Page 77 of Filthy and the Beast

I look back up. “I should trust my friends and the process of game night.”

He laughs. “Definitely.”

“Game night will be good for him. Even if he’s awkward, I think socializing will be healthy.”

Nico smooths his shirt down. “And it will be good for you, too. You’re four nights at the bar a week now, right? Sounds busy.” He peeks into the kitchen. “And I see you’re still making time for flower arranging?”

Taking my best friend’s hand, I pull him into the kitchen to see the two vases set out. “I’m learning how to build the axis.” One features pink, purple, and white hellebores, an early winter flower.

“This bouquet is thematic for the evening.” I point at the other thin vase, filled with tall stems and showy yellow and pink petals.

Nico tightens his brow. “Snapdragon?” He laughs abruptly. “Also called dogflower.”

I grin. “You like?”

“They’re beautiful.” He takes the time to admire them.

“Thank you.” I grab him a soda water from the fridge. “I’m confident you’re not just saying that because I’ve caught Enzo secretly admiring the bouquets several times.”

“Not appreciating flowers would be a warning sign.”

“Exactly.” I squat. Petunia has her visor in her mouth and she’s giving me needy eyes, so I set it back on her head. “There you go, you little social media star.”

Still admiring the flowers, Nico sits at the counter. “The new job any better?”

I make a blech noise. “I don’tnothate tending bar yet. But I’m saving so much money!” I adjust my glasses. “It’s a little exhausting with the Enzo work, too. It’s not like Enzo stresses me out,” I clarify quickly. “I’m moderately busy with house stuff for him. I’m calling people about the roof and arranging contractors, for example. And it’s winter, but the garden still needs a lot of attention. But that hardly feels like work. I’m happy when I’m doing that stuff. Then I get to the bar, and I just stress. I sleep like shit after, and I’m exhausted when I wake up the next day.”

Nico frowns. “And you’re thinking of doing this job through school?”

I point at him. “Says the man who is getting ready to record two albums at the same time again.”

Nico presses his palm to his forehead, chuckling. “Oh yeah. Don’t remind me. But when it’s time to write an album, you can’t really delay, I’ve learned. The creative process is like love in that way.”

“Same as when I get a new idea for a dog video. I just have to make room in my schedule for it,” I agree. “Both of your albums will be brilliant, by the way.”

“And we’ll both continue to make time to hang out, even when our schedules are so busy we’re looking at our floral arrangements and musical scores cross-eyed.”

I laugh. “Agreed.”

The dogs rush to the back—Enzo is home. We’re moments away from him meeting all of my friends. Suddenly, a warm, giddy feeling washes over the anxiety from earlier. For a glorious instant, I’m just excited.

This game night is a big deal in a lot of ways. I really want it to go well for Enzo so maybe he’ll remember he doesn’t have to lock himself away. And maybe he’ll want to keep doing this, and we’ll move closer together as a result.

What use is dating someone twenty years younger, anyway, if he doesn’t make you have fun?

* * *

ENZO

Fuck, these pants are uncomfortable.

I took my ass to the store, tried them on and everything. Thought I’d wear a new pair of jeans instead of my old ragged ones. Look nice for Nico’s friends.

Now I’m standing here talking to Reggie and his husband, both wearing the poker visors Damian provided. I’m trying to make conversation, and I can only think about how the fucking pants are rubbing my nuts.

For days, I’ve been telling myself all that matters tonight is Damian having a good time. I’ll be uncomfortable, but that’s fine. He gets excited and bounces around whenever he talks about game night. That’s my reward.

Would be a lie to say I’m not curious about his friends, too. They matter a lot to Damian. I'm grateful to know he’s got good people in his life. I fucking hate socializing, but there’s no way around it if I want to meet them.

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