Page 61 of Coach
I ignored them all and gestured toward the others in the booth. “Okay, Shane. That was Elliot. Now, starting clockwise: Mike you met at the fair, Omar, and the chaotic evil goblin on the end is Matty.”
“I am chaotic good, thank you very much,” Matty corrected, faux scowling across the table.
“Good to see you again, Shane.” Mike lifted his glass and smiled. “English teacher, trivia overlord, licensed pedant. I do not accept incorrect grammar,pineapple on pizza, or losing.”
“Also,” Omar added, “he once made a librarian cry during a Scrabble tournament.”
“She used an illegal Q word,” Mike said with zero remorse.
I moved on. “This is Omar.”
Omar gave a small wave. “Geography nerd, recovering theater kid, current baritone with the local gay men’s choir.”
“And Matty’s husband,” Mike supplied.
“Thank you, Mr. Publicist,” Omar said dryly.
Shane’s mouth twitched. I saw it. A twitch. On his face. Specifically, his mouth.
We weresoclose to a smile I could smell it.
“And finally,” I said, sighing, “thatis Matty.”
Matty leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Hi, I’m your worst nightmare. I’m Mateo’s fashion consultant, emotional support gremlin, and the voice in his head that tells him to moisturize and make bad decisions, not in that order.”
“Ignore him,” I said. “Please.”
“Oh no,” Shane said, deadpan. “I like him.”
Matty squealed and fingertip clapped again. “Mateo, keep him, he’s perfect!”
“He hasn’t even sat down yet,” I muttered. “He could be an axe murderer.”
“But he passed the vibe check,” Mike said.
Elliot, who had reclaimed his seat, nodded once again. “I would’ve sensed evil in him when our eyes met. I have that superpower.”
I was about to make a snarky comeback when Shane locked eyes with Elliot again, then nodded once.
What the heck? Had something passed between them the rest of the world missed? Did they have ESPN?
Apparently, some metaphysical gavel had been struck, and Shane had been deemed worthy—with barely a few words spoken. Either my friends were the quickest judges of character on the planet, or they were useless in assessing men who might be axe murderers—or cuddle bears, or something in between.
Suddenly, there was a spot next to me in the booth again—like it had been waiting all along.
I gestured to it.
Shane slid in beside me without a word.
Elliot folded himself on Shane’s other side, their massive shoulders pressed together. Neither seemed to notice or care.
As the table dissolved into arguments about categories and who called dibs on Broadway, I caught the tiniest hint of warmth in Shane’s eyes as he looked around. Then—miracle of miracles—he turnedto me and said under his breath:
“They’re not so bad.”
I smiled.
“You haven’t seen them drunk yet.”
