I looked at the three of them.
Is this what marriage does to men? Makes them gossip about graphs and sexual positions over beer instead of watching football like a normal person?
“It’s laminated,” Max added in a cheerful voice. “Waterproof.”
I wiped my face with my hands and said in a gruff voice, “I’m an incredible sexual partner.”
“Two minutes—” Reid coughed.
“It’s been a while!” I fired back. “All right?”
It slipped.
My confession.
I had their attention.
“I think I want to see the graph now,” I muttered.
“No, let’s stay in this safe circle of trust,” Max said soothingly. “How long, exactly? Are we talking days… months…”
I looked away.
“…years?”
“Year,” I snapped. “I’ve been busy, thanks to you.”
“Ah yes, my signs.” Max nodded slowly. “But really, can’t you at least squeeze in a few one-night stands? A year? That’s… Well, Jason, I hate to say it, but you’re like the male version of being pregnant. It’s just no fun — no alcohol, no soft cheeses, no comfort in bed. Look at you! You’re past nine months and can’t even see your ankles! Shit, man! Pull yourself together.”
“You lost me at pregnant,” Colt added.
“Same,” Reid and I said in unison.
Max sighed. “Come on, it’s graph time.”
“What about the mess?” I looked around the littered lawn.
“Even prisoners get bathroom breaks,” Max muttered.
“Been to prison much?” I laughed.
“We’ve been over this. No more empty threats, Jason, especially when I’m about to change your life.”
Colt rubbed his hands together while Reid jogged after us.
The house was quiet except for the low hum of the TV.
Huh, maybe the girls went out?
We rounded the corner and walked down the hall and into my dad’s old office. All of his things were still in their place. It was the one room I hadn’t touched, because I didn’t have the heart to mess with the crown molding. His large mahogany desk filled half the room, and his leather chair made a squeaking noise when Max dropped into it and then felt underneath the desk as if he was searching for a key.
“The graph’s here?” I tapped the glass top.
Max looked slightly guilty as he felt around and then pulled out an honest-to-God laminated graph with a woman drawn on it, numbers on her body, complete with a color-coded key to the right, typed out like a freaking worksheet. “Your dad found Colt’s copy then got curious. What? I’m a giver. I let him have the original, and he hid it from your fox of a mom and told her he’d just been working out more and reading her Cosmo at night.”
“Stop.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Just stop.”
“What?” he laughed. “They’re old, not dead. Am I right? Plus, that mom of yours has sexy legs—”