Page 67 of Coach
“See!” Omar pointed across the table. “You hear things that aren’t there. You just admitted it!”
“Guys!” I raised my fork like a crossing guard’s stop sign. “Can we get back to my noggin’ kiss?”
Matty beamed. “Noggin’ love. I love it. It’s very face-forward.”
Sisi cackled. “Face-forward. That’s good, Matty. You win that one.”
I groaned. Talking to them was useless.
“Fine,” Sisi surrendered, reaching over and gripping my hand. “Talk to Auntie Sisi. Did he do anything else? Brush your hair back? Stare longingly?”
“Grab your junk?” Matty chimed in.
I threw my head back on the booth’s cushions. “There was no junk grabbing!”
The waiter chose that exact moment to arrive. His wide eyes and amused grin made me want to run out the door and scream at the world. Matty and Sisi grinned up at him and winked—in unison. A dual wink. Jesus, save me.
When the curious server vanished again, I offered, “He did press his shoulder to mine most of the night.”
“There were six of us in a booth for four. That means nothing,” Matty declared.
“Fine.” I pouted. “His hand brushed mine a few times.”
Sisi leaned in. “Intentionally? Like fingers searching for a hidden gem? Or accidentally, where he yanked back like he’d just touched a hot stove?”
I thought a moment. “No, there wasn’t any yanking back. It felt . . . like his pinky wandered away from the pack to explore the back of my hand.”
“Ooh, the plot thickens.” Sisi steepled her fingers. “That sounds intentional. A near-handhold, I’d call it.”
“Two points max. It was a brush, nothing more. He’s not getting the full five points for a handhold,” Matty said, somehow becoming the official referee of all things body language (and making up thepoint system and rules as he went).
“Two points. I’ll take it,” I said.
“But that kiss,” Matty continued. “We might need to consult the Gay Manual for that one. There has to be some obscure rule or guideline covering lip-to-head contact.”
“There’s a whole section entitled, Below the Belt, but I’m certain that involves a different head.” Omar smirked.
“Not helpful, Omar,” I drawled.
“But funny.” Matty grinned at his beloved.
God, those two were syrup on top of sugar laced with saccharine.
“All right,” Sisi said in an alarmingly sincere voice. “Let’s set aside our preconceived notions of a child’s bedtime smooch and explore the meaning behind this first-of-its-kind adult emotional evasion technique.”
“Emotional—”
“Silence, witness!” Sisi cut me off. “We will conduct a scientific inquiry. Now. Possibility one: Forehead kisses are for children, small woodland animals, and people who say ‘bless your heart’ unironically. In which case, we’re in trouble.”
“Possibility two,” Matty chimed in, “it was a soft, tender ‘I care about you, but I’m broken and emotionally stunted’kiss.”
“Oh! The ‘I’m scared to feel something real’ kiss!” Omar added, nodding. “A classic. That’s a man who’s read one book and it was a furniture manual with feelings repressed between the lines . . . or a comic book. Could be either.”
I slumped forward. “Can I finish my toast before you dismantle my entire psychological makeup?”
“No,” they said in unison.
Sisi leaned in. “Did he look at you after? Like,reallylook? Like, ‘he kissed you, but he didn’t know how to deal with what he felt and panicked’ kind of look?”
