go out with you instead, not in addition to. Make her choose. Show her who’s boss.”

“Actually,” I say after I swallow my beer, “we have equal billing in the boss department.” I smile.

Davis continues frowning.

“How’d your date go with the blonde the other night?” I fish.

“She didn’t throw her wine in his face.” Grace drops my bill next to me. I told her I was only having one tonight. “I’d say that’s as good as Davis can hope for.”

I laugh and Davis smiles at Grace—a supremely sarcastic and tolerant smile. She blows him a kiss and returns to other customers.

“You’re one to talk,” I tell him when she’s gone. “You want Gracie so bad, why don’t you—how’d you put it?—show her who’s boss?”

Davis’s top lip curls, and I consider for the first time that his healthy level of anger isn’t healthy any longer. My buddy’s been through the wringer, but I thought he’d healed. I thought he came to terms with losing Hanna. Not that he could ever heal completely from something like that, but he seems to have things under control. I mean, it’s been six years. That’s a lifetime.

“What’s with the water?” I ask, because that’s how guys open up.

He tilts the bottle and shrugs. “I worried I was drinking too often. Wanted to make sure I could stop.”

“Success?”

“Success. But it doesn’t taste as good.” He glances around the bar. “And no women have asked me out yet, so the beer might send a better signal.” He purses his lips in thought and snaps his fingers. “Gracie Lou! The usual.”

Grace nods but doesn’t hop to it. It’s a response Davis and I both respect.

“She’s no pushover,” I say. Like Jackie. Jackie’s not either.

“Let’s talk about you and Jackie-O,” Davis says, reading my thoughts. “Where is the date and why are you going on one?”

“What do you mean, Why are we going on one?”

“You two have been dating since your divorce, Carson. It’s nothing new.”

“No we haven’t. We’re friends. We’ve never dated.” Even as I say this, I see his point. Meals, movies, snuggling on the couch. I meet my friend’s bland stare. “Okay, kind of—but we haven’t done any of the other things dating people do.”

Like make out or have hot, sweaty monkey sex on the furniture.

I remember the kiss in my kitchen, the feverish pace and heat building under my collar. The way her smaller hands felt grazing my ribs, her subtle curves molded to my body…

“Fine, go on a date,” he grumbles.

I snap out of the memory. “I’m taking her to Domaine. Figure we could have a nice—”

“Yikes,” Davis interjects.

“What? Domaine is classy.”

“Domaine is very classy,” Grace says approvingly.

“Thank you, Grace.” She smiles sweetly, then delivers Davis’s beer and leans on the bar in front of us. I don’t miss Davis’s eyes going to the V-neck of her T-shirt, where her cleavage is tempting, even to me. I avoid looking directly.

“It’s a good choice, Vince. Don’t listen to your boneheaded friend whose idea of dating is a Sonic drive-in.”

“Chili cheese fries are two for a dollar this week. Interested?” Davis asks.

They share a not-at-all-unfriendly eye lock and I’m suddenly the third wheel. These two. I don’t get it. They circle each other but neither of them pounces.

“Sorry, Davis, not blond enough for you,” Grace finally answers. “Would it kill you to try a redhead? She might surprise you.” She fluffs her hair and trots to the other side of the bar, and though Grace’s natural red hair is a far cry from that wild dyed color, there’s no way her comment didn’t hit Davis’s one and only hot button.

Hanna was a redhead.

Nostrils flared, my friend stares blindly at his beer bottle.

“She didn’t know—” I start.

Davis doesn’t hear me. He slides off his barstool and yanks at his tie in frustration. Then he’s out the door. I let him go. He needs to cool down.

Grace glances at me and I give her a tight-lipped smile, hoping to communicate that his leaving wasn’t her fault. When her gaze follows Davis as he walks by the windows of McGreevy’s Pub, though, her eyes drip with concern. It’s clear from her expression she’s not going to spout a sharp retort.

“I’ll pay for his,” I offer.

“No. I’ve got it.” She pours his beer down the drain, her mouth pulled flat. It’s not her fault. There’s no way she could know that Davis had a fiancée with red hair who destroyed him.

No way at all.

Suit pants are confining and uncomfortable, but I wear them anyway. Hey, I’m trying to make a good impression.

It’s the next night and the victory of getting Butler to agree to dinner is diluted by my worry that our date won’t go well. Not because Jaundice is a threat—he’s not—but because while Jackie and I do lots of things together, none of them requires fancy dinners with multiple courses.

I should have taken her somewhere more common. Like Chili’s or Olive Garden.

Why didn’t I? I want to impress her—to stand out. I want to be a different Vince than the one she’s used to. She knows me, and that should make everything more comfortable. For whatever reason, it’s made this harder. Not harder…

Weirder.

She insisted we leave straight from work, drive separately, and meet there. I declined. As a gentleman—in suit pants, no less—picking her up is a requirement.

I pull into her complex, park in the visitors’ parking area. My heart is thundering, which makes me chuckle. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, straighten my tie, and realize I haven’t been nervous in a long while. I dated a little this past year, and yes, there was a smidgen of doubt when it came time to strip for a woman who wasn’t Leslie. But most of those evenings were soaked in alcohol—the drinking kind, not the rubbing kind—and alcohol can go a long way toward masking nerves.

These nerves aren’t the same. They remind me of the way I felt when I first laid eyes on Leslie. Before she left me because I was “unsuccessful.” That still stings in a deep, ugly place—the part of me that knew she was right. I was supposed to be an entrepreneurial success, but after my real estate business tanked, I fell back on my degree and returned to marketing. I like it better, but Leslie didn’t see the draw of my being employed—mainly because she had to return to work as well, which didn’t sit well in our household. She was willing to do only so much for our marriage, she told me. Helping support her lifestyle by going to work wasn’t one of the options.

“Better or worse” to her only meant “better.” When things got worse, she bailed.

My stomach twists. I’m mired in the worst pre-date thoughts a guy could have. This, also, is new. On prior dates, my goal was a quick fix to heal the loneliness.

Butler isn’t a quick fix. If I’m lucky enough that this grows into more, I’ll make sure there is no quick anything. She’s different. Worth taking time for. I grab the handle and step out of the car, my thoughts on just how I’ll take my time, when I nearly bump into a guy running toward me.

“Shit, sorry,” I mutter. Then I notice a familiar pair of running shorts and a particular guy who is allergic to dressing the upper half of his body. It isn’t that warm today.

J.T. comes to a stop, barely out of breath, so he must have just jogged out of his apartment. I take a quick look around the complex and wonder how close his place is to Jackie’s, feeling a spike of irritation that he lives nearby.

“Vince, right?” he asks.

“Right.” I nod and try not to let my thoughts show on my face. Get lost, fuckwad. Yeah, that one I’ll keep to myself.

“You and Jacqueline working late tonight?” He nods at my suit and I’m tempted to say, No, asshole, she’s going out with me after I curled her toes with a kiss a few nights ago. But Jackie’s my friend, and I know she’s uncomfortable with dating two guys at once, so I cover for her.

“Yeah. Business dinner for an account.” I lift and drop my hand in a what-can-you-do manner.

“Bummer. Tell her I’ll call her later.” He slaps me on the back. I make a fist and suck in a deep breath. He jogs around my car and up the sidewalk looping the complex.

“Douche,” I mutter to myself.

At Jackie’s door I hesitate before knocking. She answers before I’m done with the second knock, and my breath stalls in my chest. She’s wearing a sleek black dress that stops at her knees. The snug material hugs her hips and flat stomach and cradles her breasts. Two skinny straps sit on tanned shoulders, and her hair is down in silky waves. The kind of waves that beg a guy to run his fingers through them.

“I didn’t know when I asked you out you were going to flatten me by looking this gorgeous,” I tell her.

She beams. I like that smile. “Charmer.”

“You know it.” I straighten my shoulders, my earlier worries falling to pieces around me. Jackie is coming out with me tonight. She’s mine. “Ready?”

“I am.” She palms a black square purse and shuts her front door behind her, locking the deadbolt and sliding the key into her bag. I offer my arm and she curls her hand around my biceps, which I subtly flex. I debate saying Nice night, but mostly I’m hoping J.T. has taken the long way around the complex because I really don’t want to run into him again. Jackie and I walk to the car in complete silence.

We drive to the restaurant in silence too, other than her remark about the weather and my confirmation that, yes, it is “cooler than the weatherman predicted.”

The pain doesn’t end there.

At Domaine we do an awkward dance around the host before I finally put my hand on Jackie’s back and we follow him to our reserved table. The low candlelight and the soft music in the background serve as a boldfaced reminder that this isn’t our usual pizza-and-a-movie Friday night.

I move my slightly damp palms down my stifling suit pants as the sommelier reviews his favorite vintages from the wine list.

“Lady’s choice,” I offer.

“Are you drinking wine?” She crinkles her nose, unsure. She’s so cute. I overlooked just how datable Butler was this entire time. I wasn’t ready before. Now, though, I am.

“I do drink wine, Butler.” And because I’ve been challenged with a Bugs Bunny–like slap across the face with a glove, I order for us. A fancy French wine that I know how to pronounce because I’ve had it several times before. With Leslie, but Jackie doesn’t need to know that.

Jackie’s impressed. I can tell by the way her eyes twinkle over the rim of the glass when she takes a tentative sip, followed by an approving nod.

“Well done, Vince.” If I were a dog, my tail would be thumping the seat.

We look over the menu. Well, she looks over the menu. I’m too busy looking at her. At the way she twirls her hair around her finger and chews on her plush bottom lip while she studies the options. She mouths the word “wow.”

“Something wrong?” I ask, but I can guess what it is.

“Oh. No! Not at all. It’s just…expensive.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Vince.” She smiles at me, fingers tapping the edge of the menu in an adorably nervous gesture. “We search online for pizza coupons before we order.”

“Butler.” I feel a frown mar my brow and wonder if she gave J.T. this much grief on their dates. I don’t ask. I don’t want to know, mostly because I suspect the answer is no.

The waiter shows up and recites the chef’s specialties. I order one of the specials and Jackie orders the other, getting what she wants instead of vacillating over price again. Talk about an uphill battle. Who knew pizza coupons would get me into this much trouble?

We eat with napkins in our laps and use the appropriate forks. We share the bottle of wine, and that’s our saving grace. After a painful, forced convo about work, I finally give us both the break we’re looking for.

“Grace, the bartender at McGreevy’s Pub, told Davis he should try dating a redhead for a change.”

Jackie groans. “Oh, no. Poor Davis.” She puts her elbow on the pressed white tablecloth, and it’s such a relaxed Jackie move I can’t keep from smiling. This moment is the first respite we have from a date that feels as constricting and stifling as my pants. Finally neither of us is trying to be someone we aren’t.

“Grace didn’t know.” I swipe the napkin over my mouth and drop it on the table, trading it for the wineglass. Better than Château Sedacca, if you ask me. “Davis stormed out of the bar.”

“Have you talked to him since?” Jackie leans closer, our shared concern for Davis another thing we have in common. She knows his backstory because I told her. Davis doesn’t care who knows, but he isn’t big on bringing it up himself. I can’t blame him. If my ex humiliated me, it wouldn’t be a story I trotted out at parties.

“He called this morning and asked if anything good was on Netflix because he was planning to binge.” He sounded groggy and heavy, and I wondered if he was asking from bed because he was planning on staying there all day.

“And of course you steered him toward Orange Is the New Black,” Jackie says, lifting her own wineglass.

“Uh, no. Daredevil. Duh.”

“Boys.” She rolls her eyes and the air between us lightens. We’ve been trying so hard tonight to be “couple on a date” that we forgot to be us.

We drain our wines, I pay, and I hold the door open for her when we leave. Without putting too much thought into it, I take her hand, weaving our fingers together, her soft, small palm at home in my larger one.

The night is warm, a gentle breeze blowing through the surrounding shops. I bring us to a stop in front of the passenger door of my car, but I don’t get in. Not yet. Getting in feels too close to the evening ending. I give her fingers a light squeeze. She looks up at me, her lips parting gently. Her lipstick vanished somewhere between wine and dinner, and all I can think about is tasting her bare mouth.

“I know this is new.” I feel the need to point it out. “But we’re still us, Butler.”

She tilts her head, either in curiosity or in invitation.

Nervous, I continue. “Hanging out doesn’t have to be difficult. We’re still friends.” I can’t resist her long, dark hair falling gracefully to her shoulders, so I slide my fingers into it like I’ve been imagining all evening. It’s so soft. “Only now we get to kiss in addition to the other stuff we do together.”

“Lucky us,” she says with a grin, and my heart gallops. It’s as good as a yes.

I lower my lips to hers, and the moment her sweet tongue meets mine in a delicate dance, I’m gone. The city lights and people shuffling by evaporate, and I forget about being smooth or impressing her. I just concentrate on kissing the hell out of her.