“Girl, what on earth did you do to your hair?”
“Hey, when in Rome…there were these ladies in the beach and at the little touristy stands that would braid your hair with seashells. Scott loved it when I had it done.” Ororo handed Jean back each glossy four-by-six photo as she finished looking at them. Jean tucked them covetously back into the sleeve as they chatted over iced tea.
“Bet that was fun to comb out when you got back.”
“I’ve still got a bald patch. It smarts!” she admitted. The two of them were seated on Jean’s comfortable, floral brocade sofa amidst the clutter of shopping bags, tissue paper and bubble wrap littering an otherwise impeccable living room. Jean was finally back from her honeymoon. Scott was working the day shift at Westchester General, tanned, rested and smug with tales of tropical drinks and “more time spent inside than on the beach, if you know what I mean.”
Ororo had been alternately dreading and craving this visit for the past two weeks.
Jean had been bubbly and effusive as soon as Ororo had met them at the airport, hugs in generous supply. Jean eyed her quizzically, immediately noting Pietro’s absence. Scott, as usual, didn’t take the hint.
“Where’s ‘Tro?”
“He’s…out. Doing guy stuff. Y’know?” She hoped that would put him off.
“Hnh. ‘Kay.” He lifted one brow at her, hoping a better explanation was forthcoming. It wasn’t. “Tell him I want a rematch.”
“For what?”
“That last game of HORSE. He cheated,” he accused.
“Pot calling the kettle,” she reminded him. Scott and Pietro’s games of basketball were often comical. The awkwardness between Scott and Ororo dissipated when Jean cheerfully urged them outside to find their car. She pecked Ororo on the cheek, extracting the promise from her that she’d come over the next day for girl talk and to pick up her souvenirs.
“So, why didn’t you return any of my voice mails, bonehead?”
“I’m sorry; I’m sorry, already.”
“Did’jou think I didn’t miss my homegirl? I wanted someone to dish with about my vacation and you were nowhere to be found. I got worried.”
“I got busy with work. I was doing some spring cleaning,” she added guiltily. “I wanted to get back in touch with you. I’m here now,” she supplied. She took another sip of her tea and patted Jean’s knee. “And I missed you too. Really. Pinky swear.”
“Pinky swear,” Jean allowed, linking hers with Ororo’s and tugging on it solemnly. “Now…why didn’t ‘Tro come with you to meet us yesterday? What’s going on with you two?”
Ororo steeled herself.
“There is no “we two” anymore. Pietro and I broke up. He moved out after the wedding.” Ororo’s heart thudded, her pulse throbbing an erratic tattoo as cold tingles swept her flesh. The words came out in a rush. Jean stared at her as though she had grown another head.
“Oh, my God,” Jean breathed.
“Yeah,” Ororo hedged. It felt surreal, admitting it out loud. She bowed her face, staring at her hands tucked into her lap.
“Ororo, what happened?”
“You know I left the reception early,” Ororo hinted.
“I know. You didn’t really tell me why,” Jean recovered, setting down her tea and leaning her elbows on her knees, watching her oldest, dearest friend with inquisitive eyes.
“It was a mess.” Ororo exhaled a shaky breath. “Pietro was cheating on me. I’m guessing he had been at it for a long time. I just wasn’t paying attention.”
Silence. Cold, stony silence.
“Uh-uh. Ororo…he couldn’t. Not after everything you two put into “ “
“Yes he could. And he did. I didn’t catch him in bed with another girl, but I might as well have. She left a souvenir at my house.”
“What kind of souvenir?” Jean prodded. Ororo returned Jean’s gaze. Her face was calm, but she could have almost sworn she heard Jean’s heartbeat pick up, even felt her pulse quicken when she reached for Ororo’s hand.
“It doesn’t matter. He admitted to it.” She squeezed Jean’s hand back. “That’s all I really needed to know.”
“You guys loved each other so much, ‘Ro.”
“I know.” It still stung. “Just not enough. Doesn’t matter how long we were together. He threw it all away as soon as he kissed someone else.”
“You really don’t want to forgive him?”
“No. I really don’t.”
“And that’s it. You wouldn’t take him back?”
“Not on my life. It’s hard. I got used to being with him. But I’m better off.”
“You two were happy for a while. Five years is a long time to throw away.”
“It’s a long time for him to piss away with sleeping with someone else. Multiple someones. He admitted that, too.”
“Ouch.” Jean shifted uncomfortably on her overstuffed couch, sinking back into the cushions.
“You still love me, right?” Ororo attempted, trying to lighten the pall that fell over their chat.
“Like a fat kid loves candy,” Jean promised. “Go on, Ororo, open that box. It’s for you.” Ororo reached for a small red package and popped up the flap.
“Ohhhhh…look. I LOVE this.” It was a mother-of-pearl inlaid barrette with a matching slender bangle. Ororo tried them both on, anchoring the barrette in her thick hair, pulling it back from her face at the crown of her head.
“Looks good on you. Glad I bought it,” Jean sighed.
“You always think of me.”
“How could I not? You’re always in my corner,” Jean tsked. “C’mon. There’s mocha almond fudge in the freezer, calling our names.” They adjourned to the kitchen, appointed in the best that Pier One Imports had to offer. Jean decorated her space in warm tones of cinnamon, rust and ivory. Sunflower motifs decked out her curtains, refrigerator magnets and dishtowels. The room was homey; expensive Williams and Sonoma appliances gleamed from the left counter, including a tomato-red KitchenAid electric mixer that Ororo coveted, mentally adding it to her gotta-have-one list that seemed to grow longer every year.
They continued to dish about the beaches, waves and shows that Jean and Scott enjoyed on their sojourn in the islands. Jean showed off a hint of sunburn still left on her shoulders, her skin stark white in contrast where she had tan lines left from her bikini.
“You’ve got to try snorkeling one of these days. You’ll love it,” Jean assured her.
“When I can afford it,” Ororo piped up.
“I don’t see why not, Pietro’s got plenty of money to take you…oooh. Sorry.”
“No biggie.” Ororo fumed inwardly, scraping the thick, gooey fudge away from her bowl with her spoon, more of Jean’s wedding china and flatware. Noritake.
“You’ll find someone else,” Jean assured her.
“That’s the other thing I was wanting to talk to you about,” Ororo hedged. Blue eyes met green over the pine dinette. “I kind of already have.” Jean’s eyes grew into saucers.
“Shut UP! Are you shitting me? Who? WHO?!?”
“You met him once,” Ororo continued, licking up a dab of mocha ice cream from her spoon. She chased the final melting lump from her bowl, leaving Jean in slavering suspense.
“Don’t make me jump across this table and kick your ass! TELL ME!” Ororo chuckled at Jean’s ability to change gears so easily and envied her for it.
“Logan.”
“Logan?”
“Yup. Short. Dark. Buff. Solid. Does this funny scowly thing with his eyebrows.” Jean still looked clueless. “He was at the wedding.”
“He was?”
“Sat on Scott’s side of the church.”
“Scott’s side? A friend?”
“Coworker. He’s down in the E/R. C’mon, Red.” Ororo dropped the other shoe. “He was the chaperone at the bachelorette for Officer Oh-My-God.”
“Oh.” She didn’t quite make the connection, even with Ororo making “come one, you got it” hand gestures at her. “OH! THAT Logan. Shit.” She seemed to see Ororo with new eyes. “Really?”
“Yup.”
“How?” It wasn’t registering yet. “When?”
“Ya don’t wanna know.”
“WHEN, Ororo? Spill it!”
“The night of the reception,” she breathed. Silence. Awkward, forbidding silence. Jean opened her mouth, closed it, searched the room with her eyes for a reply. Her gleaming appliances and sunflower magnets had no answer for her, regrettably.
“Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“You and…Grumpy Butt.”
“JEAN!”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry. Shit.”
“You already said that,” Ororo pointed out, nodding to Jean’s bowl. “You gonna finish that?”
“Hey, back off. Mine!” Jean peered down into the depleted tub of Haagen-Daz and scooped the last of the dregs out, dividing them into their bowls. “Look what you’re making me do.”
“What’s another half hour on the treadmill for chocolate’s sake?”
“You’re corrupting me. If Scott stops sleeping with me because I’m too fat, it’s all your fault.”
“Shouldn’t stop him. More cushion for the pushin’, toots.” Jean cackled, then suppressed it with a snort behind her hand, nearly choking on her ice cream.
“He’s just so…wow. You and Logan. I never would have figured.”
“Why?”
“He’s just so…not ‘Tro.”
“Thank God,” Ororo huffed.
“He’s awfully hairy.”
“Mmmmm.” Ororo tugged a lump of ice cream into her mouth, savoring the fudge as it melted on her tongue. “I don’t mind that.” Her eyes had a faraway look that could only be described as cock-whipped.
“Uh-oh.”
“What?” she asked innocently.
“You like him.”
“That’s the general theory, yeah.”
“I mean… you REALLY like him. As in, already falling for him.”
“No.” Ororo’s tone was defensive. “NO. Jean, don’t even…it’s not like that. We’re just having fun. He’s good to me. We like spending time together.” Ororo hated the lie as soon as it sprung from her lips. She didn’t know why she was underplaying what she felt. Something in the back of her brain nagged her not to divulge too much too soon.
“Okay. Keeping that in mind, ‘Ro, why are you glowing?”
“I am NOT!”
“Bullshit. You’re doing the little ‘blissed out’ thing with your face.”
“Am NOT!”
“Are too. That’s bliss, by God!” Jean’s smile was sly and knowing, exchanging a look with Ororo that was only truly acknowledged by the happily oversexed. Ororo’s eyes dropped shyly to her ice cream bowl.
“Leave me and my bliss alone,” Ororo cringed.
“Oh, God. I’ve got to tell Anna and Lorna, where’s the phone?”
“Anna already knows. She helped me to get boxes when ‘Tro moved out.”
“Wow.” Then she realized, “Hey. Why am I always the last to know everything around here?”
“You were on a honeymoon, whaddya expect?”
“You didn’t return my calls.”
“Heh. Right. Sorry.” They finished their treat and piled the dishes in the dishwasher before moving back out to the living room to throw away all the gift wrappings and empty boxes.
“Soooooooo…when will we do it?”
“Do what?” Ororo started helping Jean unpack her suitcase, tugging out her lingerie bag and clicking on the light above her washer and dryer in the alcove down the hall.
“Our Scrabble tournament. We’re long overdue.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Maybe Scott and Pietro-“
“Please! We don’t have to wait on them to decide when we get together next. You two break up, and the four of us can’t be friends anymore?”
“Maybe not in the same room?” Apprehension tightened the flesh at Ororo’s nape. Something had gotten lost in translation, here. Jean really didn’t grasp the full impact of Ororo’s news. Nor did she have a clue how ugly things were when they split.
“We’ll manage just fine,” Jean reassured her. Ororo helpfully started a fresh load, twisting the dial to “delicates” and unloading the dainty nylon drawstring bag. Enough underwear and teddies tumbled out to fill Victoria’s Secret’s front window. A scrap of scarlet satin caught Ororo’s eyes. She fingered the underwire bra, trimmed with tiny red bows.
“This is totally cute. When did you get this?”
“A while ago.” Jean raised her eyes to the ceiling the way people do when they rack their brains. “The shower,” she announced, smacking her forehead. “It’s one of my favorites,” she said by way of explanation.
“Hm.” Ororo chucked it cavalierly into the swirling water and added Cheer liquid.
She didn’t give it a second thought as they continued to unload swimsuits still reeking of saltwater and wrinkled cruise wear, shaking sand out of Jean’s sandals. For about the jillionth time that day, Ororo envied Jean.
Same time, downtown at the gym:
“HUUUUUUUUURRRGGGGH!”
“Nice one, Vic!” St John encouraged. “C’mon, pussy, one more! You know you want it! Show me YOU WANT IT!”
“Shit,” Remy muttered. Vic was red in the face, his knuckles white and continuing to change color as he gripped the barbell over his head, raising it by excruciating centimeters over his chest. He was on his fourth set. That little vein in his forehead was standing out again, along with all of the vessels in his neck. Remy resumed his own lateral pulls, adding another two modest plates, working more for streamlined fitness than bulging bulk. Vic always sneered when he asked Remy if he wanted to spot him. The barbell was loaded with two fifty-pound plates on each side, with an additional twenty-five hugging each for good measure.
“Fucker,” Vic hissed, spraying St. John with a mixture of spittle and sweat as he grunted, pushing himself farther and letting the bar falter, then jacked it all the way up in a clean sweep. “I’ll…show…you…pussy…asssssssss,” he continued.
“You done, man?”
“Fuck, no!”
“Ya gonna hurt y’self, mec,” Remy tsked, wiping his hands off on the nubby, snowy white gym towel and ambling over to his two friends, wanting to give a hand in case things got OUT of hand.
“Fuck YOU, LeBeau!”
“M’just sayin’, take it easy, homme,” he chided, black eyes conciliatory. He held up his palms in surrender.
“HAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGH!” Vic dead-lifted the bar one more time, before hissing “There!” St. John held the bar steady has Vic let it roll off his palms back into the holster. He sat up shakily, still reeling with euphoria and endorphins. His blond hair was plastered to his neck, and he jerked off the ponytail holder that was tangled up in it. His face still wasn’t its normal color yet, Remy mused to himself. St. John clapped him on the shoulder and handed him his half-empty Propel Fitness Water, which he glugged in noisy gulps. His steely blue eyes landed on Remy as he smirked. “Pussy. Yer on the wrong side of the gym, LeBeau. Women with Weights is that way. No. Hold on a fuckin’ minute, there’s Jazzercise in a half-hour. That’s more yer kink, ain’t it?”
“Get in dere’n show me how, homme,” Remy offered with a grin. Vic’s face twisted into a mocking scowl.
“Fuck you.”
“Put y’money where y’mout’ is, Vic.” St. John chuckled at the mental image of Vic in leotards, giving Olivia Newton-John a run for her money. Vic caught his look and returned it with one that dared him to voice it at risk of an ass-beating.
The three continued to work in sets on machines they shared, racking up reps with easy precision. That was how Piotr found them when he skirted around the weight benches and Stairmasters, wending his way through the midday crowd.
“Here’s the other pansy ass,” Victor accused. “Still playing with dollies?”
“Jealous?” Remy shot him a grin.
“Cute,” Vic grunted, but he smiled despite his usual urge to abuse Piotr with profanity. He liked the big, quiet Russian, even if he showed it by showering him with goodnatured curses and insulting his manhood. Ah, the joys of male bonding. “Maybe ya wouldn’t need ta play with dollies if ya were gettin’ some regular pussy,” he suggested helpfully, rubbing his sweaty face briskly with a towel.
“That would be fine, if that was all I was in it for,” he countered. Remy eyed him carefully.
“Had anyone in mind, mon ami?”
“Oh…nyet. Of course not.”
“Bullshit,” Vic grinned, showing a mouthful of shark’s teeth. “Petey’s chasin’ some tail! C’mon, Petey, don’t hold out on us, don’t just stand there like a pussy! Who is she? Is she hot?”
“It’s not like that,” Piotr growled defensively. Remy’s eyes were twinkling, his shoulders shaking with quiet mirth. Shit.
“What? She’s not hot? Yer settling fer a skank?”
“NO!” Piotr’s fists clenched; his lips tightened into a white line. “It’s not like that.” He reached over and shoved Vic roughly, catching his grunt of protest of being robbed of his perch. He stumbled off the weight bench as Piotr glared at St. John until he, too backed away. He began re-stacking the barbell, adding a ten to each side of Vic’s twenty-fives. He laid back on the bench and gripped the bar; Remy decided to step in, spotting him without being asked, despite his initial misgivings when he saw what Piotr benched.
He raised the bar cleanly in a regular rhythm. Vic looked thunderstruck.
“Well, fuck!”
“Nice,” St. John chuckled.
“She’s…not…a skank,” Piotr huffed.
“Y’talkin’ bout Sage? That fine thang y’brought t’Harry’s a while back?” Piotr grunted his assent.
“She stacked?” St. John inquired.
“Yep,” Remy supplied. Piotr scowled up at him.
“She’s more than a pretty face, tovarisch,” Piotr educated him.
“Hey, why not? Frail’s gotta have a nice ass and big tits, too,” Vic informed them.
“Sure. That might be all you need,” Piotr strained. The veins in his neck were just beginning to stand out in relief as he worked his way through his third set.
“Naw. She’s gotta be able ta cook, too. That way she can make me breakfast before I take her home,” Vic added cheerfully. Remy, St. John and Piotr all paused in what they were doing to stare at him with the shared look of “You’re so full of shit.” Vic ignored them as he stuffed his wraps into his duffle.
“Ya like her,” Remy prodded. Piotr paused mid-pressed, then nodded. “Fine, then.”
“Not…quite,” he hissed.
“Non?”
“Nyet. We had lunch. It didn’t…end well. Not like I hoped.”
“Didn’t tap that ass?” Vic accused on a whine.
“Fuck yourself,” Piotr grunted. Vic raised his craggy brows, pleased that he got a rise out of him.
“Didn’t tap that ass,” he confirmed cheekily. “Later, bros,” he grinned, taking off with the hefty swagger of someone who’d worked out until he was sore. St. John nodded his own goodbyes and followed him, swinging his own duffle over his shoulder and zipping up his Adidas windbreaker.
“Fucker,” Remy chuckled.
“Asshole,” Piotr grunted. Remy guffawed. Piotr finished two more sets before the two of them adjourned to the recumbent Lifecycles and keyed in forty minutes each, using the remote to tune the cardio theater to ESPN. They were each a study in contrasts; no casual bystander would have guessed they were friends. Remy was at home in gleaming nylon and Lycra workout gear, wearing tearaway sweats that snapped up the sides and spanking new cross-trainers. Piotr stuck with a plain white Nike tee with a black swoosh and thick cotton sweats, his own Asics running shoes so worn the uppers were almost pulling away from the soles.
“What happened? Why didn’t lunch turn inta dinner turned inta ‘my place or yours, petit’?”
“I made the mistake of being too honest, too soon. She said she liked me. She asked me out on a date.”
“And?”
“I rabbited. I told her I had nothing to offer, which I don’t after Laynia.”
“Shit. No wonda’, den. No woman wan’ hear dat, mec.”
“I don’t want to start what I cannot finish. She’s nice. She deserves someone who can give her more than I can.”
“What y’think y’can’t give, homme?”
“The whole nine yards. Sharing a bathroom. Keeping a toothbrush at her place. The kind of relationship that’s really a relationship, not just a few dates that drift off to ‘it’s been fun, but it’s not you, it’s me.’ I’m not ready for that again yet. It feels weird.”
“It always feels weird. It always WILL feel weird, homme. Dat’s just life.” The hum of the exercise bikes droned soothingly in the background as Piotr increased the incline.
“I don’t need the drama. I don’t want the baggage. I’ve got enough of my own.”
“Whaddya really afraid of, mec?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. Y’afraid of letting in a nice woman who likes ya fuh some reason. Ain’t nuthin, that much Remy knows.” Remy focused on the television monitors above. “Ya a family man, Pete?”
“Eh?”
“Ya wan’ a family one day? L’il ones, picket fence, a dog?”
“Not now,” he sighed. “My mother hasn’t stopped asking me the same question yet whenever I go home.” Going to his parents’ house and walking past Illyana’s empty room tore him apart.
“Awkward, ain’t it?”
“God help me, da!” Piotr contemplated the red digital display on his bike.
“There’s ways o’ knowin’ when a woman’s de one,” Remy hinted.
“Please,” Piotr huffed. “That’s bullshit.”
“Naw it ain’t. It’ll hit ya in de gut, mon ami. Go ahead. Call her up. Take her out. Talk to her. Watch for those little signs. Wait for dat l’il moment when y’can’t speak, y’fuhget what y’wuz plannin’ t’say cuz y’got so caught up in her dat nothin’ else mattered.”
“How will I know that moment? And how are you such an expert?” Remy was a stripper. Women threw themselves at him all the time, literally. Piotr didn’t usually take his advice on something as puzzling as unlocking the feminine mystique and matters of “love.”
“Trust me, homme.” A fleeting memory of a silken cloud of auburn hair and laughing green eyes and a laugh so sultry he wanted to drown in it came back to him, making Remy smile knowingly. They pedaled in relative silence, occasionally shouting abuse at the screens when the Patriots fumbled a pass.
Forty-eight hours later:
“That’s not a real word. Scott, that isn’t a real word, is it?”
“Read it an’ weep, bub,” Logan crowed, jabbing his finger in the tiny dictionary as he selected three more tiles from the bag. “Triple word score!” Scott leaned over the page where Logan’s thick finger was digging a groove into the book and sighed, shaking his head at Jean.
“He’s right. Guy’s good,” he shrugged in defeat, taking a pull from his beer.
“’Queue’ isn’t a word, it’s ‘cue,’ like pool cue. Or taking a cue.”
“Heh. It’s like the letter ‘Q.” Or ‘queue’ ta start something, or to position something for action,” Logan offered. Read ‘em and weep, Princess, he thought smugly. Ororo elbowed him and beamed before leaning back against his knees. He kneaded her shoulders fondly and tugged her hair, urging her to tip her head back as he devoured her lips.
“Gads, you two are mushy,” Scott griped.
“Look who’s talkin’,” Logan grunted.
“We’re newlyweds, what’s your excuse?” Jean pouted, still put out by having the triple word score built from one of her own words that she’d been planning to build on before he beat her to it. Jean peered into the dictionary, her cheeks pinkening when she saw that Logan’s word did exist. “Hmmph.”
Logan was just so…blue collar. He wasn’t supposed to know words. He was supposed to know football scores, or auto maintenance. Or the right kind of varnish to refinish a deck. He wasn’t supposed to be able to kick everyone’s ass in Scrabble.
They had a pleasant enough time despite initial misgivings on Jean’s part. She was used to Pietro. He fit in with their crowd and always looked at home in THEIR home. He was always polished. Laughed at her jokes. Told them about the neat places he traveled on business. He wasn’t loud. He always remembered to use a coaster. Jean fumed inwardly at the ring of moisture decorating her coffee table before she handed Logan a wicker trivet for his beer bottle.
Scott had never said much about Logan before the wedding. It only seemed like he opened up and sang like a canary about Logan once Ororo announced that he would accompany her to their Scrabble night.
“Logan plays a mean game of pool.”
“Logan grew up in Vancouver.”
“Logan’s an Eagles fan.”
“Logan drank us all under the table on dollar pitcher night at Harry’s, you had to be there.”
“Logan’s got a SWEET bike.” That had been where Jean decided to draw the line.
“Forget about seeing me naked ever again if you so much as LOOK at the Harley Davidson store windows like you’re buying one.”
“Yes, dear,” he mock-simpered.
Jean liked everything in her day-to-day little world to be tidy, with no loose ends. Everything had to fit. Everything belonged in its place. Her friends were the right friends. They were all supposed to be happily married and planning wedding showers, housewarming parties, Tupperware parties, and eventually baby showers. Jean first.
They were all too old to be dating motorcycle-riding roughnecks who were slavering mounds of sex and stubble, shrink-wrapped in denim, and unabashedly potty-mouthed. Jean eyed Logan with the distaste reserved for an unneutered, unpotty-trained Rottweiler.
Ororo was her best friend. They liked the same clothes. Ran in the same circles. Wanted the same brand of domestic bliss, or so she thought. She was going to be Ororo’s maid of honor. Maybe even sport the bump of an early pregnancy underneath her dress on Ororo’s special day, when she wore her white dress almost as well as Jean had. They’d been thick as thieves since college. They knew all of each other’s secrets.
At least the ones that really mattered, she reminded herself.
She wondered how long Ororo was going to keep it from her that her relationship with Pietro was all a big farce. Jean’s vision of Ororo’s wedding, huge and posh and dripping with the trappings of Pietro’s wealth and his father’s added money had evaporated as soon as she answered the door.
“Well, don’t just stand there, Jean, let us in! It’s chilly out here,” Ororo nagged, breezing inside and giving Jean a peck on the cheek. Logan strode in after her, nodding a greeting.
“H’lo, Red,” he rumbled. He scanned her foyer appraisingly, taking in the neatly framed art prints and plaster replica of Rodin’s “The Kiss” on a small settee beneath her ornate brass mirror. “Nice,” he grunted.
“Thank you,” she rasped, wondering why her voice seemed to die. Logan greeted Scott with the usual grappling handshake that men always had to offer each other before ordering him to hang up their coats and handing him a beer. Jean poured herself and Ororo each a diet 7-Up before they carried the snacks out to the coffee table.
What really threw her was how comfortable Ororo looked with Logan. Again, glowing with sensuality and satisfaction. His big, rough hands were always touching her, playing with her hair, tweaking her nose, tickling her. Ororo and Pietro used to simply hold hands and communicate silently out of long habit. They weren’t so…demonstrative. Logan was already combing his fingers through Ororo’s curls as she leaned thoughtfully over her rack of tiles, contemplating her next word.
“Aha!” she grinned, placing three. “Quip!”
“Nice,” Logan encouraged. Jean frowned at her own rack’s offerings, all vowels. Grrr. Grrrrrrr. Scott wasn’t in much better shape; all of his letters were only each worth one point.
“We’re having a housewarming party,” Jean blurted out, wanting to enjoy the attention again once it drifted away.
“We are?” Scott inquired blandly, looking playfully clueless. Jean stuck her tongue out at him.
“In two weeks. Kind of a “now Scott has all of his stuff here and sublet his apartment” party, for lack of a better description. Just to get to know the neighbors…and meet all of Scott’s friends that I might not have, yet.” Jean pasted a smile on her face that belonged in a toothpaste commercial.
“Maybe,” Ororo considered. She craned her neck up at Logan. “What do you think?” He shrugged noncommittally.
“Whatever ya want, kiddo,” he murmured, caressing the crest of her cheekbone with his finger.
“Right answer,” Scott chuckled approvingly. “We’ll pencil you in.” Then he added devilishly, “Bring beer.”
“So, Logan, what is it you do again?”
“Work in the ER with yer lovin’ spouse here, and in the radiology suite. Mostly taking films of dumbasses that fractured a hand in barfights or breaking into someone’s car through the window,” Logan announced cheerfully. “Loads of fun. Love my job,” he assured her.
“Fascinating,” Jean acknowledged, shooting Ororo a look. Ororo shot her one back that said “you opened this can of worms, you close it.”
“That’s how I found out who ‘Ro was, the second time I met her,” Logan pointed out.
“Lucky me,” Ororo oozed sweetly, practically purring as he kneaded her neck again.
“Speaking of which…’Ro, it’s time for you to eat.” Scott nodded to the snack tray, then selected a Triscuit and loaded it with a slice of cheese and a strip of smoked turkey, pushing it into her grasp.
“Aye, aye, boss,” she acquiesced. She thought she heard Logan growl behind her but dismissed it, biting into the tidbit and catching crumbs with her fingers.
“Might not even be too soon ta serve up some grub fer all of us,” he muttered. “Don’t look at my tiles, Red,” he winked just to egg Jean on. Her mouth dropped open like a guppy’s as she pointed after him.
“I don’t cheat!” she shrieked. “Hey…where are you going?”
“Checkin’ on whatcha got in the oven.”
“No, no, no; I’ll get it. You’re a guest.” Then she grabbed Ororo’s wrist as she was mid-reach for another Triscuit. “Not you. You come with me,” she ordered.
“O-kayyyyy,” Ororo drawled, her eyes swinging back to Logan sheepishly as she was dragged from the kitchen. Scott and Logan abandoned the Scrabble tiles and turned on the game.
“S’pose they’ll be making trips ta the bathroom together next?”
“I wouldn’t bet against the possibility. Pass me the honey roasted nuts, dude.” Scott made himself more comfortable on the recliner, pushing down the lever to put his feet up before he scratched his stomach. Logan let out a hearty belch. And all was well with the world.
The kitchen was a different story.
“Queue isn’t really a word.”
“Tell that to Webster.” Ororo shivered. She missed the warmth of Logan’s legs against her back and wanted to get back to her spot. She also felt Jean’s odd tension once they were alone. Funny tingles ran up her arms, but she couldn’t figure out why.
“So, Ororo…are you happy?” Jean lifted out a perfect pot roast from the oven, filling the kitchen with the scent of onions and chicken broth.
“Happy enough,” she sighed. “He’s good to me. We’re having fun.”
“And you don’t miss Pietro? Not even a little bit?”
“No. Hell, no. Why?”
“Nothing. He cheated, I know. But…Ororo, he was more like you. You had so much in common with him.”
Ororo tsked. “We were both bipeds. And mammals. And we had opposable thumbs. The similarities were more vague after that.”
“You’re educated, and you have class. You came from a good family.”
“Logan’s parents are still alive. His older brother owns his own contracting firm,” Ororo elaborated. “He left a message on my machine one night when he was looking for Logan to tell him that their father was coming to town. He sounded nice.” A frisson of annoyance tightened the back of Ororo’s skull. She didn’t know why she was justifying Logan to Jean. Or why it was suddenly necessary.
“Pietro’s dad adored you. He wanted the two of you to get married.”
“It wasn’t up to him. He was great, Jean, but a great father-in-law doesn’t guarantee a great marriage. Shoot, Pietro’s dad was on wife number three before he finally hit paydirt, or at least stopped having to part with his cash in alimony checks. Kinda ironic, don’t you think?”
The plates clinked together as Jean pulled them down from the cupboard. “Grab the silver, would you?” she urged.
“Sure,” Ororo agreed, glad to answer a question with no hidden meaning.
The formal dining room of Jean’s home was immaculate and looked like something out of Better Homes and Gardens. A cherrywood table with a leaflet that allowed it to seat six was the focus of the room, already laid out with gold-rimmed crystal and beige linen napkins. Nailhead upholstered chairs covered in pale rose moiré satin complemented tasseled curtains in creamy silk shantung. A small Persian rug muted their footsteps as they came through entryway. Ororo was already barefoot, knowing how Jean liked to protect her hardwood floors.
Jean was just about to serve the roast when Ororo decided she didn’t like where she was sitting. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just moving,” she said, heedless of Jean’s odd little look when she moved her placemat, plate, glass and flatware across to the other side of the table. Scott was already at the head of the table, facing the window. Jean already set her place at the other end. The symmetry of the place settings was…off, now that Ororo had moved hers to the other side so that she could sit beside Logan, rather than across. Jean opened her mouth as if to protest the lack of balance, everything was perfect before…
…but she shut up, and carved the roast.
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