“I slaughter you every time. It’s not challenging.”
River snarls. “So cruel. But so true. We’ll find another.”
In the living room, we sink down onto the plush carpet, tugging games from the drawer in the coffee table.
Uno.
I pretend to fall asleep.
He grabs Catan.
I shake my head. “We’ll be up all night.”
River points to the window. “Got somewhere to go?”
I knock back some champagne. “Nope. But I am not playing a game that requires me to pull an all-nighter. My commitment level to a board game is about an hour.”
“A man who knows his mind. Gotta love it,” River says, taking another drink, then opening the popcorn.
We root around for more games, while munching on the salty snack.
“Exploding Kittens?” He waggles the Russian-roulette style game in front of me.
“Possibly. We’ll consider it a front-runner,” I say, grabbing another box, then moaning in mock pain as I set it on the table.
“Risk.” I cringe. “Pretty sure you have to be into Game of Thrones to like Risk.”
His jaw comes unhinged. “You don’t like Game of Thrones? How did I not know this juicy tidbit?”
“Maybe because we never talk about it. Does that”—I stop, cross my fingers—“mean you don’t like it either?”
“I tried a few episodes. Too much violence to get to the nakedness.”
“Am I right? I’m all for more skin, just less blood and guts.”
River lifts his mug in another toast. “To more fucking and less violence.”
“I will definitely drink to that.”
I take another swallow and he does the same, then we grab some popcorn too, as the snow keeps falling and the fire warms me up.
River pokes his head under the table, then grabs a box of cards. Would You Rather…? “What do you think, cutie?”
That last word tugs on my brain. Reminds me of our conversation from years ago in college as we left the Old School coffee shop and created the Harry and Rod rule. I called you a cutie because I can’t call you a hottie. Even with those Clark Kent glasses. I can’t call you hot because you’re seeing someone.
River never calls anyone else cutie but me. He only uses hottie for guys he’s into. Everyone else is just hun.
I’m not sure what the math here adds up to, and maybe I’m grasping at straws, but still, I clutch them. “Why do you call me cutie? You call everyone else hun. I never hear you use cutie for anyone else.”
His eyes flash with surprise, like I’ve caught him off-guard, but then he adjusts to being his easy, breezy self. “You’re questioning why you get a special nickname?”
I am, since I want to know if there’s an answer to his word problem. If the logic adds up. So I stand my ground, push a little more. “Yeah. I am.”
River lifts his mug, takes another drink, his eyes darkening as he swallows. He sets down the cup on the coffee table. “I suppose it’s because I can’t call you what I really want to call you.”
“What’s that?”
He takes his time, like he’s weighing his words, then levels me with a stare that feels a little more than friendly. “Hottie. Like you are.”
Make that a lot more than friendly.
And just like that, it’s impossible to slide back in the friend zone with him, so I choose the riskiest game of all.
“Let’s play . . . Would You Rather.”
Since I’m hoping I’ll learn something from the questions—something about him and me, and whether we could ever move out of the friend zone.
11
River
Games are good. Games are fun. We can play games and then go to sleep.
I brandish the first card. Clear my throat. Adopt a TV announcer voice. “Would you rather only use a fork for the rest of your life or only use a spoon?”
Owen’s nose crinkles. “Please tell me you made that up. That can’t be a real question.”
“Sadly, it is.” I fling the card on the floor, grab another.
“Are there do-overs in this game?” he asks with a laugh.
“Yes. On account of questions that make both of us roll our eyes. It’s my new rule.”
“Fair enough. Hit me with another one,” Owen says.
I read the next question. “Would you rather be a centaur or a mermaid-slash-merman?” I stare at the card like it’s diseased. “My answer? I’d rather play another game.”
“Wait,” Owen says, rooting around in the game drawer, grabbing the box the cards came in, and turning it over. He displays the box. “Ah. The culprit. This is the kids’ version.”
“Does that mean the rest of the questions are going to be about whether I’d rather have donuts or burgers for the rest of my life, or the ability to fly and never eat sweets, because I’d rather watch Game of Thrones.”
“Google Would You Rather questions for adults.”
“My phone’s in the guest room,” I say.
Owen grabs his from the charger, unlocks it, and tosses it my way. “Here you go. Use mine.”