Page 58 of Head Over Heels

“Beer. Beer is all you need.”

He sings a few bars of it to the tune ofLove is all you need…

“Beer isnotall you need. We should have wine and something sparkly and nonalcoholic…”

And Thursday night, ten minutes before our first guests show up, we fight about the music.

“No. No fucking way.”

Katie, obviously, is not on the patio with us.

“It’s good background music.”

“No jazz.”

“What do you have against jazz?”

“That itsucks,” Chase says.

“You can’t damn a whole genre like that. Maybe there’s some you would like, if you gave it a chance.”

Chase raises both eyebrows at me. “Maybe,” he says. “But I’m sure as hell not going to do my research at the expense of my closest friends.”

I let Chase win that round, which is how our picnic comes to be backgrounded by classic rock and ’80s and ’90s hits.

We have agreed on nothing, and yet, when the party starts, through some strange alchemy, it is seamless and fantastic.

Our guests drink and talk, mingling and chowing and chatting. Chase and I move among them, refilling drinks, replenishing food, flipping meat on the grill, chatting up each other’s friends.

It’s past dusk, now, and candles glow on every surface I could stash them on, illuminating smiles and bright eyes. There’s a sweet tidal wash of conversation and laughter. Katie and her friend race off to play complicated games out of sight, then return, mingling at thigh height, charming adults into giving them food and drink. When she passes me, I bend down to ask if she’s having a good time.

She nods vehemently.

“What’s the best part?”

“The woot beer,” she says, with a big smile.

“How much root beer have you had?”

“Four cups.”

I close my eyes. “Who poured it for you?”

“Daddy!”

I’m not sure whether she’s answering my question or greeting the man who is suddenly standing at my side.

“Great party.”

He’s wearing cargo shorts and leather sandals and a T-shirt that saysJust another beer drinker with a camping problemand he’s got a beer in one hand. He looks maddeningly sexy. It’s the wine. Alcohol always makes me loose and a little warm, and the instant Chase stepped into my personal space, I got a few degrees warmer—and tinglier.

“We did good,” he says.

“It was the salads.” I fight to keep the smile off my lips.

“It was the classic rock.”

Faced off, feigning dead seriousness, we both begin to laugh.

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