“You two young ’uns will learn one day,” Viktor says. “We’ve all had the great loves of our lives, but there’s no joy in being lonely until we see them again. You gotta take what life gives you—sometimes it’s sugar, sometimes it’s salt. They might look the same, but they feel different and light up different parts of your tongue. Your heart, too.”
Viktor winks, and his wisdom does make sense. Especially given the smiles on everyone’s faces.
My brain flashes back to Noah and our kiss last night. Was it sugar or salt? Or maybe some combination I’ve never considered, like chocolate-dipped potato chips? Which is apparently a thing because I saw it on a blog challenge and did it for my page as part of a series about ‘trying new things’.
Is that what Noah is?
Not a potato chip covered in chocolate but an experiment in being open to things I’ve never imagined?
The only question is . . .
Do I want more?
I glance at Arielle, who’s got her own contemplative look on her face. Forgive me, Arielle, but . . . yes, I do.
Not of the chips. But of . . . your brother.
“You ever miss the food court?” Eli asks when Arielle and I come into McGillicutty’s, the Irish tavern that’s taken over as the unofficial meeting place for The Crew. The Mall Rats is what we used to call ourselves, but over the years, as that has become a distant memory for many of us, we became The Crew. Friends by circumstance, family by choice.
Eli looks around the over-themed bar with wait staff wearing green T-shirts and aprons with pins and buttons all over them. The long length of hardwood bar gleams with a mellow internal light but is pock-marked from years of usage, and the chalkboard announcing the weekly specials hasn’t changed in so long I don’t remember the last time it wasn’t Three-Dollar Drafts on Wednesday nights. Too bad today’s special is Saturday Stouts, and I’m not feeling the Guinness love.
“Baby, please,” Loretta says. “The onion rings here kick ass. Way better than anything the food court ever had.”
Six feet two inches tall, Loretta joined The Crew when a second torn ACL made her realize that perhaps playing college basketball wasn’t what she really wanted to do with her life. She worked mall security, putting her intimidating size to good use while finishing her business degree. After she finished school, she promptly quit the mall gig, but not The Crew, and followed her heart to her true love . . . dogs.
Specifically, grooming. Something about making every dog she meets as absolutely adorable as possible lights up Loretta like there’s no tomorrow. She can happily spend her days putting bows on the ears of basset hounds, brushing out Samoyeds, and giving poodles pedicures.
She’s damn good at it, too, which is why she’s the only groomer allowed to lay hands on my Raffy.
“I’ll see your onion rings and raise you a bourbon chicken,” Eli counters wistfully.
Loretta scoffs. “Ew, that stuff was nasty. Mostly dark meat—now, don’t get me wrong, I love dark meat—but they’d let that chicken dry out under those warming lights all day, then dunk it in more sauce and steam it to make it ‘moist’ again.” She does air quotes with the word ‘moist’ and then shudders, her face screwed up in distaste.
“Don’t ruin it for me. Some days, that’s all I have time for, even now,” Eli complains with a vehement head shake.
Now that he mentions it, he does look a little tired, which makes me wonder how things are going at the bank. But before I can ask, the last two members of The Crew arrive.
“Hey, honey! How’s the jewelry business?” Loretta asks Becky.
“Good,” Becky says. She looks happy, and she should be. The youngest member of The Crew, she’s also the only one of us who’s married. Then again, considering her husband, Simon, is part of The Crew as well, I take a little pride in that.
All of us knew Simon and Becky were into each other. Becky worked part time at the mall because she was in school, all big eyes and a bigger heart.
Simon was several years older and her manager, and they fell for each other pretty hard, even if they were blind to it. It wasn’t until Becky graduated and was literally about to move on to the next phase of her life that he finally asked her out.
But we knew from the start.
“I think,” Eli says as he gets up from his chair, “I owe Simon a Guinness. Come on, let’s let them bitch about men for a minute without feeling like we should guard our junk.”
Simon kisses Becky on the temple, and she beams like someone lit her soul on fire. But not some out of control inferno, more like a warm beacon that draws Simon back to her no matter what. They’re adorable.
Noah’s kiss flashes through my mind again. It was definitely not warm-beacon style, but he wasn’t out of control either. I don’t know if Noah could ever be out of control. Everything I know about him—from River, Arielle, and even from our messages when I thought he was Mark—says he’s a skinny hairsbreadth shy of a control freak. But that kiss was an inferno, one he stoked intentionally, built expertly, and let sear my soul.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I liked being under his control. His hand on my head, guiding me where he wanted me. Moving in slow, giving me time to think about what he was about to do. His tongue not forcing inside but teasing to make me hungry for him.
“With them gone,” Loretta says, pulling a dollar out of her pocket and laying it on the table, “Riley, Arielle, Becky . . . it’s game time.”
“Oh, God,” Becky groans even as she grins. “Have you been practicing?”
“Who, me? I don’t need to practice,” Loretta retorts smugly. “Unless you count paper in the wastebasket at work?”
“For you, trashcan shots totally count,” Becky asserts with a laugh, but as we always do, we make our way to the far side of McGillicutty’s where a remnant of a previous marketing attempt as a sports bar remains. The hoop shoot game survived because nothing else fits so well in the narrow nook that’s just big enough for two games side by side.
But it isn’t about the score, or at least not totally. It’s about our time while the guys have their time, forging those bonds that are going to last the rest of our lives.
“So, how’s my baby boy?” Loretta asks as Becky and Arielle take the first pair of games. “You know it’s not a good month unless I get my Raffy snuggles in!”
I laugh. She spoils Raffy every time I bring him by . . . with deep conditioning treatments, pawdicures, and beef jerky. Not to mention the scratches, hugs, and petting. But I have to admit Raffy looks great and smells better after a day at Loretta’s doggy salon. Plus, the before and after posts on his IG are some of my most popular posts. It seems everyone loves a glow up, Raffy’s fans included.
“How about I bring him by next Friday?”
“Sure, that’ll work. Not like I’m doing anything exciting, anyway.” Loretta’s usual wit has gone sour and her smile falters.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume,” I say quickly, trying to backpedal.
Loretta pats my hand and tsks. “No, baby. It’s not you, and Friday’s fine. I just had a date last weekend that was a shitshow from start to finish.”