I rolled my eyes at her. “And yet I still manage to live a full life without being controlled by my phone.” Hayley and Parker both put down their phones. “No, no. I don’t mean you two, I just mean I don’t need that in my life. You both have beautiful families and sharing them with the world is a gift. Crowbar is adorable, but who wants to see pics of him every day?”

“Every single person in the world does,” Hayley said.

I looked at Parker who nodded and back at Hayley. I shook my head. “Stop. Grayson, are you going to weigh in on this?”

He shrugged and grinned. “Sorry, Sutton. It’s the way of the world now.”

I leaned back and sighed. “Who has time for this?”

“Every single person in the world does,” Hayley said again. She reached for my phone. “Let me be in charge of your social media. Send me pics of coaching, Crowbar, and you in a bikini and I’ll post them for you.”

I snorted and reached for my phone, but she shooed me away. “Hang on. Let me at least download a few things for you.” I dropped my head in my hands, completely embarrassed.

“Fine.” I felt warm fingers on my hand and knew they weren’t Hayley’s. Parker had reached between the wine glasses and briefly touched my hand out of support. Her body was always warm. Years ago, I used to snuggle against her for body heat.

“It’s okay. I avoided it, too. I was busy raising kids. But we moved a few times and I missed my friends so I jumped on the social media train to stay in touch and haven’t looked back,” Parker said. She stood to clear the table. “Who wants dessert?”

“Please,” Grayson said. Hayley and I nodded.

Parker grabbed her and Grayson’s plates, and I grabbed ours and followed her to the kitchen. My eyes darted up and down her body. She’d matured nicely. She had curves and took care of her body. I knew that Hayley struggled a lot after each birth with body image. Being a quarterback’s wife came with a stupid set of unwritten rules. Parker obviously took that to heart because she looked the same size as she did in high school, only more curvy.

“What’s for dessert?” I asked, not really knowing what to talk about.

“Boston cream pie.” She looked at me expectantly as though daring me to question why she chose that particular dessert.

“Oh.” Boston Cream Pie was my favorite. It wasn’t a coincidence. I didn’t take the bait. I couldn’t. “That sounds delicious. Homemade or store-bought?” I knew it was homemade. She made me one for my eighteenth birthday. It was lopsided and the chocolate frosting melted because she put it together while it was still warm, but it was perfect because she made it for me.