Author note: Some of the same situations occur here and in other parts, but from a different POV, because there's always two sides to a story.
(Chris)
"I met this woman," I say when we're dressing after swimming. Richard shrugs into his shirt, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
"Well, she must be something special for that kind of introduction." He grins when I flip him off.
"I'm serious this time. I know I've said it a lot, but this one...I like her."
"What's her name, loverboy? And of course, what does she look like?"
"Her name's Miranda Chombsky. She's amazing--gorgeous. Long, brown hair, huge brown eyes, nice smile. Just--yeah."
Richard purses his lips. "Damn. Where'd you meet her?"
"Here, if you can believe it. Remember when you had a last-minute appointment? I bumped into her and--"
"And the rest is history," Richard finishes sardonically. "Fuck. The only women I meet anymore are fat and old. Or married."
"Like Janelle?" I remind him slyly. His face gets red, and he slams his locker door too hard.
"Why do you bring her up every fucking time I see you?"
His nostrils flare with the force of his anger. Dammit. Why did I have to say that? Janelle has been after him for as long as I can remember and he's always resisted, because getting involved with her would have really complicated his life. One night, about a month after Isobel left, Richard confided that he'd finally agreed to a meeting after work, which turned out to be in her office and included her unzipping his pants.
I admit I didn't react in the best way--I laughed. Just a little bit, but he looked at me like I'd killed his puppy in front of him.
"You think it's the funniest thing in the world, and I've fucking had enough, yeah?"
"All right. I'm sorry. Sincerely."
Richard nods, grabs his stuff, and walks out, still pissed. That's fine. Seeing him angry is a welcome change from the blubbering mess he's been since Isobel crushed his entire being with her lies.
(Richard)
He walks with Chris into the backyard, a small area with a patio. An average-sized man with stringy sun-bleached hair hanging around his chin is at the grill, and when he sees them, a grin spreads across his beach bum face and he waves a spatula. He's wearing a Vanilla Ice T-shirt and board shorts. Right away Richard knows he's a douche.
"Hey, Michael," Chris says, and then introduces Richard. "This is Richard, I think I mentioned I'd be bringing him along when we spoke yesterday."
"Yeah, hey, good to meet you, Richard, and welcome."
"Thanks," he says, digging out his cigarettes. "Not a bad place you have here," he remarks, noting the small yet elegantly landscaped yard.
"Yeah, it was a foreclosure," Michael says, flipping the burgers. "Miranda has a friend who's a realtor and she hooked us up."
Richard glances at Chris, who gives him a tiny nod. "That's cool. What's the friend's name? I might know her, I'm part of the Jackelope group."
"Lainey, uh, Giglio I think. She's Miranda's friend," he says again and shrugs. "You know her? She's pretty hot, not as hot as my Miranda, but fine."
"No, I don't know her. So. You guys married?" Richard asks casually, not missing the way Michael's eyes narrow in annoyance.
"No, we're not. Why is that a concern of yours?"
"Just curious, that's all." He sees Chris fighting a grin and chuckles, which seems to puzzle Mikey. He doesn't seem to be too quick on the uptake.
"Beer in the fridge, Michael?"
"Yeah, Chris. Tell Miranda these burgers are almost done."
Richard watches Chris's lanky figure disappear inside, now very curious as to what this mysterious lady looks like.
"And bring a plate out," Michael hollers. "Damn. Hope she hurries up or these things are gonna be hockey pucks."
"I can get the plate," Richard volunteers, and Michael holds his fist out for a bump. Really?
"Hey, thanks, man."
Richard crosses the patio and opens the slider, steps into the cool kitchen. His expert eye takes in the granite counters, stainless steel appliances and trendy cabinets. The kitchen is empty, and he smiles. That dog.
He opens a few cabinets until he finds a good-sized plate and pulls it out. "Hey, Chris," he says loudly, thumping the cabinet closed. "Where the fuck's that beer?" A flurry of movement precedes his friend walking casually into the kitchen, his cheeks a little red.
"In the fridge, most likely," he says, pointedly ignoring his friend's impish look. He goes over to the French door refrigerator and opens it, hiding his face.
Richard laughs, then she walks in, heels clicking on the Italian tiles, and the laughter dies in his throat. She's a...goddess.
She's of average height, with dark brown hair that falls past her shoulders, deep-set luminous brown eyes he could drown in, pert nose and a lush, pink mouth begging to be kissed. A short, yellow sundress shows tanned shoulders and arms, and she's wearing leather sandals. Realizing he's staring, he drags his eyes back up to her face, but she's not looking at him.
No, those amazing eyes are locked with his best friend's, and Richard mentally shakes his head. This looks like a mess in the making, for sure. It will certainly be entertaining.
***
(Miranda)
Miranda steps into the kitchen, stopping dead when she sees not only Chris, but a man she doesn't know. He has short black hair, a strong jaw, and cerulean blue eyes that make her skin tingle when she meets his inquisitive gaze. Broad shoulders in a tight blue T-shirt, tapered waist, blue jeans--he's so good looking he hurts her eyes.
"Hello," he says, looking her up and down. Over his head she sees Chris at the fridge, pulling out the six pack of beer she'd bought earlier in the day. She meets his eyes and he shrugs.
"Hi."
"You must be Miranda. I'm Richard." He holds out his hand and she has no choice but to take it. His skin is hot against hers, and she immediately withdraws, or tries to, but he tightens his grip, smiling at her obvious discomfort, those blue eyes amused.
"Hey, where's that plate?" Michael hollers from outside, sounding annoyed.
"Oops," Richard says, finally letting her go. "Sounds like we're going to be eating hockey pucks."
"Michael's an excellent chef," Miranda tells him, annoyed. At what, she's not sure. There's something about him, though, that she doesn't like. Brushing past him, she hurries over to the cabinet and takes out a plate, looking back once on her way out. Both men are watching her with identical hungry expressions, and she stumbles a little before regaining her equilibrium and goes outside. Why did she feel as if she's escaped something?
***
(Chris)
We eat outside, at a rectangular glass table with a green umbrella, Richard and I on one side and Michael and Miranda on the other. Michael makes a point of constantly touching her, as if making sure we understand she belongs to him. It's kind of funny, really. I don't know Michael very well, he's someone I've talked to a few times over a beer, that kind of thing. What really brought me into his orbit is Miranda. God, I can barely think when she's around, and all we've done is talked.
Richard didn't want to come along, he didn't know this guy and didn't want to, but then I said Miranda would be there and of course, he immediately agreed.
