He leans forward and rubs his forehead. “I can imagine her words. Why do you keep doing this? When are you going to admit—” He snaps his mouth closed when a lone figure appears within the circle of our light from the darkness. “Hello, Mr. Hooper.”
The older man smiles at us. “You kids having a good time? It’s a nice night for a fire.”
I snicker at the idea he’s calling us kids. Mr. Hooper can’t be more than fifty.
“We are. Would you care to join us?” Ollie offers.
I cut a sideways glance at him. We don’t know Mr. Hooper from Joe Schmoe. He only moved in a few weeks ago. Our suburb isn’t exactly dangerous, but there is an unreasonably high turnover of tenants here. This guy could be a vampire, and Ollie’s just given him the requisite invitation to murder us.
“Nah.” Mr. Hooper thankfully waves off Ollie’s suggestion. “I was actually wondering if you have a battery I can borrow.”
I repress more snickers. Called it.
“What brand of blower do you have?” Ollie asks.
“One of those bright green ones. A…Ryobi?”
“I have the same. You may borrow my battery.” Horrifyingly, Ollie rises from his chair and strides away.
Mr. Hooper and I stare at each other in awkward silence. Surely, he won’t murder me even though we’re alone. It’ll be way too obvious it was him when Ollie returns to my lifeless body.
Mr. Hooper rocks on his heels, seeming as awkward as I feel. It might be a ploy to get me to let my guard down though. “Your yards look fantastic. You’ve done a really nice job here.”
“Thank you.” I have no idea how else to respond to that.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to move in together instead of paying double the rent?” He scratches his chin like this is the kind of small talk normal people make.
I sputter on my mouthful of beer. “Oliver and I aren’t together!”
“Huh. Could’ve fooled me. Is it one of those modern arrangements? What do they call it? Polyamory?”
“What?” I practically scream. “No!”
Ollie returns to the scene, a questioning expression on his face. He hands over the battery pack to Mr. Hooper while addressing me. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine, fine,” Mr. Hooper assures him. “Thanks for this. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”
Within minutes of his departure, the leaf blower roars to life again.
Ollie reclaims his seat. And his beer. “Why were you yelling?”
“He thinks we’re a polyamorous couple!” The horror. Not that I’m judging, but that kind of lifestyle isn’t for me.
Ollie’s eyes flit back and forth at the air like he’s seriously contemplating that idea. “Did he perhaps mean platonic?”
This is why questionable women always get the best of Ollie. He wears rose-colored lenses. The man absolutely refuses to see anything but the best in people.
“Why did you give him your battery pack? You’re usually so clingy with your tools. You don’t even know him well enough to know if he’ll actually return it.”
Ollie shrugs. “If I need it, I know where he lives. I will simply ask him to return it. Also, I assured you at least another hour of entertainment for the evening.”
I bark out a laugh. He really does know me so well. “What’s the catch?”
There’s always a catch.
He smiles around the bottle that’s already at his lips. “I am going to nurse my broken heart tonight, and you are going to put me to bed when I’m too drunk to do so for myself.”
“Are you sure you’re not depressed about turning thirty soon? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds a hell of a lot like you want to relive your college glory days.” I don’t mention that Ollie put my drunk ass to bed plenty of times.
“From where I am sitting, you are approximately a week away from visiting a sperm clinic.”
“Jerk!” I make a mental note to clear my web browser history.
He winks and drains the rest of his second bottle.
2
Oliver
When I groan, the warm body beneath me groans, too. She pats my head that is resting on her stomach. Likely because she knows I have a massive headache.
“Not yet, Ollie. Go back to sleep,” she mumbles.
I crack open one eye to glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s already ten, but Liv likes to sleep in on the weekends. To be clear, she sleeps all day.
It is perhaps a form of masochism, but I tighten my grip around her waist and nuzzle my cheek against her flat stomach. My whiskers catch on the fabric.
Ugh. I need to shave, but I need aspirin and a large quantity of water before I touch my face with a razor.
In spite of all these perseverative thoughts, for precisely four minutes I lock down all the discomforts pecking at my brain and enjoy the quiet morning with the woman who is sprawled out like a starfish in my bed.
Her body is warm and soft beneath me. Sometime after I passed out, she must have grabbed a t-shirt out of my dresser. It looks way better stretched across her breasts than it ever has on me. I will likely never see it again. She has a closet full of the hoodies she constantly borrows from me then never returns. I do not reclaim them. It brings me great joy to see her wear my clothes.
My arms fit around her waist like they are meant to be here all the time. The last man she dated thought I touched her way too often, but that is not the case. At all.
I do not usually pull stunts like I did last night to get some alone time with her. I do not have to. We live next door to each other. We have been best friends since fourth grade. We went to neighboring universities. She has always been a part of my life, but I am terrified that time is slipping away.
She joked about it last night around the fire—tried to project her feelings onto me—but she is taking this big 3-0 business seriously.
The last time her laptop crashed, she asked me to fix it. No problem. Computers, their operating systems, and their maintenance are one of my strongest skill sets, and I do not mind donating my time to Liv. Then I discovered exactly what overwhelmed her system. Pages upon pages of online dating site registries, cookies from every artificial insemination clinic in the tri-state area, not to mention a couple of very virus-infested porn sites dedicated to women’s tastes.
She really does have baby fever.
She also has a shortage of adequate candidates to impregnate her.
Guilt is added to my other physical irritations. I have always been relieved that Liv does not often bring men home to her condo next door. Only one time I heard her moans of pleasure through our shared bedroom wall, and it was an experience I immediately knew I never wanted to repeat.
That was not enough to stop me from jerking off into my own hand while I pretended I was the one creating those sounds.
To be clear, my rock-hard dick insists now would be an opportune time to finally sink into Liv and make her moan.
Unfortunately for me and my poor cock, that is a line I cannot cross. Before she notices my morning wood, I peel myself away from her and walk to the bathroom.
Aiming is rather a moot point with a raging erection. I acquiesce for not spraying the ceiling. My mood is plummeting as everything continues to irritate me and not go as planned. I have just barely tasted the minty relief of my toothpaste when a sing-song greeting from downstairs freezes me in place.