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“Not a chance in hell. Now help me with this stuff.”
Booze flows, people come and go, and Gabe is drunker than I can ever remember seeing him before. Mace and Tommy light up a joint in the courtyard, and I head inside to clean up the mess, so Gabe won’t have to do it before his first client tomorrow. I clear off the counter, dispose of the empty cups and pick up the remaining cake when Gabe snags my waist from behind and drags me to the tattooed leather couch, commandeering the cake in my hands. He reaches behind us and grabs a plastic fork from the counter that I hadn’t managed to throw away yet, and we take turns attacking the birthday cake with the vigor of two drunk millennials as yet unfazed by middle-aged spread. “So, I’ve been thinking ...”
I laugh and lick the frosting from the fork. “Did it hurt?”
“Kind of, yeah. Listen, we’re not getting any younger.”
“Hey, speak for yourself.”
“Okay, I’m not getting any younger, and you’re the only girl willing to put up with my bullshit.”
“Can’t argue with you there.”
“Will you stop interrupting? I’m trying to ask you something.”
I hold my hands out in a what the fuck gesture and accidentally swipe his shirt with frosting. “Shit. Sorry.”
He ignores me, as if I didn’t just leave a bright blue smear across his chest and I’m not secretly loving petting his pecs to clean off the frosting. “So, I know we’ve never really thought of one another as anything more than friends, but ... if we’re not married at thirty, you wanna do it?”
My eyes widen. “Do what? Have sex?”
“Get married.”
“Married?” I laugh. “Why would we get married? Are you high?”
“Yeah, and drunk, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while now.”
Annnd it’s official. My heart just stopped.
I thump my fist against my chest because it turns out I also forgot how to swallow or breathe. “No offense, but what’s in it for me?”
“I’m a great fuck.”
“Uh-huh, that’s why you can’t keep a girlfriend.” I smile smugly and take a bite of the cake on his side of the board. “Again, I’m not seeing the benefits here. I don’t fuck my friends, especially not my best ones. Clementine’s been trying for years.”
“Look, I know”—Gabe’s brows pinch together, and he stares at me all cute and drooly with glassy eyes. “Wait, Clementine is a carpet muncher?”
“Oh my god. You can’t call her that. And please never refer to my vagina as a carpet again. I’m smooth as a fuckin’ baby down there. Also, Clem is Bi. How do you not know this?”
“How indeed? And you’ve never told me she’s been trying to get in your pants because? I thought you were kidding when you said she’d been trying.”
“I haven’t told you because you’re a total perv and I knew this was the reaction I’d get.”
“Okay, yep. I’m onboard with us both believing I’m a total fucking douche canoe right now, but let’s just ... just hold up a minute,” he slurs. “When did this happen and where? Aren’t best friends supposed to share everything?”
“There’s a loophole when it comes to betraying another best friend’s confidence.”
“Okay, we’re getting sidetracked. Did you fuck her?”
“No!” I smack his bicep with a laugh. “I told you, I don’t fuck my best friends.”
“Alright, alright. No more talk of Clementine eating your pussy because I’m getting hard, but ... just hear me out. When we’re thirty, if I’m not married and you’re still single—which you will be because you’re too goddamn picky and your taste in men sucks—let’s get married.”
“You hate marriage. You said, and I quote”—I stab my finger at his chest— “If I ever get married and end up like my parents, just shoot me.”
“That’s not the same as hating marriage.”
“Okay, then answer me this? Do you want a wedding, with a big party and guests?”
