Feeling a tad guilty for breaking at least a footnote of the girl-loyalty code, I smile and say, “Oh, yeah. It’s such a pain to do it in this humidity.”
She murmurs her agreement, then looks past me, her face lighting up as Gabe steps forward to kiss her on the lips, making that gross hmmm food sound, like the one Aidan used to make on Sex and the City every time he kissed Carrie. As their faces separate and he slips his arm around her waist, I make a mental note to tell him never to make that noise again unless he’s eating insanely good chocolate cake, and maybe not even then.
“Pete. This is Gabe. My best friend in the world,” I say as much for Leslie’s benefit as Pete’s. They shake hands as I continue my introduction. “And, Gabe, this is Pete.” I pause, then add, “My newest friend—and potential sperm donor.”
Everyone stares at me with identical expressions of surprise, which I take secret delight in.
“She’s all about shock value,” Gabe says to Pete.
“I can see that,” Pete says with a laugh as Gabe turns, now taking Leslie’s hand, and leads us into the kitchen, where he’s prepared a simple spread of blue tortilla chips and homemade guacamole.
“Margaritas, anyone?” he asks.
We all say yes.
“Salt?”
Pete and I say yes, and Leslie says no, which I find a bit predictable and irritating. We watch as Gabe artfully runs a lime wedge over the rims of three glasses. He then presses them into a coaster of coarse sea salt and pours four glasses from a pitcher with bartender precision.
“Help yourselves,” he says with a flourish.
We each take a glass, murmuring our thanks, as I warn Pete and Leslie of the potency of Gabe’s recipe.
“They’re pretty much straight tequila,” I say. “With a little lime juice.”
Gabe winks (which I’ve only seen him do about twice before), then lifts his own glass eye-level, his face somber as he delivers an unexpected toast (Gabe gives toasts about as often as he winks).
“To new relationships,” he says. “And all that they may hold in store.”
We clink our glasses together as I roll my eyes. Gabe gives me a sheepish shrug.
“So,” he says, turning to Pete. “Josie says you’re from Wisconsin?”
Pete nods, easy small talk ensuing about the Midwest, specifically camping and skiing, two passions they share. This, in turn, leads to a conversation about college, work, even politics (Gabe and Pete are both self-proclaimed libertarians). Leslie and I interject along the way, while I make a point to ask her polite sidebar questions, but I try to let Pete and Gabe bond as much as possible. By the time we finish our margaritas, I can tell they genuinely like each other. At least I can tell Gabe likes Pete, which is what really matters here.
“You two are a lot alike,” I remark not so subtly during one lull. “I knew you’d hit it off.”
They both nod and smile, and Gabe says, “Awkward.”
“It’s not awkward,” I say. “I’m just happy you like each other. That’s all.”
“If you’re happy, we’re happy, right, Pete?” Gabe says.
“Oh, she’s one of those?” Pete asks, his brows raised. “If she ain’t happy, nobody’s happy?”
“Oh, yeah,” Gabe says, nodding. “She’s totally one of those.”
“No, I’m not,” I protest, even though I know I kind of am.
At this point, I catch Leslie giving me a critical once-over. Maybe it’s in my head, but I have the feeling that it’s hard for her when I’m the center of attention—at least Gabe’s attention—and I suddenly feel just a tad self-conscious. So I change the subject, open our junk drawer, pull out a deck of cards, and give it a shuffle. “Y’all wanna play Hearts?” I ask, looking up at Pete first.
“Sure,” he says. “But I should warn you—I’m really good.”
“Counting-cards, shoot-the-moon good?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he says, holding my gaze. “That good.” He then turns to Gabe and says, “She just wants to test my intelligence. The other night she actually quizzed me at the dinner table. With brain teasers.”
“Well?” I say. “I want a smart kid.”
“Yeah,” Gabe says. “She wants to raise the gene pool.”
“I resemble that,” I say, an old joke between us.
Gabe chuckles and says, “Yeah, I know. That’s the problem. You do resemble that.”
I punch him, then turn to ask Leslie if she plays cards. “Other than Uno?”
She hesitates, folding her arms across her flat chest, then says, “A little. But I’ve never played Hearts.”
“We can teach you,” I say.
“If you want…” Leslie says, glancing at Gabe, as if transmitting a private message.
“Nah. I’m not in the mood for cards. Let’s just talk,” he says, deftly interpreting her look to mean that she’s not in the mood for cards.
“Okay,” I say with a shrug. “It was just a suggestion.”
Gabe clears his throat and says, “Maybe we should order the pizza now?”
“Sure,” I say, grabbing my phone. “I’ll call Blue Moon. What does everyone like? Sausage and mushroom?” I look at Pete, fondly remembering the flatbread from our first date.