Sometimes people need politics and religion in common. I need shared sitcoms.
The tension I didn’t realize I was carrying ebbs out of my body when Maxwell lets out a surprised bark of laughter. In my peripheral vision, I watch as he leans over, untying the laces to his spotless white sneakers, his gray joggers riding up just so and his biceps flexing under his official Mustangs apparel tee.
Even in casual wear he looks so well put together.
Though, not to brag or anything, I too have mastered the art of slouchy chic. It’s kinda my thing.
He leans back, slumping into my couch, rubbing a hand over his nearly bald head, laughing again at whatever’s happening on the TV. I laugh belatedly, turning my head back to the screen so I don’t get caught staring like a fucking creeper. And soon, I forget that it’s Maxwell on my couch. We both laugh at the same spots, me harder than him most of the time, and as soon as the credits hit the screen, we make eye contact and Maxwell says, “One more?”
“Ha!” I clap once. “I knew you’d get hooked.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, but doesn’t even attempt to mask the smile playing on his lips. “Just hit Play . . .” He pauses, mischief dancing in his brown eyes. “Brynny Bear.”
I can’t stand TK. I hate that nickname and I’ve told him at least a million times.
I growl. Actually, audibly freaking growl. Maxwell’s eyes grow a fraction before they snap closed and he throws his head back laughing. Out of reflex, I grab the pillow next to me and launch it at his head, but somehow, he snatches it out of the air like a toddler tossed it to him.
“What the?” I ask just before the pillow smacks me in the face.
I grab the pillow by the corners and swing it over my head, going to maximum force, but I’m laughing so hard, it feels like it’s stuffed with rocks instead of soft, fluffy, and light cotton.
“How did you even do that?” I ask through the laughter. “Your eyes were closed!”
“Oh, that?” He tips up the corner of his mouth, raising his hands in front of his chest. “I get paid to do this.”
My jaw falls to the floor. Who is this guy? I’ve never heard anything even remotely cocky come from him and then he says that? What?
But before I can think of a comeback, another pillow hits the side of my head, shifting my topknot bun to the side.
“Shhhh.” He puts one finger in front of his mouth while another points to the TV. “I need to see what happens with Leslie’s park project.”
I sit back down, but not in surrender—I start to quietly plot my revenge.
Then Maxwell starts laughing. And not just a quick chuckle or an abrupt bark of laughter. No, it’s body-shaking, eye-wiping, hysterical laughter.
And I forget about the pillow fight.
Well, not really.
But I do remember how long it’s been since I had a friend over and laughed so hard.
A really long time.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my girls. But they are all married and most of them have kids. They aren’t coming over in the middle of the night to binge on a show that’s older than some of their children.
Any doubts that I had lingering about Maxwell fade away with his laugh. Who doesn’t want a friend whom they can laugh with and who’d speed to rescue them from getting smashed like Frogger?
A friend.
A really, really good-looking friend.
That’s all.
Nine
I trudge down the stairs to the front of my building, holding the strap of my cross-body purse and letting it thump against each step as I go. My hair is a mess, and the oversized sunglasses I grabbed from Target last week are barely hiding the dark circles beneath my eyes. My jeans are ripped at the knee and I’m wearing my “Sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come” T-shirt.
You know, just keeping it super fucking classy.
Maxwell’s sparkling blue Tesla is double-parked right where he told me it was in the text he sent me. I pull open the door, glaring at his smiling face from beneath my dark lenses even though he’s doing me a favor.
I toss my poor, battered purse onto the floor and tug at the seat belt with some of my pent-up aggression causing it to lock up. “Dammit,” I growl. I let it go and try again with gentle hands. This time, it glides across my body successfully and I jam it into the buckle before it decides to act up again. When I look up, Maxwell’s eyes are on me, crinkled at the corners like I’m the most amusing person he’s ever come across. “Why do you look so happy?”
“What’s there not to be happy about?”
Ugh. He’s a morning person.
I mark it down in the flaws column.
“You’re annoying.”
“Here.” He shoves a warm cup into my hands, and the first hint of a smile graces my face since my phone rang before the sun came up this morning. “You need caffeine.”
I take it, super grateful since I was out of coffee. Just another reason I never come home. Grocery shopping freaking blows.
“7-Eleven?” I take a deep gulp, the nectar of the gods blessing my tongue. It’s not as sweet as I usually go for (creamer is my weakness) but beggars cannot be choosers. “I’ve never had their coffee before, but it’s good.”
“Better than Starbucks and a fraction of the cost.”
“You make a bazillion dollars and drive a Tesla.” I remind him of something I’m sure he knows better than I do. “You’re not allowed to complain about a five-dollar cup of coffee.”
“It’s a waste,” he says, taking a sip out of his reusable coffee mug. “Why spend five dollars when I can spend one? That’s how people go broke, and coffee is not how I’m going down.”
“But Starbucks has really good pastries,” I shoot back, grumpy enough to debate the merits of Starbucks versus convenience store coffee. “You can’t get pumpkin bread or chocolate croissants from 7-Eleven.”
I don’t even know why I care. I don’t go to Starbucks either. I’m committed to local coffee shops. Fresh is my jam.
“And Starbucks doesn’t have taquitos.”
Well, damn. I guess I lost this round.
“That’s true.” I look around the car in search of a little paper bag filled with crispy goodness. “Please tell me you got some.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners and he bites his bottom lip, which is not a very discreet way to hide his desire to laugh at me.
I do, however, appreciate his restraint.