Summer Best
Gershwin found a squashed pillow on the sofa. Nearby on the coffee table were a pile of casino chips and a red plastic mixing bowl. In the kitchen, he moved his wife’s mug from the counter to the dishwasher and a familiar cough floated in from the back hall. Mystery solved, he made a couple shots of espresso, retrieved the mixing bowl and was opening a box of waffle mix when a large man grabbed him from behind.
"Hello, love,” said Casey Phelan, smelling of hand soap and a night on the town.Gershwin pried himself free and saw that Casey was wearing a wrinkled black suit, no tie, and dress shoes with fresh scuff marks.
“Where the hell did you come from?”
“Nico’s bachelor party. The boys and I took a van down to Foxwoods.”
“Did you win or lose?”“Can’t remember.”“And how’d you end up on my couch?”
"Let’s see,” said Casey, tucking in his shirt, “we piled into the van around three and when I woke up, Lennie was steering and Brice was working the pedals.”
“You hire idiots.”
“But they work hard. Anyway, when I saw your exit, I made them drop me off on the ramp.”
“Did you run into Helen?”
Casey found his favorite mug.“Yeah, what is she doing up so early?”
“The gym,” said Gershwin, handing him the milk.
“Good for her, but she didn’t want me crashing on the porch, something about your nosy neighbors. She gave me a pillow, too, but the bucket, that was pure mockery.” He poured milk into his mug and put it in the microwave. “Oh, I took a picture of us.” While his milk was heating, Casey pulled out his phone and showed off his handiwork. In the image his eyes were scrunched up against the morning and his hair was flat on one side. He was grinning, too, like a man who enjoyed waking up on other people’s couches, whereas Helen, in bright gym clothes and carrying a pink blouse on a hanger, was holding up a hand as if she were fending off paparazzi. Comically miffed, she clearly hadn’t planned on running into Casey, but Gershwin had to admit that the morning flattered them both, made his his wife and best friend look not just tired but beautifully tired, like gods who played too hard and left the mundane tasks, like making breakfast and signing kids up for camp, to the mortals.
“She’s your flowers,” said Casey, sticking a finger into his tepid milk. “I look like the mortician.”
“More like the corpse,” said Gershwin. “Let me froth that for you.”
"No thanks, mate, I’ve got a meeting with a lawyer in half an hour and a ride-share that’s going to be here any second.”
“You want to say hi to the boys?”
“Aren’t they done with school, too?”
"Yup, we've all got a month of Saturdays–”
–“followed by a month of Sunday. Don’t rub it in, and you’re even crazier than your wife if you think I’m going to wake them up.” Casey added the espresso shots to his milk and popped it back into the microwave. “But you should put those chips I left you into their college fund. That’s a sweatshirt right there. Maybe half a sweatshirt, but I’ll win more next time. Hey, where are you and Helen taking us this summer?”
“Camps run through July. We visit her parents first week in August and I’ve bookmarked a few rentals.”
“Text me the details. I’ll bring trivia and all the chicken wings you can eat.”The microwave went off, but now the coffee was boiling. Gershwin offered his friend a travel mug and a breakfast bar, but Casey looked at his phone.“I’m good, if I make a mess in Dontae’s blue Camry, I’ll lose my rating.”
“You should eat something.”Casey took the bar.
“Did I ever tell you you remind me of my mother?”“All the time,” said Gershwin.“It’s uncanny,” said Casey, retying a shoe, and he headed off to make money.