The click-click of Isabel’s heels draw my attention to her feet. She’s wearing black stilettos and they do not look comfortable for a three-block walk. Grabbing her arm, I stop her.
“You can’t walk all this way in those.”
She glances down at her feet. “I’m fine. They’re comfortable.”
I tilt my head to the side and glare at her.
“What?” she argues. “Are you going to give me your shoes?”
“Come on, I’ll carry you.” Turning around, I kneel, so she can reach my back, and I wait for her to climb on.
“Drake, you can’t carry me all the way back.”
“Remember when you twisted your ankle on our ski trip and I had to carry you all the way down the mountain? That was nothing, and this time, you don’t have ten pounds of ski gear on. Just quit arguing with me and climb on.”
She lets out a long sigh. Then she slips each shoe off, hands them to Hunter, and quickly climbs onto my back. My hands grasp onto her thighs that are squeezing around my waist as we start our walk again. I can’t help but notice Hunter is wearing a crooked smirk on his face.
“This is hardly the dress to wear for piggyback rides,” she says, her voice just next to my ear.
“Your underwear isn’t showing,” Hunter replies from behind us.
“Barely,” she adds, and we all chuckle as we walk.
Up ahead, there are colorful lights shining on the side of the road, next to what looks like another bar. As we get closer, we see people crowded around a food truck and the aroma of grilled meat fills the air.
“Ooh, tacos,” Isabel says with a hum. “I’m starving.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, heading toward the food truck.
“Damn, those smell good,” Hunter adds.
Fifteen minutes later, the three of us are sitting on a curb in the heart of the city, scarfing down street tacos and drinking beer. Hunter has shed his jacket, letting Isabel sit on it, and I have my hair pulled into a bun to keep it out of my carne asada.
This is us. More than fancy suits and exclusive clubs. It’s moments like this one that feels most like us, where we came from. Hunter and I were never cut out for the fancy shit. We spent the first half of our lives clawing our way out of the slums and even now, doing as well as we are, I need gentle reminders like this that we’re still us.
And as fun and relaxing as this is, there’s still an awkward conversation to be had. It’s still us, but it’s also not entirely us because everything between the three of us has changed, and I’m not sure it will ever be the same again.
I kissed my best friend’s wife. And he looked pissed about it.
That’s not something we just move on from and assume it won’t ever come back and haunt us. And since I know Hunter will be the last person to ever start a tough conversation, and Isabel will avoid confrontation at all costs, it’s on me to bring this one up.
Crumpling up my napkin and chugging back the rest of my Mexican lager, I brace myself for what I’m about to say. “I just want to know that we can put this whole thing behind us.”
“The fight?” Isabel replies, looking at me with confusion on her face.
“No. Not the fight. What happened before the fight.”
Her expression morphs into understanding with a soft, “Oh.”
“Why would we put it behind us?” Hunter asks. “We made a deal.”
“Don’t you remember losing your shit and throwing your wife over your shoulder as you stormed off?”
“I didn’t lose my shit,” he argues.
My jaw falls open. “You’re joking, right? Hunter, I’ve never seen you look so angry in all my life.”
“I wasn’t angry. I was…”