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We all stand there for a moment, a game of conversational chicken. Sarah sips her tea and studies me as Zach flickers his eyes between me and his wife.
“I’m making brisket on Friday. You should invite her.”
“See, she’s doing her thing,” I say, pointing at her. Sarah rolls her eyes and Zach flickers his eyes between us again, and then nods.
“Faye should come for brisket,” Zach says. He kisses Sarah’s cheek and then walks through the door. He pauses next to me on the stoop, gives me a heavy nod and a weighty pat on the back.
Unbelievable. My own blood has sold me out for a pair of tits and a slab of beef. Of course I don’t say this out loud because I’m not a heathen.
“Invite Faye for Friday dinner.”
“I could have a game,” I say.
“You don’t have a game,” Zach shouts from the garage.
“I could have an intramural kickball game.”
“You don’t.”
“She could be busy,” I say.
The thing is, I want to invite her to dinner. She’s been around the family enough that she and Rachel have their own language. It’s something to do with Beyoncé and the hive mind—I don’t even pretend to understand. The idea of her at a family dinner doesn’t bother me—rather, it fills me with a pleasant, cozy feeling. Almost as cozy as it felt to see her walking around my apartment barefoot this morning in my clothes. But I’ve never been excited about a friend joining family dinner before, and it doesn’t seem smart to start now.
“She’s not busy,” Sarah says, looking down at her phone.
“Please do not make this into a thing.”
“Why would I make it into a thing? What sort of thing would I make it into?”
“She’s just a friend,” I say. I’ve said this so many times it’s lost all meaning to her.
“Of course she’s just a friend,” she repeats, but her tone makes it clear she doesn’t mean it in the slightest. We stand there, staring at each other for a moment. She sips her tea. Then, her lips curl up in a smirk.
“Give her a call,” she says, nodding as if she can see the phone buzzing in my pocket. “Texting is for chumps.”
I grunt and back down the walkway, hoisting my bag over my shoulder.
“Pick her up at six,” she calls as the door shuts. Zach stands there, hands in his pockets, his brow heavy.
“Is there—”
“No point in fighting it,” he says.
12
4/12, 10:42 PM
ZEKE: How are you today?
FAYE: Good game
ZEKE: You watched?
FAYE: You’re my friend. I watched. It was a good win.
ZEKE: :)
FAYE: I don’t like when you get in fights
