“But would you let a comic book guy make out with you if he wore a Catwoman costume and deep-throated a corn dog?” Ansel asks, tilting his head to Oliver. “Theoretically speaking.”

“Reckon the fanboys will be gobsmacked regardless,” Oliver deflects, collecting himself. “Corn dog deep-throating or not.”

Mia scrunches her nose, shaking her head at Oliver. She almost never understands his thick Aussie accent, which is ironic considering she’s married to someone who speaks English as a second language.

“Happy fanboys no matter what,” Lola translates in shorthand.

I remember the first night we hung out with Oliver—after Mia and Ansel disappeared down the hall and it was just me and Lola, way drunker than the two strangers in front of us. After closer inspection, we realized Oliver had a black Sharpie flower drawn on his cheek.

“I’m curious about the flower,” Lola said when he’d settled onto the seat next to her. He wore his usual thick-rimmed glasses, black straight jeans, dark T-shirt. I was almost positive it wasn’t a face tattoo . . . almost.

“Loss a bit,” he said cryptically, and then returned to silence. It took several beats for me to recognize that he’d said, “Lost a bet.”

“Details,” Lola said.

And Finn supplied them happily. Apparently they’d just done an abbreviated version of the biking trip across the States that brought them together six years earlier. “The deal was, whoever went through the most tire tubes had to get a Sharpie face tattoo. Oliver here can’t help but treat a road bike like a mountain bike. I’m surprised his tire rims don’t look like tacos.”

Oliver shrugged, and it was clear to me he couldn’t care less that he had a flower drawn on his face. He was definitely not there to impress anyone.

“Do people call you Ollie?” Lola asked.

Oliver looked at her, completely dumbfounded by the possibility of this nickname. She may as well have asked him if people call him Garth, or Andrew, or Timothy.

“No,” he said flatly, and the only thing charming about him was the way his accent seemed to run through every vowel with one syllable. Lola’s eyebrow twitched in her single tell—mildly annoyed—and she lifted her flashing LED drink cup to her lips.

Lola wears mostly black, including her glossy dark hair, and has a tiny diamond pierced into her lip, but, even still, she’s never been able to pull off the full physical manifestation of the angry Riot Grrrl. With her perfect porcelain skin and the longest eyelashes in the world, she’s simply too delicate. But once she decides you’re an asshole, it no longer matters to her what you think. She gives good glare.

“The flower suits you,” she said, tilting her head to study him. “And you have pretty hands, kind of soft. Maybe we should call you Olive.”

He grunted out a dry laugh.

“And a really beautiful mouth,” I added. “Gentle. Like a woman’s.”

“Aw fuck off.” He was laughing outright by then.

Somehow we all went from tipsy strangers to hammered best friends to spouses that night. But Lola and Oliver were the only couple that didn’t consummate anything, and, even at the time, Lola was pretty convinced Oliver wasn’t interested at all.

Now I’m pretty sure she was wrong.

“Where’s Finn?” Oliver asks, sliding into the booth, then saying, “Hey, Joe,” to Not-Joe.

“Driving Miss Harlow,” I say.

He stares at me, confused.

“Getting Harlow a drink,” Lola translates again.

Oliver nods once, satisfied, glancing over at the bar and then back to me. “Be nice to my boy,” he says, giving me a wink, but his tone tells me he’s serious.

“Because he’s delicate? Please,” I scoff. “I’m just using him for his enormous penis and surprising skills with rope. Don’t worry about his finespun man feelings.”

Oliver groans, covering his face. “More than I needed to know,” he says, at the exact same moment Lola shouts, “Overshare alert!”

“That’ll teach you to lecture me,” I tell them with a grin. “How’s the store?”

“Good. Really busy. I reckon it’ll be right if it keeps up like this, yeah?”

I see Mia lean to Ansel, who laughs as he repeats more slowly what Oliver has just said.

“Do I need to speak slowly, Mee-ahh?” Oliver drawls in his exaggerated version of an American accent.

“Yes!” she yells.

“How’s the front reading nook?” I ask. “Bringing in lots of newbies?”

“I think so?” he says, stealing Mia’s untouched beer. “I need to get a feel for who my regulars will be.”

“How long until you bang someone up there after hours?” I ask, leaning my chin on my hands.

He laughs, shaking his head. “That front window is pretty enormous. Reckon never.”

“Some girls are into that.”

He shrugs, grinning down at the coaster he’s playing with, not glancing at Lola even once. I will break this boy if it kills me.

“Maybe Oliver’s first go-round there will be in the stockroom,” Ansel joins in and oh, he is my favorite.

Mia leans into Ansel’s side, and he bends to say something near her ear. Her happiness is the best distraction from my own worries. Maybe the alcohol helps, too. I’m so happy for her that her guy’s here for more than just the usual day and a half. He seems to come visit every couple of weeks, but it’s a mix of giddiness when he arrives and the constant dread of another goodbye when he leaves.

“You guys look so good together,” I say, leaning halfway across the curved bench to kiss Mia’s cheek.

“Imagine what we look like when we’re having sex!” Ansel yells across the table. “It’s unreal!”

I ball up my cocktail napkin and hurl it at him. “Too far.”

“It’s my superpower.”

“What’s mine?” I ask.

Ansel cups his hands around his mouth, calling out over the music, “Doing shots?”

He nods to the shot that Finn apparently snuck in front of me. Despite our wild night at Lola and London’s, and my spectacular drunkenness in Vegas, I rarely drink more than a couple of cocktails. But I guess Ansel is right: When I do it, I really commit. I toss back the drink in front of me, tasting sweet and sour and then the burn of vodka as it warms a path to my stomach.

Letting out a roar, I stand, announcing, “I’m drunk and I’m going to dance.” Pointing to Finn, I say, “You. Follow.”