Andy exhaled again and shook his head like a dog tossing water from its ears. “I’m fine, don’t know what that was.” Andy looked back at Lance and smiled. “I’m fine,” he repeated.
The two men exited the car, Andy popping the trunk on his way to retrieve an overnight bag. He still seemed shaken as they approached the house, but didn’t falter when Lance led him inside.
“I’ll give you the grand tour,” Lance said, shutting the door behind them.
Andy set his bag down and looked around the open interior of the house. “That’s fine, but first I think I need a drink.”
Laughter echoed off the stony arms of the bay. The water, as flat as glass, still reflected the dying embers of the sun as it slid below the eastern horizon. Twin trails of white smoke slithered up into nonexistence from beneath the black grill’s hood on the deck, where the four men sat around a table strewn with bottles, bowls, plates, and silverware.
“So I said, ‘Mr. Jackson, I’d be happy to drive you home, but you need to put on some fucking pants before you get in my car.’” Andy’s face remained deadpan as he finished the story to the raucous laughter of Stub and John.
Lance sat back, grinning, in his chair, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand. He had heard the story so many times that it didn’t elicit the same hilarity as when it was fresh, but it endeared him to his friend all the more each time Andy told it.
Stub’s large frame shook with mirth and the big man wiped away tears from the corners of his brown eyes. “That’s the funniest story I’ve ever heard,” Stub said, still chuckling. John sat nodding his agreement beside him as he sipped a beer.
Lance had worried earlier that morning about how Andy and the two small-town men would get along eating together at the same table, but after several hours in their company, he realized his fears had been needless. Initially Andy had cursed him for not letting him in on the fact that they would be dining with strangers, his anger fed by the disorder that made his cool business sense thrive and stripped him of the ability to interact comfortably on a social level.
“They’re just regular guys, you don’t need to worry,” Lance had assured him earlier in the afternoon before the guests had arrived.
“I wasn’t prepared for this, you should have told me you were having other people over,” Andy said, as he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot in the kitchen, a glass of wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“You deal with people every day, it’s your job,” Lance argued, knowing full well how his friend’s mind worked.
“That’s different. I prepare myself every day and everything’s planned out.” After nearly a bottle of Merlot and an hour of reassurance had passed, Andy grumbled his assent at the situation.
John and Stub arrived shortly before five, both dressed nicer than Lance had seen them previously. Conversation flowed well over dinner, and was lubricated by another bottle of wine. Andy finally relaxed and, from all Lance could tell, seemed to actually enjoy himself.
Currently, the discourse had subsided, each man sipping at his beverage and looking out at the vista of the lake before them.
“Sure is a nice evening,” John said.
“Yes, it is,” Stub said. All the men nodded.