But last night I fell asleep before he made it home. I’m sure they had all kinds of post-win celebrations, but I was more than a little disappointed.
What do I say now? Should we acknowledge it? Are we on kissing terms now? Make-out buddies? Husband and wife with benefits?
Or should we just pretend it never happened?
I’m so nervous, I drop the compact again. Pat’s big form fills the doorway, but I keep my eyes on the powder I’m unsuccessfully trying to sweep back into the compact. The same way I’m trying to sweep my feelings for Pat back into a nice, safe container with a lid.
When you’re looking for them, metaphors are everywhere.
“How was your first post-win practice?” I ask, trying to keep my voice totally neutral. But there is nothing neutral about Pat’s voice as he shoves his phone in front of my face.
“How could you not tell me about this?” he demands.
Okay, then. Guess this answers my kissing questions. We’re just going to go on like it never happened. Cool. I didn’t think about it much either. Kiss? What kiss?
His phone is open to the Neighborly app. Specifically, to a thread rating the Graham brothers based on the way their butts look in jeans. There are even photos, some taken at the Backwoods Bar before their arrest and still more from the internet back when Pat, Collin, and even Tank played football.
I could say I haven’t spent time looking at the photos, but I wouldn’t swear to it in court.
It’s a good thing Winnie deleted the thread that popped up last night about THE KISS. Apparently, that post had a lot of VERY strong opinions. I didn’t ask Winnie if they were positive or negative because the last thing I need when I’m already questioning a decision is to have all of Sheet Cake weighing in.
“Oh,” I say, infusing my voice with as much casualness as possible—look at me, cool and casual Lindy! “Yeah, the Neighborly app. What about it?”
“What about it? That’s my butt on there!”
It most certainly is. I try not to look like I’m ogling the photo of his posterior—though I totally am—as I elbow him out of my way. I wonder if he saw the—
“And you posted the flaming squirrel video? I didn’t even know you took a video!”
“It just kind of happened.”
Pat slides the phone in his pocket before crossing his arms over his chest. “Taking the video just kind of happened? Or posting it?”
“Taking the video. I meant to post it.”
Plucking the compact from my fingers and setting it on the counter, Pat slides a hand around my waist and spins me toward him. He lets go far too soon. Which is probably a good thing. Because he wants to talk about Neighborly while I’m still thinking about THE KISS. Have our roles somehow been reversed? Now I’m the one obsessing over him while he’s cooling things down.
“Lindy, you knew about this app?”
His face is so shocked, so incredulous that I have to bite back my laughter. “Neighborly is Winnie’s app. It’s her baby. She developed it and runs the whole thing. Every Sheeter knows about it. Well, old Sheeters. Maybe some new ones too.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You’re not a Sheeter.”
“I married one. Seems like something you might have mentioned. Seeing as how I’m the subject of a number of posts.”
“You mean, how your butt is the subject of a number of posts.”
I turn back to the mirror. Putting on mascara is a great way to keep me from looking at Pat’s face, which is only inches from my own. It’s a little embarrassing to be the only one thinking about THE KISS.
Did the big win for the team overshadow it?
Was it just a game for Pat, and now that he’s got me begging, he’s going to change tactics?
I don’t like any of these thoughts. Not even a little bit. Guess my lips should be prepared to winterize again. The feral cat yowls with displeasure.
“Where are you going?” Pat asks. “You look nice.”
“I have to volunteer at Jo’s school, helping the PTO Mafia.”
“There’s a … mafia?”
I consider how to explain in Pat speak. “It’s like … the Plastics.” Referencing Mean Girls always works. He maintains that Tina Fey’s writing is simply brilliant. “And Tabitha Waters-Graves is Regina George.”
“Huh.” He rubs a hand over his jaw, and the sound of his palm over that unshaved skin makes me shiver. “Who does that make you?”
I think for a moment. “Kevin Gnapoor.”
He chuckles, I guess already over the whole Neighborly thing. “Can I come? I love a little good Plastic sabotage.”
It’s tempting. Pat would provide a distraction, fabulous entertainment, and also be the best kind of buffer between me and the PTO Mafia. Then, I imagine Tabby in her flawless makeup and skintight leggings batting her heavy fake lashes at Pat. I mean, she’s married, but I could see her wanting to upgrade from a Graves to a Graham. She wouldn’t even need to change any of her monograms. Yeah … no. Just no.
“I’ll be fine. Oh—did you see the thread on Neighborly about the game last night? They had good things to say about your coaching. Especially how you pulled Mark Waters.”
Pat’s eyes light up. “Yeah, most people seemed happy. Hard to be sad with a win, though. We’ll see if we can pull it off again. I have a long list of notes from the Bobs.”
He leans back against the counter, his shoulder brushing mine. Even in my periphery, Pat’s presence is so distracting I almost stab my eyeball with the mascara wand. Instead I end up with a black streak on my face. Fabulous. I scrub it away and turn to face Pat, taking as much of a step back as I can in the small space.
“I’ve got to go.”
I push my palms into his chest, shoving him lightly out of the way as I tell my hands not to linger. Just keep moving, ladies. Nothing to feel here. When I’m safely past him and out in the hall, I pause, turning back to face him.
“I voted for your butt, by the way.”
Pat’s expression morphs into pure pleasure. He looks like a puppy who’s been released into a room full of shoes to chew on.