When he dropped his hand, both came to rest on my thighs. But the one not holding a beer was open, moving slowly and soothingly up to my hip, down my thigh, and back again (something else he used to do, something else I used to like and now something I still liked).

He remarked, “I see my sweet Tess has spent some time gettin’ her head filled with shit.”

Hmm. I didn’t know if he was right or wrong about that.

“Brock,” I whispered, but said no more.

This obviously was okay, for Brock was in the mood to talk.

“Lot about women I do not get. The biggest is that they listen to each other’s shit. No one knows what goes down between a woman and her man except that woman. Only thing they know is what went down with their own men. This colors what spews outta their mouths when they’re yammerin’ about their friends’ men even when what they’re sayin’ has got fuck-all to do with the situation at hand.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” I replied. “Martha is my closest friend and I know she has my best interests at heart.”

“She know you when you married Heller?” he asked and I nodded. “Your girl had your best interests at heart, babe, she woulda tackled you when you were walking down the aisle.”

“She did her best,” I shared, then kept sharing. “She told me she was a bridesmaid under protest. She always hated Damian.”

“How’s she feel about me?” he asked, a question I knew he knew the answer to because Martha had been around him on several occasions and she was not one of those girlfriends who pretended to like their girlfriend’s boyfriend when she didn’t like him. She was one of those girlfriends who stared at the men in their friends’ lives balefully, made catty comments under her breath that were meant to be heard, and pounced on any possible failing the man had, lighting it up like a beacon.

Damian had hated her nearly as much as she hated him.

And since Brock didn’t miss much and he’d been around her on more than one occasion, including just now, I figured he didn’t miss this so I didn’t answer.

He knew why I wasn’t answering, apparently took no offense, and went on. “How long have you known her?”

“Since fifth grade.”

“She doesn’t wear a wedding band.”

“She’s never been married,” I admitted.

“She’s your age and never been married. Clearly a winner when lookin’ for man advice.”

“Brock,” I whispered again, and suddenly his hand snaked up, caught me behind the neck, and pulled me down so my face was close to his.