“Do you think they like the Studmuffins?” I ask. “That flag is very large. They’re obviously fans of the Triple-A team.”

“How do you know it’s Triple-A?” Nichole asks. “You don’t watch baseball.”

“I waited a table that just came from a game.” I shrug. “Either way, I wonder if they’re actually fans or if it’s more of an ironic thing. You know, like . . . they got it for free, and now it’s the only decoration they have besides the four-by-six frame that’s made for a side table, not a wall.”

Nichole taps her chin. “Hmm, well, the guy . . . God, what’s his name again?”

“Banner,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

Out of the two of us, Nichole likes to sleep around, and I have no problem with that. Get it in while you can is what I say, but we’re a package deal. Not as in threesome potential, but as in I have no shame in waiting for Nichole to get done with her business so we can walk out together, hand in hand.

“Oh right, Banner. Anyway, he seems more ironic than anything. The flowers on his button-up shirt scream ironic.”

“I could see that,” I answer just as the stairs creak.

“Oh God, he’s coming.” Nichole flashes her teeth at me. “Anything in them?”

“Nope, you’re good.”

“And breath is fine still?”

“It didn’t change in the past three minutes.”

She opens her mouth and closes it. Opens and closes. “How’s my range, you know, in case I need to slip anything in my mouth tonight?”

I chuckle. “Looking a little stiff, but I’m sure he’ll be stiff as well.”

“Ha, good one.”

“Hey,” Banner says from the doorway of the living room. “Uh, you want to head up?” He gestures toward the stairs with his thumb. When we arrived, he asked for a minute—most likely to clean his room, make his bed, you know, make things comfortable—so we took a seat, but it looks like planned sexual intercourse is about to commence.

“Yeah, sure,” Nichole says nonchalantly as she stands.

Eyes on me, Banner asks, “Are you just going to . . . sit there?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say as I lean back on the couch and cross one leg over the other.

“You don’t want to go home or anything?” he asks, looking far too confused.

“Nope, I’m good. I’ll just wait for Nichole. The couch is comfy, and if you can just direct me to the remote, I’ll drown out the inevitable moans.”

“Uh, yeah,” he says as he walks over to the TV and removes the remote Velcroed to the side of it. Huh, they don’t have a dining room table, but they have the wherewithal to Velcro the TV remote so it doesn’t get lost. What kind of household is this?

He tosses the remote, and I do a fine job of not even coming close to catching it. It hits me in the arm instead.