“Should we review our checklist?” Aunt Julia asks a small group of Coopers, along with Eli and me, in the courtyard the next afternoon. She raises a questioning brow at me and I nod cheerfully, praying my cheeks aren’t flaming.
It’s just that word. List. Something that used to be a cornerstone to my sanity is now loaded with horny meaning. All I can think about is Eli’s list of things he wants to do with me, numbered with the things he did to me last night and again this morning, when daylight was just a strip of paler blue along the velvet horizon.
I can feel his attention from several feet away. Even now, at nearly four p.m., it’s like I’m slogging through honey, captured in the sweetness of what we did.
“…the tent’s all set up and our oak tree, Big Daddy, is strung with all its lights again,” Julia’s saying.
I join in on the celebratory applause, shaking myself. I need to get my head in the game, not think about the way I woke up to Eli’s racing heart under my hand, how instead of climbing out of bed to pace the panic out, he turned to me. How he pulled me closer when he came down from it, his mouth hungry and grateful.
“Cal did a bang-up job on the arch for the ceremony,” Julia continues. “Tomorrow we’ll weather-proof the deck and make sure all the ticky-tacky stuff is ready for Friday when the kids arrive.”
Unbidden, my gaze drifts sideways again, only to find Eli’s already watching me.
Caught you, he mouths.
You were looking first, I mouth back. His lips curve up and the warmth in his eyes is a spark that heats my blood. It’s only Cole’s murmured “Eye fucking? In front of my mother?” that tears my attention away.
That, and the frisson of anxiety remembering Eli and I haven’t checked everything off our list yet.
The conversation wraps up minutes later and the group disperses. Except for Cole, of course. He turns to me and Eli, hands in his pockets. “How’re the vendor searches going?”
“We’re still working on the DJ,” I admit. It’s such a huge component of Adam’s happiness, and getting stuck with the Danny Diamonds of the world is the albatross around our necks.
“My friend is the lead singer in a band, and they’re playing tonight at a bar downtown,” Cole says. “I don’t know if they’re available, but I could shoot her a text.”
I grimace. “Adam really wants a DJ.”
Cole lifts a shoulder. “Beggars, choosers, etcetera.”
“He’s going to be disappointed if we can’t find a DJ, don’t you think?” I ask Eli. “A band can’t properly capture the spirit of ‘Blow the Whistle.’ ”
“Let’s check them out just in case,” he says, running a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I really don’t want to have to crawl back to Danny.”
“Have dinner while you’re at it. We’re done for the day anyway and there’s a new Peruvian place right next door to the bar.” Cole says this with a strange amount of earnestness, his attention on Eli. “It’s super chill. The band goes on at ten, so you have time.”
Some wordless conversation passes between them; finally, Eli shakes his head with a small, rueful smile. Cole grins triumphantly, then hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “I have to get back to work, but seriously, go. Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Okay, well that’s nothing,” I call to his retreating back. “Exactly!” he returns over his shoulder.
Eli turns to me. “You up for making a night of it?”
My heart dips at the way he’s looking at me, like he’s being careful with his hope. It wraps another vine around me.
I remember my lists: the one I’m sharing with him that’s allowing us to keep doing what we’re doing—and the one that reminds me why I can’t let it go past that.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself not to hold on too tight to the way he lights up. “Let’s do it.”
 |
The Peruvian restaurant is very chill. It’s also deeply romantic— moodily lit, all soft, warm lamps hanging over each table, candles flickering, bathing everything in golden light. Out on the patio where we’re seated, a musician plucks at a Spanish guitar. Jasmine climbs a trellis behind her, sweetening the heavy air.
Eli orders a bottle of wine and we exchange a wordless toast, our eyes catching over the rim of our glasses. From there, the conversation meanders, an easy mix of reminiscing about and roasting Adam. I tease him about reviewing the menu online beforehand; he teases me for taking eighteen years to pick something. We have a robust argument over the latest season of a Netflix show Eli swears is overrated and I’m obsessed with. Halfway through the meal, we switch entrées, an old, unconscious habit.
I find him watching my mouth often, eyes glittering from the candlelight. A few times I look up to catch him with a different expression on his face. Something more private.
It’s not a date, but it feels like one, and instead of spiraling about how it can’t be, I stay firmly in the moment. I keep his wineglass full, watch his mouth when he licks it after a particularly delicious bite of food. Lean in as he meticulously folds a receipt into a paper ring while he waits for me to finish the dregs of my wine once the bill is paid.
I rest my chin in my hand, watching him. His fingers are beautiful— long and lean, capable of all kinds of magic.
“I can’t believe you still make those.”
He gives me an inscrutable look. “Why would I ever stop?” He sets it on the table between us, nodding at it with a boyish smile. “I mean, look at that thing. Perfect.”
It is, and when we’re done, I furtively swipe it. Something to remember tonight by when it’s long gone.
I hate to leave our sexy cocoon, but there’s work to be done, so we make our way next door. The bar Cole’s friend is playing at is small, but the high, arched ceiling gives it the illusion of spaciousness. One side is taken up by a chic jade green bar, which is backlit by a golden wall of liquor. Otherwise it’s dim and absolutely teeming with people standing at bar tables or trying to flag down bartenders. On the far side of the room, instruments are being set up on a small stage, an equally small dance floor in front of it.
Eli steps closer, his chest pressed to my back, resting a light hand on my stomach. His pinky finger brushes the strip of skin between my cropped black top and my silk skirt. “You want a drink?”
I melt into the touch, leaning back against him. He hums happily. “Just a Coke. I have to drive us home in a few hours.”
“Okay.” His mouth grazes my ear. “I’m going to— is that Cole?” Immediately I put three inches of space between us, looking around.
Sure enough, he’s near the stage, head bent while a stunning Asian woman in a skintight black dress talks to him.
As if he feels the sudden, undeniable urge to say something inappropriate, he finds us in the crowd. Brightening, he waves in a come over gesture.
“God forbid we have some peace,” Eli grumbles.
Laughing, I reach for his hand under the guise of leading him through the crowd. Our fingers tangle, his thumb brushing against my wrist.
“I was just telling Isla about you two,” Cole says when we get to him, his eyes dropping like a heat-seeking missile to where we’re connected. Eli’s hand moves to the small of my back as Cole raises an eyebrow, though he doesn’t comment. Instead, he turns to the woman at his side. “Isla, this is Georgia and Eli. They’re in need of a band.”
“Well, our best friends are,” Eli corrects, taking Isla’s proffered hand. “It’s the last big thing we need to check off our list before their wedding on Saturday.”
“I heard about their bad luck,” she says. Her sympathetic smile is electric, her black hair a sleek curtain down her back. “Our Saturday gig fell
through, so if you think we’d be a good fit after listening to the set, we’re available.”
I’m so distracted by the razor-sharp perfection of her winged liner that it takes me a second to respond. “That’d be incredibly lucky for us.”
“Santos, time,” a lanky white guy calls from behind the drum kit.
She turns to us, going up on tiptoes to plant a kiss on Cole’s cheek. “Duty calls. We’ll connect after the set?”
“That sounds great,” I say, waving as she struts off.
Cole splits an assessing look between Eli and me. “How was dinner?” “Very chill, as promised,” I say.
“Didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” Eli adds.
“Isla invited me and I thought, why the hell not?” He tilts his head, smirking. “Don’t tell me you’re not happy to see me, Mora.”
“Thrilled,” he deadpans. “I’m going to go grab drinks. You want something, too?”
“An old fashioned would be great.”
Just then, a bass line starts up, shaking into my ribs. A cheer ripples through the crowd. Eli turns toward the bar, but Cole follows, curling a hand around his shoulder so he can shout something in his ear. I assume it’s a change in drink order, but Eli immediately looks hassled, shaking his head. Cole gives him a come on look that Eli returns before mouthing what looks like drop it. Cole holds his hands up before pushing his way back to me. When our eyes meet, he rolls his.
“What was that?” I ask, leaning in to be heard over the intro of a Doja Cat cover.
“Nothing, apparently.”
I frown. “Did you say something weird to him?” “No, just too commonsensical.”
“Between you and Eli, I guarantee he has more common sense.” His eyebrows twitch up. “You’d be surprised.”
I side-eye him, wondering again what’s going on between them. They always got along the summers we were together at Blue Yonder, but their
dynamic this trip is a strange mix of ultra-familiar and mutually exasperated.
Cole doesn’t seem inclined to enlighten me, though, and Eli keeps brushing it off. Still, I level a stern look at Cole. “Are you going to behave tonight?”
“I wake up every morning dedicated to not behaving,” he says, a grin working its way back onto his face. “So, no, probably not.”
“You really haven’t changed at all.”
I mean it as an admonishment but he just laughs, his attention sliding over my shoulder before he steps closer. “Wanna dance?”
He does a little two-step that’s actually decent, turning in place before holding out his hand. He’s utterly ridiculous, but I can’t help the nostalgic soft spot that’s burrowed somewhere (deep) in my heart, so I take his hand.
He keeps a respectable distance between us, leading me around the dance floor. It takes me the span of the Doja song to realize that Isla’s band is really good. There are eight of them up there—Isla and another lead singer, a Black guy whose voice is goose bump–inducing, with a full band behind them.
I turn to Cole, eyes wide. He just laughs. “You’re welcome.”
We dance through the majority of a Miley cover, yelling the lyrics when Isla points the mic at us. Cole spins me in a dizzying circle that ends with me facing the bar and I search the crowd for Eli, heart racing, hoping he’s making his way back to me. But he’s leaning against the bar, hands empty. Our eyes meet, that latch thing it’s always been. It’s never faded, no matter how hard I tried to shut it out, and now I let it hook into me.
He raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking past me to Cole, like, you’re seriously dancing with him?
Jealous? I mouth, teasing. My heart skips a beat when he nods, his eyes flashing and a smokelike grin drifting across his mouth.
“Be careful.”
I startle, looking back at Cole. “What?”
His expression is more serious than I thought him capable of. He leans in, placing a hand on my back. “Listen, I don’t care what story you’re
selling Adam, but it’s very clear to me that you’re not just friends. I never believed you were when you spent summers here either.”
“We’re—”
“You’re fucking in that cottage, at the very least,” he interrupts, and my stomach spirals. “And at the very most—”
“I’m struggling to understand how the least or most of it is your business.”
“It isn’t,” he says plainly. “But you’re Adam’s best friends, which means you’re my friends, too, whether you claim me or not, so I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that shit like this can get real sticky, real fast.”
I balk. “How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been there, done that, caught the therapy bill, and me and my ex didn’t even have a best friend in common. If either of you gets hurt, it could get rough. Not just for you and Eli, but for your other musketeer, too. That’s all I’m saying.” His mouth lifts wryly. “It could be fine. Great, even. It’s what I’m hoping for. But I also hope you’re being honest with each other. And I really hope that you’re being careful with your feelings— and his.”
I swallow hard. He’s just pinpointed every fear I’ve had and nailed it to the wall. But I’m not going to let either of us get hurt. We are being honest with each other about what we’re doing.
And I’m being careful.
“Solid advice, but I don’t need it,” I say stiffly.
His eyes narrow. “You’re not messing with him, right?” Heat flares in my chest. “Disrespectfully, fuck off, Cole.”
He appraises me as the song ends, and there’s a beat where the absence of the music becomes its own sound. My ears roar with it. Finally, a bastardy smile curls over his mouth. “I see.”
I blank out my expression, looking back toward the stage. “I promise you don’t.”
But he’s not done, because he never is. “Weddings are weird things.
They have a way of bringing out the truth, don’t you think?”
I can’t help flashing back to Nick and Miriam’s wedding last year, the way it felt like the first measurable tear in the rules Eli and I shared. Cole’s voice is knowing, but he can’t know about that. Even Eli doesn’t know the truth of that night, which means it really is obvious how wrapped up I am.
Great.
“The only thing this wedding is bringing out is the end of Adam’s anxiety,” I say.
Cole hums, then laughs when his eyes slip over my shoulder. “Incoming.”
I turn as Eli pushes his way through the crowd, drinks in hand. His gaze jumps from Cole’s hand, still lying between my shoulder blades, to my face. His eyebrows pinch and he mouths, you okay? I school my expression, force away the remaining annoyance lingering there, and mouth back, get over here. A proprietary glint enters his eyes and something curls through me—that narcotic feeling of belonging.
“I think he wants you back,” Cole murmurs conspiratorially. Louder, he says, “Come get your girl, Mora. I’ll hold your beer.”
Eli ignores him, presenting the glasses to me. I carefully pluck my Coke out, then take his beer so he can hand Cole the old fashioned.
Suddenly, a familiar, wall-shaking beat starts up. The crowd immediately loses it, shouting the opening lyrics to Too $hort’s “Blow the Whistle.”
I whirl on Cole, who’s nonchalantly sipping his drink. “Did you do this?”
“Have to sell the product,” he says with a shrug, but he can’t hide his small, proud grin.
Eli laughs incredulously. “Are you for real?”
“Cole,” I venture as Eli pulls my phone out of my purse so he can take video, “are you…a sweetheart?”
He scoffs. “Okay, don’t be disgusting. Are you sold or not?”
I look up at Eli, triumph burning in my chest when he nods, grinning. “I’ll text the video to the happy couple for final approval, but it looks like we can check this off the list.”
“Excellent. I’m going to make myself scarce until their set ends, but congrats on your final accomplishment.” Cole nods his chin at us. “Don’t tell Adam, but I think this wedding is going to be even better than the first attempt. Second time’s a charm, right?”
And then, with a wink, he strolls away.
