“Occupational?” His voice surprised him. His smile surprised him more as he and Dylan looked at each other. “You guys professional diners now?”
“Something like that,” Laura said, interrupting the flow while waving a fork that had what appeared to be a cheese-stuffed mushroom on it. “If I could do this for a living, I would.”
But you can, Joe thought, but didn’t say. Two billionaires and she couldn’t just sit around and eat whatever she wanted, sampling the finest Boston—hell, the world—had to offer? Instead of doing that, she chose to run a threesome dating service where Darla and Josie worked?
Women. More complicated than, well…transportation code case law.
But infinitely more interesting. When he looked at Darla, that grinding cesspool inside his gut loosened just a little. Some day, he’d give her everything she wanted.
Unless it involved sitting at a booth and talking about his feelings with these men.
“How about we reconfigure?” Laura said in a voice that was both sweetness and light, and honed steel. There was no arguing with her, and the men stood, shuffling over to where Dylan sat, Laura picking up her plate and moving next to Josie, across from Darla. The other booth was bigger, U-shaped, and he waited until all the other guys were in place—Mike and Dylan in the middle, Trevor to Dylan’s left, Alex to Mike’s right—before grabbing a chair and turning it backwards, straddling it.
If he were just a tinge more paranoid he’d check the exits so he’d know where to bolt in the event of a true emotional meltdown.
And then his eyes did it.
Telling Darla he loved her, sexting and coming back for long weekends where the three of them went into the world they created, jamming with the band and coming back on long train rides for performances—those were part of the flow of life.
He didn’t want to scrutinize who they were, what they were, too much, because then you had to pop that dome of perfection, where the three of them lived as if everything they did were right and okay.
As if society didn’t exist.
His stomach betrayed him and growled. Alex pushed a plate of deep-fried cauliflower his way. “Try some. It’s really good when you dip it in the aioli.”
“Thanks.” He did as suggested, and his mouth came to life. Damn. Jeddy’s was a shithole he remembered from college years, and the food had been standard gut-rot back then. Cheese fries and shakes and bad coffee. Looking around as he munched, he took in the torn seats, the shabby, threadbare carpet, the stained ceiling tiles, the scuffed stainless steel edges of the main counter. The place looked like something he wouldn’t set foot in. Too worn and broken for him. Too working class, too—
Authentic.
But you couldn’t deny the nuanced skill of the cook in the kitchen, how the richness of what was offered contrasted with the run-down outer shell.
“This is amazing,” he said as Trevor grunted in assent and shoved what must have been his fourth or fifth coconut shrimp in his mouth.
“I always forget about this place,” Trev mumbled around chipmunk cheeks, then swallowed. Did the man chew?
“We practically live here,” Dylan said pleasantly. “It was Laura’s favorite restaurant when she was pregnant.”
“And after,” Mike added.
“And forever,” she said from across the booth, sighing with satisfaction as the old waitress delivered a tray of what looked like tiny cannoli covered in what smelled like a maple glaze. “Thanks, Madge,” she uttered through a mouthful to the old waitress.
Madge. He did a double take. The same Madge his mom talked about being here when she went to Radcliffe? That old lady must be a vampire. A second tray covered in tiny cannoli appeared like magic on their table. Trevor grabbed two and shoveled them in while the other guys took a more leisurely approach.
Joe wished his stomach would stop being so uncooperative.
Like you.
He was only doing this for Darla. She’d insisted, so angry at his jealousy. That, plus Laura was her boss. You do what the boss wants, even if you sneer behind her back while you do it. Not that Darla was like that—she really liked Laura. And so did he.
This entire lunch was the stupidest stunt he had been part of since they went to the island of Eden, though. And that place had been the epitome of stupid. And crazy.
The “I love yous” had been wonderful, and he’d thought he would come home and feel different, but instead he’d just been more forlorn. More torn.
Missed them more.
“We’re supposed to talk about something,” Mike said slowly, wiping his hands on a napkin and setting it neatly under his clean plate.
Joe rested his chin on his hands on the back of the chair and watched. He wasn’t about to say a damn word. Not now. Not in that vast danger zone of being the first to crack. You couldn’t shove a genie back in a bottle, no matter how hard you tried. His heart rubbed against one of the rods of the chair’s back, a gentle pressure that grounded him.
“Sex,” Dylan said as he finished off one of those cannoli.
“Sex?” Trevor choked on something, the painful sound of air being blocked triggering a weird wheeze that made Joe sit up, ramrod straight. Alex whacked him on the back and went blank, his face neutral, on complete alert in the way only a well-trained doctor could be.
Trevor made a strangled sound and then took in a huge whoop of air, eyes watering so badly Joe could see the tears run down his face as Trev dipped his head and reached for a glass of water—anyone’s water—and drank it greedily, stopping only to breathe in hitched gulps.
“I’m okay,” he rasped, holding up one hand to stem the expressions of concern, then hacking furiously.
“What’s wrong?” Darla called out from the table next to them.
“We started to talk about sex and it made Trevor gag,” Joe said quietly.
The entire group burst into laughter, making one side of Joe’s mouth tip up in a reluctant grin. His heart hammered in his chest, skipping a beat here and there, otherwise pattering along at a healthy clip, his worry for Trevor fading as everything normalized into what passed for “normal” on this day.
Sex? They were going to talk about sex? He let out a huge sigh of relief. He thought they were going to talk about feelings.
Mike
Poor kids.
That was all Mike could think as he looked around the horseshoe table at Trevor and Joe. No, they weren’t kids, and he remembered being twenty-three and hating being referred to as a kid. But now that he was ten-plus years out of that early adulthood phase, he couldn’t help but view them as just that—kids.