Once and for All(56)

“Because the Lumberjack is cute and you want to beat Ambrose,” she replied cheerfully, adjusting the neckline of her dress. “Speaking of which, there he is. I guess he found it after all.”

I glanced over to where she was looking. Sure enough, there was Ambrose in the kitchen, popping a beer open on the countertop. When he saw us, he waved, pushing that curl from his forehead. Ira was on the deck outside, being petted by a group of girls holding red cups. This time, he had on a polka-dot bandana. Apparently, this was his signature look now. “Found it?” I asked.

“Ambrose hadn’t heard of the neighborhood when I told him about this party.”

Now I turned, giving her my full attention. “You invited him?”

“Yeah, when I gave him that ride the other night.” She was scanning the crowd, not looking at me. When she realized I was staring at her, she blinked. “What?”

“I thought you couldn’t stand him.”

She flipped her hand. “Oh, that was just a first impression. He’s okay.”

Between this and William’s melon-prosciutto date, I suddenly felt like no one was telling me anything. “You gave Ambrose a ride? When?”

“Last week,” she said easily. “I was doing register for my dad downtown, after the bars closed, and I saw him and his dog walking. I couldn’t just drive past them, especially at two a.m.”

“I’m surprised he was alone,” I remarked, as Leo looked up and saw me, waving a hand. I waved back, and the girls he was talking to both turned to look at me. I sucked down more of my beer.

“He said he’d just dodged some girl at a club,” she replied. “Crazy story. Had to run out the back door.”

“I think I heard about that.”

“I’m sure you did.” She took another sip. “Anyway, I just drove him back to his sister’s. He invited me in for a snack, but I said no. Being around food all night in close quarters and all. Plus I felt super greasy.”

“He asked you in?”

“Yeah.” She was looking around again, and took a second to meet my eyes. “Why? Is that weird? You guys are just friends, right?”

“Not even that,” I said quickly. “We just work together.”

“And make bets together.”

“That’s strictly for bragging rights,” I told her, thinking about what William had said.

“That’s what I thought.” She tucked a piece of hair behind one ear. “I don’t think he’s my type anyway. Too loosey-goosey. Not a sport coat in sight.”

“Remember how that worked out last time, though,” I reminded her. “Maybe it’s not the best indicator.”

“True,” she agreed. “I guess you never know.”

Leo had wrapped up his conversation and was now making his way toward us, winding through the growing crowd. My date, even though I wasn’t supposed to call him that, and yet now all I could think about was Jilly and Ambrose, together. It would never happen. Would it?

“Hey there,” Leo said, sliding in beside me. “Where’d you get the beers?”

“Outside,” I told him. “Follow me.”

We cut through the kitchen, which boasted an impressive display of hot sauces stacked on the wide windowsill, and out onto the side deck, where the keg was set up under a tangle of Christmas lights. Ira, tied nearby, saw me immediately and began wagging his tail.

“Hey there, bud,” I said, bending down to scratch his ears. He’d had a haircut and smelled like powder, clearly freshly bathed. “Ten to one Ambrose met a pretty dog groomer,” I said out loud. “Am I right?”

“What?” Leo asked from the keg.

“Nothing,” I said, standing back up and facing him. “Do you want to go back inside? Or—”

“Let’s stay here for a bit,” he replied. “Less chance of bumping into more people from high school.”

We walked over to a bench that ran along the deck, where I took a seat. Ira, now on a diagonal from me, let out a whine and then lay down, his head on his paws. “You’re from here, too?” I said, as Leo leaned on the nearby railing. “I didn’t realize.”

“Born and bred,” he replied. “Class of 2015, Kiffney-Brown.”

I raised my eyebrows. “So you’re smart.”

“By the numbers. I was a big-time math nerd before I started writing.”

More new information. “You write?”

A nod. “I’m in the program at the U. Workshops, independent study, all that stuff. I was doing both tracks, but now I’m strictly fiction.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“The novel I’m working on right now is kind of a stream-of-consciousness take on the dwindling of human contact in society,” he replied, as easily as anyone else might rattle off their birthdate and astrological sign. Clearly, he’d said this before. “It’s futuristic, but also set in present day. I’m playing with time a lot. It’s challenging.”

“Huh,” I said, before realizing this was about the stupidest response I could have offered. I added, “I love to read. But I’ve never been very good at writing if it wasn’t, like, papers for school.”

“Oh, it’s totally different,” he said, taking a sip of his beer as two girls in thick sandals clomped over to the keg. “Anyone can be taught to present a basic argument or summarize information. Fiction is a skill. You either have it, or you don’t.”