Page 7

Chapter seven

Elliot

Before there could be dinner with Mike, there was the weekly gathering of the Four Horsemen—well, four friends who wrought havoc by their mere presence.

If someone ever asked me why I willingly subjected myself to dinner with those three maniacs, I honestly wouldn’t have had a solid answer.

Sierra, aka Sisi, was an ER nurse and the kind of woman who could command a room with a single eyebrow raise. Sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and entirely unbothered by social norms, she had a talent for cutting straight to the heart of any situation—usually while sipping a margarita and looking fabulous. Standing at barely five-foot-two, she made up for her height with sheer ferocity and confidence, always dressed like she had somewhere better to be, even if she was just going to Target. Beneath her sass and brutal honesty, though, she was fiercely protective of the people she loved, the kind of friend who would verbally eviscerate anyone who wronged you and then hand you a shot of tequila as a peace offering.

Matty worked with Sisi in the ER. He was pure, unfiltered chaos wrapped in designer clothing and expensive cologne. Loud, dramatic, and completely unapologetic, he was the kind of guy who could turn a casual brunch into a theatrical event. He spoke with his hands, his eyebrows, and his entire body, fully committing to every story he told, every emotion he felt, and every reaction he gave. His laugh was loud and infectious, his wardrobe ridiculously curated, and his opinions immediate and unwavering—especially when it came to pop culture, fashion, or my nonexistent love life. He was a hurricane, a cheerleader, and an absolute menace, and I had absolutely no idea how I ended up friends with him—but for some inexplicable reason, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Omar, Matty’s husband of a hot minute, was the son of a prominent Egyptian diplomat, which explained why his accent—and almost everything about him—was decidedly British. Raised in London surrounded by children of other prominent politicians and royals, he was calm, collected, and infuriatingly unreadable, the kind of guy who could walk into absolute madness and somehow come out untouched. He had a sharp mind, an even sharper wardrobe, and the unsettling ability to win every argument without raising his voice. He also had a dry, understated sense of humor, not too different from mine, and he usually chose to deliver his best lines while sipping wine and watching the rest of the group self-destruct. Omar thrived on watching his friends unravel while he remained effortlessly composed, but when it really mattered, he was solid as a rock.

These were my friends, my adopted family, the misfits I loved more than life—though I never quite understood why.

It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy our nights out—I did—but somewhere between Matty’s dramatic storytelling, Sisi’s unfiltered observations, and Omar’s maddening ability to stay Britishly calm while the rest of us spiraled into chaos, I always left these gatherings deeply exhausted and slightly embarrassed.

Tonight would be no different, I feared.

Matty had picked the restaurant, which should have been my first red flag. The man had taste, sure, but he also had expensive taste. He was the kind of guy who believed food should be “an experience,” which was code for tiny, overpriced portions served on enormous plates by waiters who judged you for ordering a beer instead of wine.

Omar, of course, was completely at home in fancy restaurants. He had an effortless grace that made people assume he belonged wherever he went.

Meanwhile, Sisi looked deeply unimpressed, tapping her nails against the table while scanning the menu with open disdain.

And me?

I was just hungry, wondering if I’d have to stop for a burger afterward so I wouldn’t starve to death in my sleep.

Our server, a reed-thin boy of eighteen, maybe nineteen, whose long brown hair had been tied into a bun so tight I worried he might’ve pulled his eyes onto the sides of his head like some human fish, came by and took our drink orders. Matty got some pretentious cocktail with an unpronounceable name, Sisi ordered a margarita because “some things shouldn’t be messed with,” Omar asked for a glass of merlot, because of course he did, and I, like a sane human, ordered a beer.

Once Beeker with the Man Bun left our table to retrieve our drinks, we settled into conversation.

Or rather, Sisi launched her attack.

She stabbed a cherry tomato with unnecessary force, narrowed her eyes, and said, “So, are you going to tell us about the guy, or do we have to guess?”

I blinked like Bambi on crack. “What?”

Matty gasped, clutching his chest as though I’d just told him his credit card was declined.

“Oh . . . my . . . Gawd!” He turned to Omar, grabbing his arm for support. “Do you see this? Do you see his face right now?”

Omar, ever the cool, collected one, simply smirked and took a sip of wine. “Oh, yes. I see it.”

“You’re being suspiciously quiet.” Sisi pointed her fork at me. “I mean, you’re always quiet, but this is different. You’re hiding something. And you’re a gay man. That means you’re hiding another gay man, possibly in your pants, possibly at this very moment.”

“How would I—?” I groaned as she grinned. “I’m not hiding anything.”

Matty scooted closer, his eyes gleaming with unholy delight. “You’re deflecting, precious. Which means you are hiding something. Which means you did meet someone. Tell Aunt Matty all about him.”

“We are excellent detectives.” Sisi nodded sagely. “Now, talk, before I pull out the inspector’s lamp and blind your pretty little ass.”

I sighed, already regretting leaving the sanctuary of my home.

Omar leaned in, finally joining the witch hunt games. “Who is he?”

Matty gasped. “It’s a he!”

I rubbed my temples, fully knowing there was no escape.

Sisi gave a satisfied nod. “Elliot Ricky Martin Tanya Harding Hart, spill the tea before I dance on that pretty, caveman-esque head of yours.”

“Caveman-esque?” I gaped.

At that point, resistance was futile. They’d wear me down eventually, and I’d rather get it over with before Matty threw a full-scale tantrum. That would likely involve the defrocking of someone’s boa, which meant feathers would fly all over the restaurant, ruining everyone’s dinner.

I sighed. “Fine. His name’s Mike. He just moved into the neighborhood. He’s an English teacher.”

“A teacher?” Matty inhaled so sharply I thought he might pass out. “He’s probably adorable. Like, wears cardigans and loves books and tries to save troubled kids through the power of literature.”

Sisi grinned. “Oh, I love this already.”

Omar tilted his head. “How did you meet?”

I hesitated, knowing the moment I told them, I’d never hear the end of it. Worse, I would be giving them Mike’s location, which conjured up all sorts of devilish plans they might pursue.

But Matty was already onto me. “Oh no. That face. Something embarrassing happened. What did you do?”

Sisi gasped. “Was it cute embarrassing or tragic embarrassing?”

Omar smirked. “Considering it is our Elliot, I would guess gruff but secretly adorable embarrassing.”

“God, I love when Elliot does that.” Matty clasped his fingertips. “It’s like watching Sam the Eagle from The Muppets try to flirt with Miss Piggy.”

I scowled. “You all need hobbies.”

“You are our hobby, precious.” Matty batted his eyelashes. “Now talk.”

I sighed. “Fine. His dog humped my leg.”

There was a moment of absolute, perfect silence.

Then, chaos.

Sisi wheezed, gripping the table like she was about to collapse. Matty’s mouth fell open before he broke into full hysterics, smacking the table as tears formed in his eyes. Omar, always the most composed, simply pressed a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Oh . . . my . . . Gawd.” Matty wiped his eyes. “That’s the greatest love story ever told.”

“I adore this dog,” Sisi managed between cackles. “Like, deeply.”

“I hate all of you,” I muttered.

“You cannot hate me. I’m British,” Omar stated as though reading a particularly funny obituary. Then, still smirking, asked, “How did Mike react?”

“He was mortified.”

“Big word, big guy,” Sisi teased.

Matty sighed dreamily. “I bet he was blushing. Was he blushing?”

I thought back to Mike’s wide eyes, the frantic way he had scrambled to pull his dog away, the bright flush on his face.

I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

Matty clutched his chest. “A blushy English teacher? Who owns an unhinged dog? Elliot, this is the greatest thing to ever happen to you. When’s the wedding? I need to start shopping for clothes. All I have is the outfit I wore to Gavin and Blaine’s ceremony, and I can’t possibly be caught dead in the same thing twice. Sisi, we need a shopping trip, stat!”

“On it. This weekend. A day of shopping and white wine, not necessarily in that order.” Sisi nodded, then refocused on me. “This is almost as good as the time that guy at the hardware store called you big man and you got all weird about it.”

I scowled. “We’re not bringing that up again.”

“Oh, but we must,” Matty said, giggling into his cocktail.

Omar, ever the instigator, ignored Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum and asked, “So . . . have you asked him out yet?”

My silence was answer enough.

“Oh . . . my . . . Gawd!” Matty gasped dramatically as his hand flew to his chest. “ You have !”

“Elliot. Jessica. Rabbit. Hart.” Sisi’s jaw dropped. “You have to be kidding. Our Elliot? Actually made a move? This is history in the making.”

“The end of an era,” Matty proclaimed.

“Perhaps the beginning of one.” Omar nodded approvingly.

Matty leaned in, eyes sparkling with pure chaos. “Tell. Us. Everything . Start with the pooch splooge.”

“Gross, Matty.” Sisi scowled.

“There was no splooge,” I growled.

“Thank goodness,” Sisi said.

“Fine, humping. Start there,” Matty corrected.

I exhaled, starting at the end, hoping to avoid the story altogether. “I asked him to dinner. At his place. Tomorrow night.”

“Oooooh, home date. That’s sexy.” Sisi grinned. “Make sure you wear clean underwear—and not those with all the holes. Jesus, you men never shop for underwear. What’s with that?”

“First,” I said, my brow furrowed, “how do you know my underwear has holes?”

Sisi grinned and shrugged.

“And second, how do you know I plan to wear underwear?”

“Oh, this just got spicy!” Matty clapped his hands again. “Do we think he’s going to cook something elaborate and romantic, or is he a grilled cheese and boxed wine kind of guy?”

Omar smiled. “Only one way to find out.”

“I bet he’s the type to stress bake before you get there.” Matty tilted his head, as if calculating. “If you walk into his kitchen and there are eight dozen muffins, I want a box.”

“Me, too,” Sisi jumped in. “We always need snacks at the hospital.”

I rubbed my temples. “Why are you all like this?”

Matty patted my arm. “Because we care.”

Omar nodded. “We just want you to be happy.”

Sisi smirked. “Or at least to get laid so we can be happy.”

I groaned.

Matty raised his glass. “To Elliot, our living Greek statue and emotionally repressed brother, finally having a crush.”

Omar clinked his glass against Matty’s. “To Mike, the brave soul who captured his attention.”

Sisi cackled. “And to the dog, the true hero of this love story, and likely the only one who will need a cigarette when it’s done.”

The three of them clinked glasses, drank deeply, and laughed like a patient who’d had a little too much anesthesia.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose.

I really needed new friends.