Being the true friend he was, Jeremy did, indeed, hand him another beer.
And shut up.
The card Sandy slid over to him was full of promise. Hope. Possibility. Not yet known, its identity could change the course of this entire poker game, the balance of winning vs. losing possessed by whatever its mystery held.
Eyes cutting over to Jeremy, he realized that was how this whole pregnancy question with Lydia worked, too.
Every part of their lives would change depending on a single answer to a question they had never intended to ask.
“I can't believe Lydia went to bed so early,” Sandy said, shaking her head as Mike curled the corner of the card up and barely kept his poker face.
Damn.
Three of clubs.
Good things come in three, but not when they're cards like that.
“She's tired,” Jeremy said casually, ignoring Mike's sharp glance.
“She's been so tired lately. Have you noticed?” Sandy asked her husband, Pete, who yawned in response, inspiring laughter around the table.
“Maybe it runs in the family?” Pete opined the second he was done, which made Mike laugh.
No one else appreciated the humor.
“I am fine,” Sandy said in an over-enunciating voice that made it clear if Lydia's tiredness was genetic, it didn't come from her.
“It's winter,” Pete said with a wave, as if that explained everything.
“She isn't a bear who needs to hibernate,” Sandy scoffed as she spread her hand out on the table and declared, “full house.”
Mike groaned.
Jeremy harrumphed.
Pete yawned.
And then Mike wondered if she knew how close they might be to having a fuller house.
“Ah hah! Come to mama,” Sandy declared, scooping the chips in. “This will buy me a nice skein of cashmere for that scarf I've been meaning to make.”
“I'm out,” Jeremy said, throwing his cards in the pile of discards. He yawned, smacking Pete on the shoulder. “And he gave me his yawn!”
“I did not. Besides,” Pete said, yawning again. “There. I took it back.”
“You two are like a Little Bear book,” Sandy said with a laugh.
“What's that?” Mike asked.
“Little Bear? The children's books?”
“Is that a Maine thing?” he ventured.
Even Jeremy seemed to know what she was talking about, the three of them a bit blurry but their emotional state clear.
He was the odd man out.
“Your parents never read the Little Bear books to you?” Sandy asked, incredulous.
“My mom and dad were born in the 1930s, but even they read those to me,” Jeremy said. “A Kiss For Little Bear.”
“Yes!” Sandy replied with delight. “When you two are parents, you'll have to make sure to read them to our grandkids.”
Mike blinked.
Jeremy didn't.
And silence reigned.
“Sandy,” Pete finally whispered. “We agreed you weren't going to say such things.”
“No,” she said softly. “You and Lydia asked me not to. And I haven't. Until now.”
Why now? Mike wondered, suddenly woozy and paranoid all at once, the mix a bad combination, like vodka and peppermint schnapps. Could she read minds? Smell fertility on her daughter? Sense the potential?
“I still have mine,” Jeremy said softly. “A few old books. I found them when I was cleaning out my parents' house.”
“Then you'll be able to read them to your children. What a lovely legacy I'm sure your mother would have enjoyed.” Sandy's kind smile unnerved Jeremy, Mike knew.
The guy was never quite sure how to act in the face of emotional connection.
Pete stood, offering his wife a hand. “I think it's time to leave,” he said as Mike took a swig of his beer and decided that this was definitely his last.
Any more and his eyeballs would float out into the ocean and get stuck in the Azores by noon the next day.
“Why?” Sandy asked.
“Because Lydia's asleep, and you're pressuring these guys for grandchildren.”
“I am not pressuring them! The topic just happened to come up, and I – ”
Pete bent down and quieted her with a kiss.
Mike’s and Jeremy's gazes went anywhere but on those two.
Bending farther, Pete whispered something in her ear that made her giggle.
Which made Mike take another swig of beer.
“Sheesh,” Jeremy muttered under his breath as he stood abruptly, long legs making the walk to the fridge a three-step process. He opened it, pulled out a small cheesecake with a quarter of it left, and cut himself a slice.
Sandy had brought it for the poker game. Mike knew they had a matching one back home, so didn't feel bad Jeremy ate it in front of her, but jealousy reared its ugly head when he began taking bites, careful to smear the caramel-pecan glaze all over the fork before spearing a piece.
Mike stood, took two steps toward the cheesecake, then grabbed the edge of the table and laughed, a loose sound that made him realize he was drunk.
Not tipsy.
Drunk.
“Hoo boy. Too much BlueBrew?” Pete asked, making Mike smile.
“Yep.”
“Well, you could do worse.”
“Tell him that in the morning,” Jeremy cracked.
“Save some of that for me,” Mike called out, making Jeremy halt mid-bite, the fork comically suspended in mid-air, a big drop of caramel at the corner of his guilty-looking mouth.
With a wave of her hand, Sandy settled it. “I made three. Adam isn't a fan of pecans. You can have his if you want it.”
“If? What kind of question is that?” Jeremy said around a mouthful of sweetness.
Laughing, Sandy and Pete made their way to the door, effortlessly wrapping themselves in coats, scarves, hats with earflaps, and thick gloves. A smile stretched Mike's face nice and wide.
Christmas jazz played softly in the background, the local station a mainstay this time of year for all-things-Christmas. Snow fell in fat, lazy flakes outside, the first week of December crisp and soothing. Living in the woods was a constant reminder that cities were the aberration.
This? This was real life.
Finishing off his beer, he waved as the couple left, arm in arm, Sandy's pockets nicely stuffed with her winnings. It wasn’t as if he and Jeremy couldn't afford to lose. Good grief.
They were both billionaires.
If losing a few rounds of poker meant Sandy could buy some cashmere yarn for a scarf, so be it.
“You ’runk,” Jeremy murfled around his final bite of cheesecake. Opening the fridge, he dug for the plate again.
“HEY! Save some for us.”
“You heard Sandy. She has a whole new one for us.”
“That doesn't mean you should eat it all.”
“That's exactly what it means, Mike.”
“You are a cheesecake hoarder.” The words were out of his mouth before he started to laugh uproariously.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” Jeremy said, now eating straight off the cake plate.
“Lydia is going to expect a slice for breakfast.”
That – and only that – made the guy stop.
Mournful puppy-dog eyes looked at the remaining cheesecake, then Mike. “But it's so good.”