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But if I make a stink about his choice, Ren’s not only going to be hurt, he may also be suspicious about my true feelings when it comes to Sebastian. Because I’m sure Ren would wonder, if I just saw Sebastian as a friend, what would be the big deal about reading Benedick and Beatrice together?
“Ziggy?”
I blink, pulled from my thoughts. “Huh?”
Ren stares at me, a curious smile lifting his mouth. “You got quiet on me there. Everything okay?”
I peer down at the towel that’s twisted so tight, it’s nearly folded in on itself. I let go and it unspools with a flourish. “Yeah,” I tell him, forcing a smile. I set the towel on the counter and throw a thumb over my shoulder. “I’m just uh…going to splash my face before everyone shows up. Got hot, working in the kitchen.”
Ren’s still smiling when I dart out of the room.
“Bergman!” Tyler hollers. “The meatballs. They’re giving me life.”
Ren smiles his way. “Glad to hear it, Tyler. Eat as much as you want.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Millie grumbles, swatting Tyler’s hand away when he reaches with the spoon for another serving. “He’ll eat the whole damn crockpot.”
Millie is a former LA Kings’ administrative assistant, and one of the few seniors in our group. Petite and spry, with short silvery hair and spectacles that magnify her eyes a little bit, she’s wearing a white, long-sleeved T-shirt bearing in typewriter black letters a Shakespeare quote from As You Like It: “Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty.”
Tyler pouts at Millie. “I don’t eat that many.”
“I got two measly little meatballs after you’d wreaked your hungry havoc last time, you bottomless beast,” she mutters, hip checking him aside. “Now scoot. You can come back for your third helping later.”
Tyler wanders off with his tail between his legs and plops down on the sofa beside Mitch, Millie’s beau. Mitch is also a sort of grandfather figure to my brother Ollie’s boyfriend, Gavin, who’s been playing poker with Mitch and a group of rowdy seniors for years. Gavin normally joins us for Shakespeare Club, too, but this month he’s gone with Oliver, who’s traveling for the Men’s National Team international friendlies. Oliver has major flight anxiety, so Gavin always goes with him on games when an airplane’s involved. Talk about boyfriend material. Swoon.
Mitch might be without his usual bestie, Gavin, but he’s chatting and laughing with Tyler, at ease among the club members. He’s been coming for months, though he prefers to read minor roles—I think he mostly comes to watch Millie be her fabulous, theatrical self. He’s sweet, a welcome grandfatherly presence in a group that, besides a couple of Millie’s friends who periodically show up, skews younger. Depending on their game schedules, we average a handful of professional athletes each time, then there’s Ren’s theater buddies that he made in high school when we moved to LA, who tend to take this a bit more seriously and don’t socialize a ton with the rest of us.
It’s a motley crew, but I like that. I never feel weird or out of place, because…well, we’re all a little weird and out of place. It’s okay to be awkward or not talk to people without worrying you’ve offended anyone or gotten something wrong. For example, no one even cares that I stand alone in the kitchen, shoving my face with toast Skagen and not talking to anyone, while I stare at the clock, becoming progressively more anxious as we approach the starting time for reading.
Because Sebastian is nowhere to be seen.
Ren’s front door flies open, and my heart jumps, then plummets.
“Hiya, Zigs.” Viggo kicks the door shut behind him, a giant tray of baked goods balanced on one flat hand.
My shoulders slump. “Hey, V.”
“Wow, what a welcome.” He toes off his shoes, still balancing the baked goods tray. “You look thrilled to see me.”
I set down my toast Skagen and brush the sourdough bread crumbs off my hands. “You just weren’t who I was expecting.”
“And who were you expecting?” he asks sweetly.
“Mind your business.” I take the tray from him, inspecting it. “Wait, where are the—”
“Relax.” Viggo eases a satchel off his shoulder and unzips it. “I remembered the chokladbiskvier.”
“Made gluten-free?”
A lot of other things come tumbling out of his satchel—a couple historical romance novels, a tiny clip-on reading lamp, an ancient-looking granola bar, knitting needles, a ball of yarn, and a wad of papers that look sort of official and intriguing but which Viggo quickly sweeps up and shoves into his back pocket before I can try to read them—until he finally unearths a clear container bearing the chocolate meringue cookies I knew Sebastian would love.
“Made gluten-free,” he reassures me. “Super easy. Just swapped gluten-free bread crumbs.”
I pull out two twenties from the back pocket of my jean shorts—the ones Sebastian cut and distressed for me—then offer them to Viggo.
But my brother doesn’t pluck the twenties from my fingertips like he has any other time I’ve ordered Swedish treats from his baking side hustle. This time, he curls his fingers gently around mine, folding them over my money. “Keep it. Figuring out a new gluten-free recipe that works was payment enough. Rooney’s gonna love them.”
I frown. “You sure? I don’t mind paying you—”
