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“It was quick, sudden. There wasn’t a lot of time to let people know,” I say, coming to Connor’s defense.
“So was ours,” Trixie says, grabbing Bodhi’s hand and looking up at him.
“Connor still got to come to ours,” Bodhi says.
Connor laughs. “I would have rather not been involved in that shit show of a day.”
“Connor!” I reprimand. Why would he tell someone their wedding was a shit show?
“No, believe me, he’s right. Bodhi got shot, and my dad went to prison,” Trixie says with a laugh, as if it were all in good fun.
“Oh,” I say, unable to think of anything else to reply.
“How are the kids?” Connor asks Brock and Peyton.
“Good. Riley is ten now, growing like a weed. Crew is five and hasn’t stopped moving since the day he was born,” Peyton says.
“Glad to hear it,” Connor says. “And what have you two been up to?” he asks Corbin and Landry.
Corbin narrows his eyes at Connor for a moment, or maybe it’s the way the light hits his face. Then, he smiles, stepping forward, and engages in easy conversation with Connor. He must know all of them from high school or thereabouts. They have an easy camaraderie, and I find myself talking to Landry about her job as an art curator at a museum in Chicago and her seven-year-old daughter, Fiona. I talk to Peyton about her kids and to Trixie about her wild travels.
The best story is about the time Trixie and Bodhi lived in Dallas for a year—overseeing some designs for Bodhi’s father, Chester Montgomery—and Bodhi bought a pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson and insisted on wearing them everywhere. Trixie even brings out the pictures. Bodhi doesn’t seem the least bit put out about it.
I can’t get enough of the way the men look at their wives, as if they couldn’t bear to be apart from them for more than a second, and the way the women cling to them as they talk. It’s like they don’t even realize they are doing it.
Every so often, Connor’s hand brushes my waist, clings to my dress, touches my arm. I’m cherished. I think maybe we could have what they have, and I smile at the happiness filling me.
“Dad said not to tell you, but I thought you might want a heads-up,” Brock suddenly says to Connor, who raises one eyebrow and waits, sipping on his cocktail. “You’ve been selected as Man of the Year by the Heywood Society’s Charity Committee. You’ll be getting an award tonight.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Connor mutters.
Bodhi steps forward, slapping his back. “Gotta quit making us look bad,” he says. Some of his drink sloshes onto his shiny patent leather shoes, but he doesn’t even look down.
Trixie shakes her head, placing a hand on his arm to calm him.
“You always look bad, fuckstick,” Connor says, and the group laughs.
What I wouldn’t give to know their whole backstory.
“You deserve it,” Landry tells him, and Corbin pulls her back into his front, placing a kiss on top of her head. “Oh, stop,” she says with a laugh, batting his arm. “So many years have passed. There’s no reason for you to mean-mug Connor.”
“What I would give to have been in the room on our boat when Corbin burst in on you two,” Bodhi says with a chortle.
I glance between Landry and Connor, but Landry catches my eye and shakes her head.
“I was only cleaning his shirt. There’s never been anyone but you,” Landry says, patting Corbin’s arm.
“Excuse us while I try to extract Bodhi’s foot from his own mouth,” Trixie says, pulling him away from our group.
A microphone screeches from the stage, and we look up, then say our good-byes and go to find our table. I place my hand in the crook of Connor’s elbow, and I’m not faking the smile that graces my face as I walk beside him. I don’t even care if people are watching now. I’m happy to be on his arm.
Connor sits beside me, his arm across the back of my chair. He looks over at me, warmth in his eyes. I don’t know anyone at our table, and I’m almost relieved. I’m ready to go home.
The first course is served—a bisque. It’s laid in front of us with a flourish as the lights begin to dim more, and then the speeches start.
Connor’s hand traces circles on my leg where my thigh is exposed by the slit. His thumb rubs back and forth, and I squirm. His fingers delve underneath the area where the slit ends, higher and higher, while someone drones on and on into a microphone. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know my body is on fire.
I should check to see if my pebbled nipples are visible since I don’t have a bra on, but I stay focused on the speaker, not acting like Connor is driving me wild underneath the table.
