Beautiful Graves(51)

“Babe Ruth killed my soul before I was even born. How is that fair?” Dom jokes.

“An eighty-six-year championship drought, man. Should’ve been born in New York.”

They both look at each other and grin. “Nah,” they say in unison.

“So . . . were the Yankees to blame for the Red Sox drought?” I ask from the back seat, offering my important contribution to this conversation.

Joe shakes his head. “Not really. But Bostonians never forget.”

“Also, I would like to note that we invented the wave. Legend has it the wave owes its existence to Fenway Park—because the seats are so close together, whenever a fan has to stand up, everyone else in the row has to stand too. And then the people behind them get pissed because they can’t see anything, so they get up too. And that creates the human wave,” Dom explains, eyes sparkling.

“Fun fact,” Joe notes.

“From a not-so-fun stadium,” Dom delivers the punch line, and they both burst out laughing again.

This is my important reminder that they are attached at the hip, that they moved to the same town together, the same building. I’m the outsider here.

The conversation bleeds into what Dom and I are going to do in Puerto Rico.

“Eat, dance, take pictures . . . and, you know.” Dom lets out a chuckle, and my stomach rolls with nausea. “What about you? Are you still seeing that chick? Stacey? Tracy?”

Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. I was not expecting this gut-wrenching reaction to hearing that Joe is seeing someone. Now I cannot help but envision him having hot, sweaty sex with a faceless woman. In my bedroom, for a reason beyond my grasp. Slowly smiling at me, his half-moon smirk, while pounding into her. It is so his style.

“Presley,” Joe corrects in his easy, dispassionate tone.

“I was close, wasn’t I, Lynne?” Dom meets my stare in the rearview mirror.

“Hmm-mmm.”

“How’s she doing?” Dom asks.

Joe shrugs. “Dunno. Ask her.”

Now our gazes meet in the rearview mirror. I know what he thinks.

I’m not giving you the pleasure of knowing what’s going on in my love life. Choke on the unknown, baby. We both know it hurts more than any naked truth.

“She sounds like a great girl,” Dom marvels. “Funny, nice, into you, got a great job.” There’s a comical beat before he adds, “Hot. Sorry, babe, it had to be said. The girl looks like a fashion model or something.”

Knife, meet heart.

Joe smiles idly but doesn’t say anything. I wonder if it would hurt as much if I heard something similar about Dom, but then I remember that I found a necklace in his bedroom, and although I was a little annoyed, it didn’t feel like I’d been chopped to tiny pieces and fed to the gators.

I know I have no business being jealous. Not when Dom all but stated we’d be spending our weekend rolling in bed together. But the thing about feelings is, they care little about logic.

“Give it a chance, bro. Seriously. Just . . . take her out.” Dom beams, all positive energy. So much positive energy. Must he always be so optimistic?

“Yeah. Maybe.” Joe throws his old Jeep Cherokee into park. I realize we’re at our gate at the airport. Joe slides out of the driver’s seat and pulls out our suitcases for us. I watch his arm muscles bunching under his tee and remember what they felt like when I clutched them while he drove into me. When we had sex on the beach. He and Dom give each other a brotherly hug, slapping each other’s backs.

“Safe travels, bro,” Joe says.

“Thanks for the ride, man.”

Then Joe moves toward me while Dom fumbles with his backpack for our passports. He presses his hand to the small of my back in a quiet yet possessive half hug. His lips disappear in my mane of ginger hair.

“Offer still stands,” he whispers. “No funny business. Just art.”

“Enjoy Presley,” I hiss back, unable to help myself.

“You’re a sweetheart for caring.” He kisses my cheek quickly, feigning innocence. “And I fully intend to.”

Before I can say anything, before I can kick and scream How dare he, he drives off into the distance.

Dom wraps an arm over my shoulder. “Shall we, babe?”



Manufactured bliss.

That was what my mother called the suburban lifestyle. That is why she insisted that we stay in San Francisco, even when all my parents’ friends had drifted to the small towns that bracketed it. Lafayette and Orinda and Tiburon. Even Sunnyvale. She called it the happiness lie. People think their life will be better if they live in a bigger house, drive a bigger car, grow a vegetable garden. But wealth doesn’t equal happiness, necessarily. The city offers you struggle, and struggle keeps you hungry and in survival mode.

Right now, I am feeling pretty suburban.

“Doesn’t this tree look like Chewbacca?” I point at a tree in Old San Juan the day after Joe dropped us off, leaving with my soul in his pocket.

Dom and I have just finished eating the most delicious coconut candy and crab empanada, and now we’re taking a romantic stroll among the narrow cobbled streets. The historic buildings are a kaleidoscope of pastel colors, and my boyfriend has never been more gorgeous and attentive.

“A what?” Dom slants his head sideways, staring at the Spanish moss tree.