Page 27 of Good Pucking Luck

I recognize him, of course. It’s not like I didn’t google all the men who were also dating my boyfriend, though the amount of tags and posts I was sent would have done that job for me. It’s Donovan. ER nurse, born and raised in Southern California, graduated from USC, smart as hell, has an extra-close relationship with his dad, and is still close with the guy he’s been best friends with since elementary school.

Okay, so maybe I am a bit of a stalker.

“Are you going to come in?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly.

He gets a sad look on his face, one that says he understands how I feel but also makes me shift uncomfortably, feeling naked and exposed because Donovan is a stark reminder of the most humiliating moment of my life. To be fair, it’s not just him. Anthony would be the same way to me, but he’s not the one walking closer to me right now.

“I get it. Things have been brutal. That’s why I was thinking we could get together and support each other. I don’t have a lot of close friends.”

I don’t really have a lot of close friends either. Is that part of the reason Malcolm chose us? Not something I want to think about right now, or, like, ever.

“You should come in,” Donovan says. “This might be a stupid idea, but we won’t know if we don’t try.”

The thing is, I have no idea what to say to this guy. I’m not friend material. I’ve never had friends who stuck around or were more than acquaintances. I can’t see what we would possibly get out of this situation, but I must admit I’m curious. What are Donovan and Anthony like? Maybe by spending time with them, I can figure out what it is about me, aboutus, that made Malcolm target us. “Just this once,” I tell him. “I’m already here anyway.”

Donovan smiles, and so far, all I can think is how nice he seems, how sincere. I know I’m prickly and not for everyone, so it’s not a complete surprise that someone would treat me the way Malcolm did, but Donovan seems totally different.

He holds the door open for me, and I head into the coffeehouse. It’s busy, three workers behind the counter and two people in line. Most of the tables are full, and I immediately see Anthony leaning against the back wall. He lifts his hand in a wave as we approach.

“So you’re our third, huh?” Anthony grins. He’s tall, with brown hair and a nose piercing. He’s lean, but it’s clear he’s muscular too. From what I’ve read, he’s a dancer at a local gay bar. “Sorry, bad joke,” he says, and I realize he has his hand out for me to shake and I’ve been ignoring it.

“It’s fine,” I say, clasping his hand. This already feels like a huge mistake, and honestly, I’m wishing I could turn around, walk out of this building, and never come back. I actually can, I remind myself, but again curiosity tugs at me, making me stay.

“I’ll show you guys to the back room and then get us drinks,” Donovan says, taking us down a short hallway. “My friend knows the owner. People reserve this room for meetings. They have craft clubs, book clubs, even an AA group that meets here sometimes.”

He opens the door. There are books, couches, comfy armchairs, beanbag chairs, and end tables scattered throughout the space. The walls have colorful artwork and inspirational quotes. I feel like I’m in a therapist’s office.

“What do you want to drink?” Donovan asks.

Anthony wants a caramel latte. He takes a seat in one of the chairs, but I can’t stay still, legs jittery as I walk around the room. Putting caffeine in my system feels like the last thing I should do, so I say, “Just a water is fine.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” He closes the door behind him. I feel Anthony’s eyes on me as I move around, probably looking like I’m casing the place. There’s an oversize window in the back that overlooks an outdoor seating area and garden.

“So…this is awkward,” Anthony says.

“God yes,” I reply.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to come.”

I turn around and give him my attention. “Me neither. Why did you?”

He shrugs. “Donovan is nice, and the idea of an I-hate-Malcolm Club can’t be too bad in my book,” Anthony replies, and surprisingly, I chuckle.

The door opens, and Donovan slips back inside, carrying a drink tray and a plate of muffins. “What did I miss?”

“Just a recommendation to change our name to I-hate-Malcolm Club,” Anthony replies as I take the drinks from Donovan and set them on a table.

“Malcolm Haters Anonymous,” Donovan suggests.

“Only we’re not so anonymous,” I say, and they both look at me. “Sorry. This is my MO. I’m the one who ruins the fun. Just ask Malcolm.”

Fuck. I wish I hadn’t said that so I wouldn’t be getting two sets of pitying eyes pointed my way.

“I was too emotional,” Donovan says.

“Too stupid,” Anthony chimes in.

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