Archer’s place is nice—a brownstone in a quiet neighborhood, tastefully decorated in a way that screams “my wife picked everything.” There are framed family photos on the walls, toys tucked into baskets in the corners, evidence of a life that’s full, messy, and real.
I try not to stare at them for too long. It’s a far cry from my apartment, which has an almost sterile perfection, as if no one lives there at all.
The poker table is set up in the finished basement, away from the kids’ bedrooms. There’s beer, chips, and a spread of food that someone’s wife or girlfriend probably ordered. The usual suspects are here—Zayden, Logan, Archer, and a couple of the older guys I don’t talk to much.
I take a seat in the corner, grab a beer, and hope everyone leaves me alone.
They don’t.
“Banks!” Logan slides into the chair next to me, already two beers deep and grinning like an idiot. “You came! This is historic. Someone mark the calendar.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Too late. It’s already a big deal.” He leans in conspiratorially. “So. Winnie. Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“There’s so much to tell. You. Dating. A human woman. With feelings and everything.”
“She has feelings. I’m not sure about me.”
Logan laughs like I’ve made a joke. I wasn’t joking. “Seriously though,” he presses, “how’s it going? You like… in love with her or what?”
The question lands harder than it should.
“We’re not talking about this.”
“Come on, man. I’m just asking.”
“And I’m just not answering.”
He studies me for a second, then grins. “Holy shit. You are.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face went all soft for like half a second. I saw it.” He leans back in his chair, looking way too pleased with himself. “Banks Callahan. Completely gone for the yoga instructor. Who would’ve thought.”
I am not completely gone for her. I’m just… aware of her. Constantly. In a way that’s becoming highly inconvenient.
“You’re whipped,” Logan says. “Fully, completely whipped.”
“I will end you.”
“See, three months ago that threat would’ve made me nervous.” He takes a swig of his beer. “Now I know you’re just deflecting because you don’t want to talk about your feelings.”
“I don’t have feelings.”
Lie. I have too many feelings. That’s the problem.
“Whatever you say, man.” He claps me on the shoulder. “For the record, I think it’s cool. She’s good for you.”
I take a long drink of my beer and contemplate murder.
The game starts, and mercifully, the conversation shifts to cards. I’m not good at poker—too many variables, too much reading people—but I’m not terrible either. I fold when I should fold, bet when I should bet, and keep my face neutral no matter what I’m holding.
It’s really not that different from life.
The night wears on. More beer. Another plate of food. More of Logan running his mouth about everything and nothing. I find myself relaxingdespite my best efforts. The basement is warm, the company isn’t terrible, and no one is asking me to be anything other than what I am.
