Page 58 of Something to Prove
It wasn’t.
Jett and Malcolm were a bit of an odd couple. Jett was as tall and big as Ty with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes while Malcolm was slight, lean, and wore glasses. They looked like what they were: a hockey player and a physics professor.
I was a tad intimidated by them, but they’d been perfectly cordial. They’d asked about my classes, the house I rented, and somehow that had led to an in-depth conversation about gardening.
“I have rose bushes on the side yard, hydrangeas for days, and…peonies,” I’d gushed, aware of Ty’s knee pressed again mine. “Now it’s very blah, but you should see them in springtime.”
Malcolm had smiled. “I’m partial to hydrangeas myself. Did you know that each color has a symbolic meaning? Pink for love, blue for forgiveness, white for grace, purple for friendship, and green for renewal.”
“Green hydrangeas?” Jett had furrowed his brow. “There’s no such thing.”
Malcolm had gasped. “There most certainly is. As the sepals on the plant age, they naturally revert to a green hue and—oh, you’re teasing me.”
Jett had hooked his foot on Malcolm’s chair and drew it toward him, then draped his arm around his boyfriend and kissed his cheek. “Guilty. I don’t know what a hydrangea is, do you, Ty?”
Ty had nodded yes before shaking his head. “I’m not sure.”
They’d snickered when Malcolm and I had rolled our eyes in unison.
And okay…it had been nice. Really nice. I wasn’t sure if I’d been relieved or worried that the “outing incident” hadn’t come up.
Ty had shrugged. “They’re madly in love, Red, and everyone knows it. If you asked now, they’d say you did them a favor. I think it’s time to let it go.”
So I did.
And I made an effort to be more open to new social situations. For some odd reason, interviewing bare-chested hockey players in a locker room with towels tied around their waists was easier than being squished in a booth at Bear Depot next to Brady and Langley.
They hadn’t blinked twice or bothered questioning our excuse that we were brainstorming for a collaboration when they’d spotted us at the diner. They’d simply motioned for me to scoot over and proceeded to bombard us with ideas.
“Dude, I’ve got one word for you…DIY,” Langley had suggested, flagging our waitress down.
“That’s three words, genius,” Ty had taunted.
“No, it’s one.”
“Do it yourself. That’s three.”
Langley had frowned. “Okay, yeah, if you get technical about it. But if you smoosh it together and go by the letters, it’s one. Back me up here, Woodrow.”
“Walker isn’t gonna back you up, Guster. He’s got a fuckin’ brain,” Ty had razzed him.
I’d swallowed my french fry, darting a quizzical glance between them. Look, I’d made it my job to study sporty people. It was a matter of survival that dated to my boarding school days. But sparring with athletes outside of my capacity as a Smithton know-it-all was new territory.
I’d cleared my throat. “Strictly speaking, an acronym isn’t a word. Sorry.”
“Boom shakalaka!” Ty had made a mic-drop gesture and tossed a fry at Langley. “Told ya.”
“And neither is shakalaka,” I’d added.
The table had burst into laughter as Brady and Langley high-fived me while Ty had pouted from his side of the booth.
“I have a killer idea for you,” Brady had piped up. “Travel. No, wait, I’m serious. I follow this guitar player on YouTube who does tutorials out of his basement. Last month he went to Nashville for a wedding or something and did a whole show on the music scene there. It was really cool.”
“Oh, that’s a good one,” I’d commented.
Brady had offered a huge grin and a fist bump. “Make it somewhere close to Smithton, like Cooperstown or Syracuse or?—”
“No, it’s gotta be someplace cooler, add an activity too. Go river rafting.”