AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Great, ok.” I take my paper to the sofa and sit between two large yellow pillows. Maybe a newspaper can be as entertaining as a romance novel.
I look at the front headline. This is horrible.
I turn the page, more bad news.
I’ll look for the comics, at least those won’t be depressing. Before I can get to the section, Henry sits down beside me with a few chips stacked on a plate. He grabs the business section and flips it open. And then crunches. “Dinner’s got a little while before it’s ready.”
My eyes slide to him as he continues crunching at an extraordinarily loud volume.
To distract him from eating any more chips, lest I jump out of my skin, I decide to tell him about the ring. “Henry.” He doesn’t look up from whatever he’s reading on the page, just gives a little ‘mmm’ sound as he licks his finger. “Today, Poppi and I went with Lola on another workout thing for her blog, and well, it was goat yoga.”
He’s so engrossed in his dang paper. And those chips. But, I keep going, “And well, there was this goat and he kind of ate my ring off my finger.”
Nothing. No reaction.
“Henry,” he glances at me, “did you hear me about the ring?”
He examines my hand. “Where’s your ring?”
I stare at my ringless hand. “I just said there was a go...” Before I can finish my thought, a timer beeps in the kitchen and Henry bounds off the couch.
I follow him into the kitchen and pour myself some wine as he lifts the lid on a sauce pot.
“I had an issue with the trellis,” I tell him, trying another topic. “But I think it will all come together.”
He pats the top of my head, like I’m the dog. “That’s good, Kinky.”
And then I let it all out, “A stranger kissed me today, and a goat ate my ring. And also, I think I might be getting a little stressed with the whole wedding thing. My mother is just non-stop.” I stare over at Henry, stirring the sauce in the pot. “Are you listening to me?”
He laughs. “Of course, I am. Manger. Goat. Blessed.” He kisses my cheek. “Why don’t you go take a shower? Because speaking of goats, you smell like one.”
My shoulders slump, and I look down. “Yeah ok.” I peer back over my shoulder before leaving. “Oh, by the way, do you have a best man yet?”
Henry’s mouth disappears into a thin line. “I don’t really have a lot of friends.” He shrugs his broad shoulders and then his brown eyes light up. “Hey, what about that guy from your work...what’s his name?”
“Dennis? You can’t use Dennis. You barely know him.”
“So.” Henry smiles wide, reaching out his hands to take mine. “This wedding is more important to you, anyway.”
Did I just hear that right? “Excuse me.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Henry kisses my forehead. “Look, go wash the goat off of you, and then we can talk about it over dinner.”
I grab my wine glass as Henry turns back to finish cooking his meal. “What are you making?” I ask before heading upstairs.
“Your favorite...spaghetti.”
“Great,” I tell him. Spaghetti is not my favorite. Henry asked me on our first date what my favorite food was, and I felt so on the spot, I couldn’t think of anything and just blurted out the first food that popped into my head. I can’t backtrack and tell him that I caved under the pressure and named a false favorite. I guess I’ll have to learn to love spaghetti.
He gives me a little wave and I leave the kitchen and pad down the hallway to my bedroom.
What is wrong with me? I should be thrilled Henry is here making me dinner. But, I just wish it had been any other day than today. I need to figure out how I’m going to fix this trellis disaster, and…
I can’t get the image of that stranger out of my mind.
Why would he do that? That question repeats in my head as I shower. It repeats as I eat spaghetti and listen to Henry slurp his noodles. It repeats as I finally settle into bed alone. As I drift off to sleep, I promise to myself I will never think about that stranger ever again. But, never say never.
THREE
Ellis
Never say no…
Beer is my life. If there’s one thing you should know about me, know this...I have hops and barley flowing in my veins. And no, it’s not because I’m an alcoholic. It’s because my fuck-up father comes from a long line of brewmasters. My inner monologue will be continued at a later time because...
“Oh God, is that you? Ellis Atwood?” a deep voice booms from behind me.
I spin around on the bar stool and stare into the familiar brown eyes of my childhood friend from school, Henry Faniki. He still looks the same—like he just stepped off a yacht—except he’s got a few smile lines and is trying his hardest to pull off a goatee.
