The Real Deal

That was the game. That’s how the rest of them flocked to us like seagulls on french fries. Because all men suffer from the same affliction—they believe they can win at arm wrestling, and they love an easy target.

I wasn’t easy, and we’d clean up after that. A few more rounds, and I’d win them all.

Stealth and skill beat brawn, and if you know a few moves, and use your head, you can slam their arms down on the picnic table. For a couple weeks the summer I turned fifteen, we made more than a thousand dollars from rich kids with twenty-dollar bills burning holes in their wet pockets.

Was it a scam? Not technically. But it was a hustle, and it taught us a key lesson—we could pull it off and make money on our own.

I’m not the skinny teen I was then. I’m tall and fit, and I have strong arms, but the guys in Bob’s family are more like linemen.

I’m not worried. There’s no hustle involved today. Just skill. The key is to take away their biceps power and turn it into a contest of hands. Move fast and first, and gain the leverage. I handle Bob easily, then a couple cousins. Next, Bob’s big boys come at me, and under the heat of the high noon sun, I start taking them down.

Thing one, thing two, thing three. They all work on boats. They have names. Huey, Dewey, Louie. Something like that. The first two fall easily.

As the burly Louie parks his huge frame on the bench across from me with a grunty “Hey,” I notice a new person wander across the lawn. He doesn’t fit in with the others. He wears khaki shorts and a sky blue polo shirt, with a fat silver wristwatch. Dark hair, slicked back.

I grip Louie’s hand and move like a speed demon.

Louie growls as I bring his log of an arm mere inches from the burgundy slatted wood, but then he recovers, pushing back, and for a minute or so, we’re locked in a stalemate with his hand hovering two inches from the picnic table the whole time. My arm shakes; my muscles strain. But I keep him close to the wood. The trouble is, Louie won’t concede, he won’t give in. If this persists, we’ll be locked like this for a long time.

New guy heads straight for April, who’s chatting it up with some of the ladies.

I keep one eye on April, and the problem is her face. She’s unbelievably happy. She’s beaming, lit up like the Empire State Building on the Fourth of July when she sees the preppy dude.

A dose of envy spurs me on.

Time to finish Louie.

I rotate my shoulder so it’s aligned with the table, and all my strength comes from that one part of my body as I slam Louie’s hand down without breaking a sweat.

Boom. Done. See ya later.

“Nice match,” I say as I stand.

He shakes his hand out, a dazed look in his eyes. As I walk away, I hear him mutter, “Is he a ringer or something?”

I have no interest in him, since the other guy has tugged my girlfriend—I mean, my pretend girlfriend—in his arms for a huge embrace. A flaming torch of jealousy ravages my body. I head straight for the two of them, and when April lets go, I butt in. “I’m Theo. Her boyfriend.”

April smiles. “Theo, this is Dean. We went to high school together.”

I shake his hand, but his light blue eyes are on her. “That’s not the only thing we went to together.”

The torch is a full-scale fire now, burning down trees.

April smiles sweetly as she drops a hand to his arm. “Dean was my prom date. You should see the photo. I had the worst dress ever.”

“Hey, I don’t think it was worse than my blue ruffled tux.”

“You don’t say,” I deadpan.

“We did an ’80s retro look. Big hair and all for me,” April says, fluffing out her blond locks. “But it backfired. We kind of looked like dorks.”

“But we did win prom king and queen—” Dean takes a beat, and mimes hitting the drums. “—with an asterisk.”

April looks at me. “They gave us prom king and queen of the ’80s.”

“How cute.” My tone is dry.

“Anyway. Dean lives in the city, too,” April adds. “We get together every now and then. He keeps trying to convince me to train for a 10K with him.”

Dean turns to April. “I know you can do it. And I promise you won’t regret it.”

“I’ll consider it,” April says.

Great. Just great. He’s well-off, successful, and lives near her. He’s exactly what her real boyfriend should be. He probably runs for charity, too. I bet he spends every free hour at the pediatric ward, entertaining sick children.

“That’s fantastic,” I say with a fake smile.

“Dean works in advertising. Creative stuff. We get along well, don’t we?”

Dean smiles. “We absolutely do.”

I want to punch him. “Want to arm wrestle?”

He holds up his hands and waves me off. “No thanks. I’ll leave those macho games to my brothers. I don’t need to break a hand that I need for work. I’ve got to create a concept for a new toothpaste commercial, where the toothbrush talks.”

Ah, so he’s Bob’s other son. The one who’s not a Mack truck. The creative one, the clever one, the one who left the hometown.

From across the lawn, April’s mom lifts her face, and she notices us. When she sees Dean, she says something to Tess. Soon, all the matchmaking women are whispering, eyes shifting from April to Dean, Dean to April, and now to me, and I know there’s history with this guy that goes well beyond prom.

I do the only thing that makes sense. I stand closer. Wrap an arm around her tighter. I even sniff her at some point. Eventually, he takes the hint and excuses himself to say hi to some of the others.

“What was that all about?” she asks, sounding just like a real girlfriend.

“You smell good. You always smell good. I’m always sniffing you, April. Don’t you know?”

“Oh,” she says, understanding dawning on her. “We’re keeping up our backstory. Right. Got it.”

But as I squeeze her shoulder, backstory doesn’t entirely feel like the right word anymore.

Present story does.

I sniff her again. “Like raspberries,” I whisper against her neck, and she shivers.

“It’s my shampoo.”

“It’s delicious.”

She turns to look at me, like she’s trying to find an answer to something in my eyes. I don’t know if she finds it, but a few minutes later, April’s mother grabs a megaphone.

Pamela’s voice booms as she says, “And the first event goes to the Hamiltons! The leader in the individual competition is Theo Banks.”

Her father strides over to me. His expression is stony, but he claps me on the shoulder. “Good job,” he grumbles, like it costs him something.

I smile. “Happy to do my part.”

Now his eyes peer closely at me. “Now, since you’re so strong, do you think you could head around to the shed by the side of the inn and grab some bags of charcoal?”

“Of course.”

“I need them all,” he says, like a commanding officer. “Every single fifty-pound bag.”

“Not a problem.”

“There are six.”

“I can handle it.” Is he going to barbecue for the whole Eastern Seaboard?

“Bring them to the deck. Set them by the grill.”

“Consider it done,” I say with a smile.

He takes a step to leave, then swivels around. “We need more chairs, too.”

“Tell me where they are, and I’ll bring them out.”

“Basement. The steps are a bit steep. And the light is poor in the cellar. You can find the door at the end of the first-floor hallway. But bring the chairs out the side entrance so you don’t drag them through the main rooms of the inn,” he says, never deviating from his gruff character. I need to give the man credit. He is working the “hard-ass dad” role like a pro.

“Where would you like them set up?” If he thinks carrying some furniture from a dank underground bunker is going to break me, he’s challenging the wrong soldier. I’ve eaten dog food.

“The deck. We need two dozen chairs. Can you have them outside in twenty minutes?”

“I’ll have them ready in fifteen, sir.”

He gives a crisp nod, dismissing me.

A few seconds later, April walks across the lawn. She tips her forehead at her father. “What was that about?”

“The individual competition, evidently.”

She arches a brow.