Fluffy(55)

“Is that an invitation or a dare?” says a man from behind me. His voice is smooth and suave, but it comes across as unctuous and cringe-y, too.

Fiona appears, and nudges me as he finishes.

“Gross,” she murmurs into her drink.

Perky gives Sameer a very obvious once over. “You’ve changed in ten years.”

“Same.” His mouth quirks up on one side and he holds his arms slightly away from his body, as if to show them off. “You look like you need a drink, Perky.”

“You look like you need a date, Sameer.”

“Got one already.”

“Oh?”

He thumbs behind him. “My wife.” Is that Amy Whitman he’s pointing to? Backstage drama person who loved poetry slams? Whitman Construction, pretty much the richest girl in town? Okay, I'm remembering now. I heard they got married a few years ago. They live in Atlanta, I think.

“Oh!” Perky titters at him, eyeing his ring finger the way she studies her phone when she’s recovering her password to a new dating site. “I didn’t see a wedding ring. My bad.”

He holds up a naked left hand. “Not wearing one.” The way he waggles his eyebrows makes it clear he takes his wedding vows about as seriously as he took the football team honor code when he tried to force me to help him cheat.

Once a cheater, always a cheater.

I grab Perky's arm and drag her away, Fiona following in our wake. Will is in the middle of the room, looking for us. The man has magic hands.

No, really. Who balances three cosmos and a beer like that without spilling a drop?

He’s a wizard.

He’s a wizard because he magically knew my favorite drink, too.

“Here,” he says, handing the drinks around to all the intended recipients. Fiona chugs her existing drink, taking the new one with gratitude and placing her empty on a table corner.

Perk, Fiona, and I suck our drinks down like they’re medication.

Will grins at me before taking a swig of beer. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, noticing how many people are noticing him, the impending crush of older versions of all the archetypes from my teen years making my heart go into palpitation mode.

Or maybe that’s because Will’s hand settles on the small of my back as we stand there, drinking and scanning the crowd. It finds its place, the palm sturdy, fingers resting like they're positioned on piano keys. He’s playing music on my spine, ready to compose, his touch a melody.

The move is possessive. Instinct makes me lean closer, just a few centimeters, my body responding before I can make a conscious choice.

His grip shifts. He smiles as Chris Fletcher comes over, big and boisterous, arms out for a bro hug.

But Will doesn’t move that hand until he has no choice.

“DICKHEAD!” Fletch bellows, grabbing Will like he’s a baby goat, lifting him a good two feet in the air.

“Some people haven’t changed one bit,” Fiona says, mouth like a tightened purse string before she opens it to down the rest of her drink.

Fletch and Fiona have a past.

“Perky says you’ll never have fun with that attitude,” I snark at both of them.

Fiona turns to Perky and says, “Fuck you.”

“Nice mouth for a preschool teacher!” Fletch says with mock horror. “You shape young minds!”

“You want her to drop kick you again? Because she totally could,” Perky goads as Fiona takes big mouthfuls of her drink.

“Try me, baby. Try me,” he calls out, face red with a combination of alcohol, mild embarrassment, and joy.

I never had a problem with Fletch in particular, other than the fact that he was one of the crowd of guys who felt entitled to tease anyone with an IQ even one point above average.

That, and pushing Fiona to drop kick him in seventh grade.

“Let's not stain our tenth reunion with violent rehashings of our pasts,” I strongly suggest.

“No kidding,” Fletch mutters, eyeing me with the fresh gaze of a man shark who has discovered a bleeding seal pup. “How about we talk about your porn career instead?”

Will makes a growling sound in the back of his throat that forces Fletch look at him and instantly, nonverbally, back off. His body leans away from me, a primally obvious sequence of small muscle shifts I feel rather than see.

“Kick him, Feisty,” Perky growls in her ear. “Kick him hard.”

“Feisty!” Fletch shouts, tipping his head to the sky, hands on hips like a superhero movie villain without the costume. “Haven't heard that in years. You missed your calling. You'd make a great roller derby player.”

“You know I'm a preschool teacher. Your nephew is in my class.”

“He's not that far off. Preschool teacher, roller derby,” Perky says under her breath. “Some of those hellions Fiona's in charge of are brutal little fu–”

“Preschool teacher, huh? Good for you. You'll be paying off those student loans forever,” says Alisha, who appears double-fisted, two drinks with pineapple in them. She sips one and gives Fiona a nasty look. “I always thought you'd go into something more violent.”

“Like being your Brazilian waxing technician?” Fi says, blinking sweetly.

“What?” Alisha doesn't get it. Fletch rolls his eyes. A pang of something close to guilt hits me. She really doesn’t get it.