Page 13 of Knights Like These
By evening, I’m at Callahan’s, a bar three blocks from the arena that the team has been coming to since before I got here. It’sTuesday, which means it’s dead, which means it’s just me and Ollie at the bar with two beers and a baseball game neither of us cares about.
Ollie is talking. Ollie is always talking. This is both the best and worst thing about Oliver St. Brown—he fills every silence, which means I never have to, which means I can sit here and drink my beer and process the fact that I’m probably being weird around Sydney.
“—so she says, ‘I just want honesty,’ and I said, ‘Okay, honestly, I’m not looking for anything serious,’ and she threw her drink at me. The whole drink. A full margarita. I smelled like tequila for two days.” He takes a swig of his beer. “Anyway, how’s the roommate situation?”
“It’s not a roommate situation.”
“What is it then?”
“She’s helping with the kids.”
“Right. Sydney.” He says her name like he’s testing it. “The childhood best friend.”
“Yeah.”
“The one from Instagram.”
I look at him. “What about Instagram?”
“You posted a photo of her last Christmas. At your parents’ house. She was wearing a red sweater and holding one of the twins, and you were looking at her like—”
“Like what?”
“Like nothing. Never mind.” He grins. “So your hot best friend is living in your house.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Is she not hot?”
I take a long pull of my beer and don’t answer, which is an answer, and Ollie knows it because he’s smiling into his glass like he just won a bet with himself.
“How’s it going?” he asks, a little more serious now.
“Fine. She’s great with the kids. Lily is obsessed with her. Luke already trusts her, which, uh—Luke doesn’t trust easily, so that’s saying a lot.”
“And how are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying fine.”
“Because I am.”
He peels the label off his beer. “Can I say something without you getting weird about it?”
“Probably not, but go ahead.”
“Has there been anyone? Since Bree?”
“Ollie.”
“I’m asking as your friend. Not as some guy being nosy.” He gives me a pointed look. “When’s the last time you, uh—I don’t know. Went on a date. Had dinner with a woman. Let someone get close?”
“I have two three-year-olds and demanding career.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
