He frowns. “There’s nothing about me that’s little, Brooke. Or soft,” he pauses, grinning. “Haven’t you heard?”

Warmth floods my cheeks.

Sweet Lord. Did Billy just insinuate . . .

“No, there is definitely not,” Joey proudly affirms, cutting into my thoughts of R-rated antonyms. He squeezes Billy’s thigh. “Was that a hard ‘no’ on the dick jewelry? Any wiggle room on that?”

The movie begins playing. Apparently, Billy’s answer was final.

Joey’s lips brush against my hair as I swallow another mouthful of my daiquiri. “How was it with the piercing? Honestly,” he whispers.

Typical Joey. Needing to know all the tricks of the trade. I am shocked he hasn’t been down this road himself, though.

“The one spot that’s hard for some guys to hit,” I begin softly, bending my finger in a rhythmic motion. Our eyes lock. “He didn’t have any problem.”

Joey slowly leans back. “Damn it. Am I seriously missing out?”

“Shh.”

We both glance at Billy, then resume whispering closely.

“I know for a fact he hits all your spots just fine. As do the neighbors across the street.”

“True. But I love trying new things with him. Maybe I could get it done.” Joey looks down at his lap, the corner of his mouth pulling tight. “That shit could go south, though. Really fuck up my perfect form. Not to mention it probably hurts like a motherfucker.”

I press my lips to the edge of my glass, murmuring my next words when Billy tilts his head down and glares in my direction. “Want me to call Paul and ask? He’s probably staring at his phone expectantly.”

Joey smiles. “He loved you, Brooke. How could you walk out on what you two shared?”

Oh, my God.

“Please.”

“I’m sure he was seconds away from proposing. Or at least suggesting you move in with him.”

I shake my head. “He was oddly fascinated with his own semen. That living arrangement would never work.”

Seriously. Did he even flush that condom? Is there a chance he set it aside to frame it instead?

Gross, Paul. You’ll never get a girl to stay that way.

Joey bumps his shoulder against mine, pressing his weight into me. “That’s kind of hot, actually. But . . . okay, I have to know. Was it a barbell? Or one of those stud things? Oo! Did he have it going down the shaft?”

The noise from the TV abruptly cuts off. Silence fills the condo.

Billy leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the look he reserves for moments when Joey and I go off on dick tangents at the dinner table ghosting across his face.

I clear my throat, lowering my glass. “Hi, hey there, little spoon. Sorry, we’ll be quiet.”

His eyes, steady with doubt, shift to Joey and soften marginally.

There it is. Sweet Billy. No one else looks at Joey like that.

Mindful to the fact that the only way to keep his husband on the couch with us and not locked in his office, going over documents that can surely wait until tomorrow is to shut up and watch the movie, Joey slides over and plucks the remote out of Billy’s hand.

The movie resumes playing.

I tuck my knees against my chest as the two men at the other end of the couch dissolve into each other, recommencing the intimate embrace they always share. The closeness that stills the two of them, even Joey, who is nearly impossible to silence.

I sip leisurely on my daiquiri, my thoughts on piercings and poor, poor Paul, struggling to find the perfect spot to display that condom.

The sidewalk is already busy at a quarter after eight Monday morning as I make my usual trek down Fayette street, carefully juggling four coffee orders, my over-sized Coach bag, which just so happens to be the purchase that sent me over my spending limit two months ago, worth it, it’s fabulous, and the design binder I took home on Friday of Dylan’s.

I wanted to organize some of the notes she had penciled in over the past several years and make things more legible, pretty even. I used textured paper and script font. The letters and thank you cards she received since opening the bakery that had been stuffed into the back pocket for keepsakes are now laminated and on display for clients to read in a section titled ‘Sweet Testimonials.’

I’m honestly not sure how Dylan will take my modifications to the only thing she seems to study more than her husband. The thought of her hating what I’ve done, the one thing I haven’t cleared with her beforehand that involves her business, causes me to miss the giant crack in the pavement I’m usually careful to step over.

“Ow, shit!”

The binder goes down first, followed quickly by my Coach bag.

But the coffee? Ha! Not today, city of Chicago.

As I bend down, securing the leather strap on my shoulder, the binder pinched between my fingers, a car horn sounds and I lift my gaze to the street. Traffic clears. My eyes roam the row of shops on the west side of Fayette, until landing on one I haven’t seen before, or maybe, I just haven’t noticed.

No, this has to be new. I would’ve noticed this.

Sandwiched between a florist and a family-owned candle shop, the words Hot Yoga scream against the brick front in burnt-orange lettering. A simple logo swirls in the corner below the ‘a’.

Yoga?

“Yoga?”

I straighten and stare a little longer at the new business, which just so happens to be in direct line-of-sight from the bakery.

That’s almost laughable. Here, sweat your ass off, then skip across the street and stuff your face. Maybe we could go in with the owner and have some sort of a coupon-deal worked out.