Page 173 of Coach
“Gays like things up their—”
“Enough!” Stevie threw up a palm. “Just try. Okay?”
I grunted something unintelligible. It earned a quick nod and jingle of rings.
And just like that, she was gone. Back out the door, boots thudding on the steps, bag swinging at her side.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at the piece in front of me, the sketch clutched in one hand, the half-eaten cookie in the other.
I hated when she was right . . . and shealwayswas.
I wasn’t a hermit, damn it.
I wasn’t.
Not really.
Not much.
Okay, fine, maybe a little.
Damn it, I wasn’t atotalhermit . . . but I was a lot like the frustrating faux Chinese masterpiece glaring down at me: a complete mess.
Chapter 7
Mateo
Iwas raised to believe that brunch was supposed to be a classy affair.
That’s also what Sisi had claimed when she made the reservation and demanded we all wear something that didn’t have holes in it, which I supposed counted as classy for two teachers, a lineman, and a nurse.
To further prove our classiness, we ordered a round of mimosas before our butts had even touched the seats.
Then the waiter called Sisi “ma’am,” and any hint of class flew out the window.
“Ma’am?” Sisi hissed, eyes wide, as if he’d accused her of clubbing baby seals. “Did you just fucking ‘ma’am’ me, boy?” she asked the now-cowering guy who was probably in college but looked like his balls had yet to drop.
Mike flinched.
Elliot picked up his menu and held it up like a shield.
And I—I slid my drink to the center of the table like a peace offering.
To his credit, the waiter apologized.
To her credit—and by some blessing of ancient Viking gods—Sisi accepted.
Sort of.
“If you bring me poached eggs and don’t call me ma’am again,” she said, “we’ll all walk out of here alive.”
And just like that, brunch was back on track.
The food was delicious, the drinks were better, and Sisi’s wit was cranked up to “murderous sparkle,” which meant she was working her way through judging those on the patio like a shark in red lipstick.
“I swear to God,” she said, slicing into her eggs Benedict like she was disarming a bomb with a meat cleaver, “if I have to hear another girl in a straw hat talk about her candle business and how ‘healing’ it is, I’m taking this damn mimosa back to the ER and injecting it into my veins.”
“Wouldn’t that be arteries?” Elliot asked, perking up.
