Page 79 of Over the Edge

Move in with me, baby: Tuesday, 4 p.m. – 10 p.m. @ My Place

“You cooked?” Quinn embraces me with her free arm inside the entryway. She’s started using her fall perfume, transitioning from florals to warm vanilla. I was starting to think I wouldn’t be able to experience it this year.

“I did. But just know if you go to the pub and it tastes the same, they stole my recipes. Not the other way around,” I say. I am a nightmare in the kitchen. The first time I’d “cooked” to try and impress Quinn and Oliver, I’d plated Olive Garden alfredo and soup to pass it off as my own. It worked up until Quinn found the bag in the trash.

“I love it when you host. I always know I’m going to get restaurant quality.” Oliver throws me a conspiratorial wink. Adrizzle has started outside and a cool breeze floats in before he shuts the door.

“Only the best for my esteemed guests. I see that you’ve brought the finest vintage to pair with our meal.” I cock my head toward the hand Quinn’s using to clutch the box of red blend.

“I couldn’t break tradition,” she says. “You really think your man will be able to stomach it?”

“He doesn’t drink much so he’ll probably take one sip and then dump it out in the sink at some point when no one is looking,” I say, already imagining how he’ll go about it.

“Not everyone can have our refined paletes,” Quinn says disapprovingly.

I usher Quinn and Oliver the rest of the way into the house. When we reach the dining table, Garrett is placing a tray of mini sliders next to the bowl of mashed potatoes.

He and I spent the last few hours prepping. He brought over a suitcase with clothes and toiletries to make it look like he’s been living here with me. Oliver isn’t exactly the snooping type, but I’ve been right alongside Quinn at house parties when trips to the bathroom turned into self-guided tours.

Tonight is the first time I’ve used the table since I arrived—well, at least for its intended purpose. I had to clean off stray papers and to-go cups before we could put down the emerald table runner we found in the linen cabinet.

There’s always been something special about sit-down dinners for the three of us, even at restaurants. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t make the food or that we used to eat off the cheap plastic plates that every college student bought for their first apartment.

It was our way of making time for each other.

Quinn adds the box of wine to the table and Garrett raises his eyebrows but plays along and fills his glass. I don’t think he takes a single sip. When Oliver’s fork clatters to the ground Garrettoffers to get a new one and takes his glass with him. I share a look with Quinn when he returns with an empty glass.

“Wow, you really downed that,” I say. My knee nudges against his under the table. When I start to pull it away his hand lands on my thigh, keeping it in place. The touch is warm and steady like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“I couldn’t help myself. It was too good to just sip,” Garrett says.

“I’ll make sure to tell Pat to get some at The Gas Station,” I threaten.

His lips twitch in an entertaining mix of a smile and a grimace. “Maybe we should just keep it for special occasions.”

“Tell me, what notes did you pick up on?” I press my leg further against his. In response his thumb glides up my inner thigh. Heat flashes through me, landing low.

“Earthy. Definitely earthy.” The gravel in his voice skates against my skin.

“You know, not everyone picks up the dirt aftertaste!” Quinn chimes in. Her cheeks are slightly flushed from her second glass.

“I didn’t say that. I will say the tannins are impressive.” Garrett picks up my half full glass and gives it a swirl. “Decent legs.” On the word legs he squeezes my thigh, prompting me to reach for my water to cool off.

“You can say it’s bad. We know it’s bad,” Oliver volunteers, as an olive branch.

“Because you hate yourselves?” Garrett asks.

“Sometimes,” Quinn admits as she reaches for more fries. “But there’s this liquid nostalgia to it that is impossible to replicate. What seasoning is on these? There’s something spicy about them that I can’t place.”

“Ahh, that’s the essence of ghost pepper, I think.”

“You really have a way with ingredients.” Quinn nods approvingly then takes another bite.

We all settle into the night slowly spiraling back to who we are, a mattress that remembers the shape of the bodies that have worn their impressions into it. Quinn and Oliver spare no detail telling us about the birds they spotted on the hike yesterday and the loose gravel that almost sent Oliver to the hospital with a sprained ankle. The trays empty as we refill our plates. Eventually, we’re left picking at scraps, savoring everything left at the table.

Oliver’s face brightens when he notes the state of the food and then calls out, “Capitals!”

“Wait,” I say and put up a hand to stop the progress. “Let me explain it to Garrett first.”

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