“Then I don’t know what could possibly earn me that extra star,” I say. “Enlighten me.”
He kisses me, obviously. He cups my ass in his hands and I roll my hips against him and kiss him back, long, slow, lazy kisses. We make out with no ulterior motive, just to make out, because we’ve had the no sex in the tattoo shop discussion before.
Also a no sex in the brewery discussion. Health code, et cetera.
After a few minutes he runs his hand down my arm to my wrist, circles it lightly with his fingers until his thumb is right on my star tattoo. He looks at it, then lifts his arm, looks at his.
“You like it?” I ask.
“I do,” he says, rubbing his thumb over my wrist. “Thanks.”
“I should bandage it,” I point out.
He pulls me in, gives me one more long kiss.
“Love you,” he says.
“Love you too,” I say, then give him a quick kiss on the forehead and stand.“Last week, someone brought in a beautiful, solid oak hundred-year-old table that had been plastered over with superhero stickers in the seventies,” Charlie says. “And not even real superheroes. Knockoff ones I’ve never heard of, like The Bulk, who’s purple and wears green shorts.”
I laugh, beer in hand, feet up on the deck railing.
“I’ve never heard of The Bulk,” I say.
“I’m sure there’s a reason.”
“Who thought that was a good idea?” asks Caleb, sitting on my other side.
“The table, or The Bulk?”
“Either. Both,” he says.
“Maybe the table was owned by whoever created The Bulk,” I say. “Otherwise, why would they have all those stickers?”
Charlie just sighs.
“I had to do things to that table,” she says, taking a sip of her beer and gazing over the back yard. “Things I’m not proud of.”
I sigh sympathetically.
“It’s all right,” I tell her. “We’ve all had to fuck the furniture now and then.”
To my right, Caleb makes a surprised noise, then starts coughing.
“Dammit, Delilah,” he manages to get out. “I was drinking.”
“Sorry,” I say, as Charlie laughs.
“I was just surprised,” he says, still clearing his throat.
“That she said fuck?” Charlie asks.
“No, I was not surprised that Delilah said fuck,” Caleb says, as if that’s the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. “It was the whole thing. It’s over now. Carry on.”
“I think we should keep talking about fucking the furniture,” Charlie says. “Which piece of your dining room set do you find most erotic, Caleb?”
“I hate this conversation,” he says, but he’s grinning.
“Tables do have those nice… legs,” I say, trying to think of something slightly sexy about tables.
“Sure, that’s a word,” Caleb teases.
“That’s why tablecloths exist,” says June’s voice behind me.
I tilt my head back and there she is, holding a glass of water.
“Because table legs are erotic?” Charlie asks. “This is really making me look at my job from a new angle.”
“It’s from Victorian times, and you know how they were,” June says, pulling up a chair.
“Secret perverts?” I say.
June points a finger-gun at me as she sits.
“Bingo,” she says. “I read once that tablecloths were to cover up scandalous table legs because men simply couldn’t control themselves otherwise. Dunno if it’s actually true.”
The three of us all happen to glance at Caleb at the same time.
“Okay, I hate that you all just looked at me,” he says. “I’m not even the one who started this conversation about fucking furniture.”
Now June starts laughing.
“It’s a long story and I don’t think I can trace it back,” Caleb tells her.
“I don’t think I want you to,” she says, still laughing. “I think this is perfect and delightful just like it is.”
We all go quiet for a moment, facing out into the yard where Seth and Thomas are playing kickball.
Or, rather, Seth is slowly and carefully rolling a big rubber ball toward Thomas, who is watching it with all the seriousness and intensity an almost-three-year-old can muster, and then wildly swinging one leg several moments too late.
Then, he chases the ball and throws it vigorously, with both hands, sort of in Seth’s direction.
I’ll just say it: Seth is hot with a toddler.
“Someone’s gonna sleep well tonight,” Charlie says.
“Yeah, kickball really tuckers Seth out,” I say, and she laughs.
“I have to admit, now I understand why some people choose to have their kids when they’re twenty-two,” she says. “He just runs. All day. His two modes are sleeping and sprinting. I’m tired.”
Suddenly, Thomas is sprinting toward us, something in his hand. He stomps up the deck stairs, then runs over to us.
“It’s a pinecone!” he shouts.
Charlie sits forward and holds out her hand.
“Ooh, how exciting,” she says. “What’s it —"
“It’s for Caleb,” he informs her, and goes straight for his uncle.
“Wow, thank you,” Caleb says, as Thomas deposits his prize. “You know what kind of tree this comes from?”
“He just runs,” Seth says, coming up the stairs behind Thomas.