Page 7 of Some Sort of Crazy (Happy Crazy Love 2)
“You married yet?” The gritty yet playful sound of his voice unlocked twenty years’ worth of memories. Treehouse, mud puddle, sticky cotton candy memories of summers he’d spent at his family’s summer house on Old Mission peninsula, where I grew up.
I smiled. “No.”
“Good. That guy was a douche. He didn’t deserve you.”
“We’re still together, Miles.”
“Still? Jesus. That’s even worse.” Miles and Dan shared an intense mutual dislike for each other, which I’d never fully understood, since there had never been anything romantic between Miles and me.
Well, except for that one night.
The almost night.
“So what’s up? Did you drunk dial me again?” In the mirror, I noticed my cheeks had gone pink.
“I’m perfectly sober, thank you.”
“Then why are you calling me at four in the morning?”
“I’m bored with the girl blowing me.”
“Oh my God.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please tell me there is not actually a girl blowing you right now.” It wasn’t totally out of the question—Miles wrote an insanely popular blog called Sex and the Single Guy as well as articles for men’s magazines, pieces with titles like “Should You Bang the Boss’s Daughter? A Flowchart” and “Butt Stuff for Beginners: A Field Guide.” Occasionally he wrote about topics other than sex, but his brand was built on his devil-may-care, hipster playboy approach to life. And that approach included a lot of banging, butt stuff, and blowjobs.
“No, I’m just teasing you.”
“Good.”
“She’s tied up in the basement now.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“You heading to work?”
I sighed. “Yes. I should be there already.”
“I’m in town.”
“You are?” I turned around and leaned against the vanity. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Miles in person—maybe two years ago? He’d gone to college and grad school out East somewhere and then moved around a bunch, but he hadn’t come back up here very often. Last time we’d spoken, he was living in Detroit. “To your family’s place?”
“Yeah. You busy later?”
I had to think for a second—today was Thursday, which meant Dan had his tennis league after work and I swam at the gym, but after that we always met up for dinner. We hadn’t really seen much of each other this week. Could I break a standing date—for Miles—without causing tension? “I’m not sure,” I hedged. “What time?”
“Whenever.”
“Let me check on something. I’ll text you this afternoon.”
“Good. I’ll have another round with Svetlana here, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Svetlana?”
“Yeah, she’s Ukrainian, some kind of acrobat. I don’t know what the fuck she’s saying half the time, but goddamn she’s flexible. Maybe I’ll send you a pic.”
“NO.” He’d done that before, and I’d had to quickly delete the pic before Dan discovered it. “Don’t you dare. I’m hanging up.”
I ended the call and quickly finished getting ready for work. On the ten-minute drive to Coffee Darling, the small shop I’d opened downtown three years ago, I reminisced about those us-against-the-world summers when Miles and I had been close. His family’s property bordered my family’s cherry farm, and for as long as I can remember I’d looked forward to those eight weeks we’d have together while his family visited from their home outside Chicago. An only child, he was a year older than me, but about five years less mature, and growing up in a house with only sisters, I’d liked the idea of hanging out with a boy.
And unlike my bookworm sister Jillian or pageant queen Skylar, I’d loved nothing more as a kid than running around outside and getting dirty, climbing trees, swimming in his family’s pool or the bay. As grade schoolers, we’d played pirates or spies or zombies. As pre-teens, we’d had swimming races and fishing contests and went to the county fair together, gorging on sticky carnival food and riding the Zipper or Round Up until we were sick and dizzy. And the weird thing was, as close as we were all those summers, we never talked during the school year. But when he arrived in late June for vacation, it was like we’d never been apart.
