Page 79 of More Than Water
Foster parks his vehicle in front of a small Victorian home on the hill that overlooks the city. I peer up at the quaint house, highlighted by a streetlamp in the black sky. The light illuminates the house’s palette of bright colors, accents of green and purple against the yellow facade.
“Is this it?” I ask, unbuckling my seat belt, preparing to exit the car.
“Yep. We’re here.” He kills the ignition and opens the car door. “Let’s go in.”
I step onto the sidewalk as Foster rounds his well-loved more-than-ten-years-old Honda Accord. With a six-pack of beer in my hand, I follow his lead and ascend the steps to the front door of his friend’s house where he rings the doorbell. We wait under the tiny covered alcove, listening to the sounds of voices in cheerful spirits reverberating from within the walls.
“Thanks again for inviting me,” I say, tucking a sun-kissed strand of hair behind my ear, highlighted from my recent time at sea. “And for reminding me how lame it is to spend New Year’s Eve alone. It was by choice, you know.”
“You were going to be a total loser, and I can’t be associated with someone like that. What would people say?”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want anyone to insult your judgment. We both know what a blow that would be to your intelligence.”
“Exactly.”
The door opens, and the golden light from within floods the porch, framing a tall man’s silhouette.
“Hey, man,” Graham, Foster’s light-blond friend, says, widening the entrance. “You made it.”
“All in one piece. And I brought a friend, too,” he adds, placing a hand at the middle of my back. “You remember EJ, right?”
“How could I forget?” he asks rhetorically. “You’re the girl who likes lots of tongue in her bets.”
“I’m glad I made an impression. I’m not sure if being known as tongue-girl is a good thing or a bad thing, but I’ll go with it.” I lift the six-pack in his direction, and he takes it in his free hand. “Thanks for having me.”
“Sure thing. C’mon in.”
Graham steps aside, allowing Foster and me to enter the warm house fragrant with pine and the remnants of pizza. He shows us a chair near the steps where we can leave our jackets and then leads us through a short hallway to the kitchen where a stream of voices in conversation billows out.
In the tight space of white-and-green tiles, three men—two I recognize as Peter and James from that fateful night when I won my bet at the bar—are gathered around a small table, playing a card game, while three girls are in the midst of a conversation at the counter. A fourth girl, a fit brunette with angular features, enters the room from a side hallway at the same time as us and makes her way past the group of women.
“Hi, Foster,” she says in a cold tone.
“Hey, Fiona,” he responds easily.
Fiona openly evaluates me and then joins the men at the table, resting an arm on James’s shoulder. Graham shakes his head and then proceeds toward the refrigerator, placing my beer inside.
“Foster!” Peter shouts, rising from his seat to greet him. “Good to see you.”
“You, too,” Foster says in return. “How was your Christmas?”
“Boring as hell. I couldn’t wait to get back.”
“Understood.” He points an index finger in my direction. “You remember EJ, right?”
“Of course. Her views on Newton’s laws are unforgettable.” He pauses, staring at me in deep thought. “Speaking of, do you think you could do me a favor?”
“Possibly?” I say, unsure.
He leans in closer and points a thumb over his shoulder. “Do you see the guy over there with the red shirt and dark hair?”
I peek at the gathering of men seated at the circular table, identifying the person in question. “Yeah. What about him?”
“I would give my left nut if you could show him your scientific knowledge. That Newton’s law bit is epic.”
“Lance?” Foster questions.
“Yes, the asshole,” Peter answers. “He just took fifty bucks from me, and I’d like to bring his ego down a bit.”