“There’s a Walmart twenty minutes up the road.” Cole hands me a cutting board and slides a tray of taco shells into the oven.
“Really? In the middle of nowhere Missouri?” I dice the tomato, smiling at the image of Cole pushing a cart in a superstore.
“Ninety percent of Americans live within fifteen miles of a Walmart.” He opens another Bud Light and swallows a large gulp.
Trace grinds a block of cheese against a grater. “Did you know eight cents for every U.S. dollar is spent at Walmart?”
“No.” I chuckle. “Are you looking to expand your empire and buy them out?”
“It’s not for sale, and if it was, it would be way out of my price range.”
We finish preparing the meal and eat at the island. I choose the seat on the end, so I can watch them together. When they’re not ignoring each other, their conversations focus on fishing, casino business, and the upcoming baseball season. At some point, the lighthearted discussion switches to my favorite topic, and I spend the next ten minutes regaling them with Beyoncé trivia.
“Her song Bootylicious put that word in the Oxford English Dictionary.” I finish off my second beer and switch to water.
“I’m calling bullshit on that one.” Trace takes a sip of scotch from a crystal tumbler.
“Look it up.” I flick a finger at his phone, where it sits beside his empty plate.
“What’s the story behind her name?” Cole stacks our dishes and carries them to the sink.
“It came from her mother’s maiden name.” I stand to help him. “Celestine Ann ‘Tina’ Beyincé.”
“Bootylicious.” Trace reads from his phone, his expression perplexed. “Of a woman…sexually attractive.” His gaze lifts, sliding all over me before meeting my eyes. “You were right.”
I tremble beneath his imposing glare. “I’m never wrong when it comes to Beyoncé.”
“Your entire face glows when you talk about her.” Cole hands me a rinsed plate to put in the dishwasher, his grin dented with dimples. “Keep talking.”
“She wrote Crazy In Love in two hours. With a hangover.” I load the top rack while scraping my mind for more facts. “Her middle name is Giselle. She was on Star Search in 1993 at the age of twelve. She’s allergic to perfume. I can go on and on, but I’d rather talk about you guys.”
“We will never compare to Beyoncé,” Trace says dryly, but I don’t miss the playful flicker in his eyes as he approaches.
He nudges me out of the way and helps Cole finish the dishes.
I move to the far end of the island and wipe down the surface. It’s crazy how similar they are in some things, like the whole dominating, hyper-alert, intimidating manner in which they control their environments. But they’re so very different in other ways.
Cole rinses the dishes, completely unconcerned about the water splattering everywhere. Trace immediately cleans it up, scowling at the other man. Cole drinks beer and rides a motorcycle. Trace drinks Scotch and wears suits. Cole lets his hair fall, messy and tumbled, right out of the shower and hopes for the best. Trace has a process, involving product and finger-raking until every strand is textured and styled to perfection. Cole smiles easily, and Trace doesn’t smile at all. Cole reacts first and apologizes later. I’m lucky to get a reaction or an apology from Trace at all. But none of those things are important in the big picture.
What matters to me are traits they both possess. They’ll dance with me when I ask, whenever, wherever. They’ll hold me when I need it, tightly or tenderly. And they love me, even when I fuck up.
During the course of our relationships, however, there’s been a crucial, missing element. Honesty. In that regard, I’m just as guilty.
The broken promises, the lies and secrets—all of it was grounds for war. Have we turned a corner? It’s only been one night and a couple conversations, but I already sense a flutter of something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Possibility.
I want to try. I owe it to myself, to them, to see where this goes.
Except I’m scared, and that horrible feeling makes me want to duck and run.
Fear is a handicap. It was invented to fill the weak spots in the soul, and heaven knows I’m riddled with weaknesses. But that’s okay. I won’t let it control my actions.
Fear is just a visitor, stopping by to remind me to be stronger.
Because I have something important to fight for.
As I watch Cole and Trace finish the dishes, I replay everything they told me tonight and feel at peace with the choices they made. In fact, what occupies my mind the most is the breakdown of their friendship.
Trace told me once that they used to fight a lot. I suppose that’s not uncommon. The ones you fight with the most are the people you love the deepest. But I’m dying to know just how deep their friendship ran.
“Can I ask you something?” I draw in a breath. “Both of you.”
Cole starts the dishwasher and rests his hands on the counter. “Shoot.”
Trace takes a seat beside me and gives me his full attention.
“The woman you were with, the traitor… When you mentioned sleeping with her, I sensed there was a story there, something between the two of you. I know it’s in the past. I’m just curious about your relationship before me.”
“The woman was enamored with Cole.” Trace drags a finger across his bottom lip. “She slept with me to get to him.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.” Cole huffs a laugh.
The hint of a smile touches Trace’s mouth.
“That’s what I’m talking about.” I point at them. “There’s a story there you’re not telling me.”
“You don’t want to hear this.” Cole opens the fridge and reaches for another beer. Then he changes his mind and grabs a bottled water instead. “It’s meaningless.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
He braces a hand on the counter, his eyes cast downward and unblinking.
“She called out my name,” Trace says without emotion, “during sex with Cole.”
“Oh.” I grimace. “Ouch.”
“Like I gave a shit.” Cole scratches his whiskered cheek. “It was just an awkward way to find out my best friend was banging the same woman.”
“Did you fight about it?” I try to keep my voice even, despite the jealousy thrashing inside me.
“No.” Cole meets Trace’s steady gaze. “I called him afterward, and we laughed about it.” He pushes off the counter. “I need to hit the head.”
He strides toward the bathroom off the kitchen. When the door shuts behind him, I lean a hip against the island, facing Trace.
“Did she prefer you over Cole?” I ask.
“No.” He swivels toward me on the stool and brackets my legs with his knees. “She was infatuated with Cole.”
“Enough to send me photos of her having sex with him?” I rest a hand on the cloth napkin sitting on the counter and spin it around, fidgeting. “I’m sure she was pissed that he caught her and brought her in, but that last move with the pictures was an act of passion.”
“You’re probably right. But it’s over, Danni. You’ll never see her or hear from her again.”
“Okay.” I pull my hand back, and the napkin slips to the floor.