He shrugs. “We haven’t exactly been friends, and my dad’s not chatty. Besides, I might have retired from my day job, but I’ll never stop working. You either.”
I didn’t need to tell him that. It’s just something he knows about me, perhaps because it is one of the few things we have incommon. The drive to be productive. To always be making or doing something.
He cocks his head, studying me. “You know, I used to think you’d end up being a criminal mastermind or maybe a lawyer in a sharp suit defending a criminal mastermind. No middle ground for you.”
I laugh incredulously. “I’m going to decide not to be offended by that. I would have been an awesome criminal mastermind.”
“I never implied otherwise. But everyone at school knew about your ginger beer. It’s pretty cool that you stuck with it.”
My mind dips down, pulling up memories of the early days. My first home brew batch. The way the flavors lit up my mouth. A smile tugs at my lips. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“I remember everything.”
Does he remember refusing to spend seven minutes in heaven with me?
It’s stupid for that to still matter to me, but God, it really does. The rules of seven minutes in heaven were considered sacrosanct back then, so much so that my friend Rachel had even gone in there with Jones Mitchell, who always smelled like beef jerky.
Cormac had rejected me in front ofeveryone. He hadn’t even paused to consider it. And I was teased about it for weeks. It felt like everyone was poking me in a raw wound because I hadn’t just been embarrassed. His rejection had hurt.
I look away. “Yeah, I liked to brew ginger beer. It was something my mom and I did together. It started when she got me one of those make-it-yourself kits, and I loved it. It felt pretty close to magic. And then I figured out you could make alcoholic ginger beer.”
“You made it in college, didn’t you?” he asks with a knowing smile.
“Of course. I knew it would be successful here, especially after the first few craft breweries took off, and it was like this light went off inside my head. I wanted to be the one who made it work.” I shrug self-consciously. “It’s like that with me sometimes. I can’t let go of a good idea.”
“Or a poor one.”
“Obviously.”
He watches Cookie chase the ball again. It’s an endless dance, back and forth, though she doesn’t seem the least bit put off by the hustle.
“Life feels like that sometimes,” I comment without intending to. “Like you’re chasing balls that keep getting lobbed in different directions, and it doesn’t matter to anyone but you if you catch them.”
“Are we back infuck the glassterritory?” he asks. “Because you’re right, of course, but you’re missing the important part.”
I peer into his gray eyes. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“It’s not all about the outcome. It’s about the thrill of the chase.”
For half a second, I think it’s some kind of hidden message. Like maybe he wants to chaseme. The thought zips through me like an electric current.
But that’s ludicrous, of course. Our mutual disdain is practically canon now. All of our friends know about it. So do our parents. So he must be talking about seeking professional success. Still, I keep staring at him, unable to look away.
He averts his gaze and rubs his jaw. “I…I changed the sheets on my bed. You can sleep on it. It’s more comfortable than the bed in the spare room, but if you think that’s weird or anything, I?—”
“Thank you, Cormac. That was thoughtful of you.”
I don’t mind the thought of staying in his personal space. I want to learn more about him, to fill in theblank I’ve been carrying around for years. Because we may have existed in the same sphere since I was a little kid, but I’ve never understood him. He’s been a puzzle with missing pieces for as long as we’ve been in each other’s orbit.
He hesitates, shifting his weight uneasily. “Look…I hope you don’t think I overstepped, but you seemed really concerned about this pads lady.”
“Pansy?” I ask with a laugh, honestly delighted by the nickname.
“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, and my gaze is drawn again to that rolled-up sleeve and the flexing of his bicep beneath it. “So…”
I snap my attention away. “You want to talk about her?”
“We probably should. I took it upon myself to do a little research. Do you think your friend knows she’s been engaged two other times?”
