15. Lance
Lance
Trevor and Becca’s place smells like garlic and lime the second I step inside, which means Becca’s cooking her mom’s Caribbean recipes again.
The craftsman bungalow in North Park has a wide porch and window boxes full of herbs, exactly the sort of place where newlyweds host weekly game nights for their chosen family.
“Finally!”
Becca pulls the door open before I can knock, grinning at me. Her curls are tied up in a messy bun, already coming loose around her face. She’s all sharp smiles and restless energy already, basically Trevor in a female form.
“We’re starting charades in ten minutes, and you’re on my team because Trevor cheats.”
“I don’t bloody cheat,” Trevor calls from somewhere inside. “I’m just better at nonverbal communication than you give me credit for.”
“You make up rules halfway through,” Becca shoots back, then smiles sweetly at me. “Where’s George? I thought you two were coming together.”
“He’s just parking.” I step inside and the warmth hits me immediately, not just from the temperature but from the whole vibe of the place. Music playing from a speaker in the corner, laughter coming from the kitchen, lived-in comfort that makes you want to kick off your shoes and stay awhile.
Trevor comes out of the kitchen with a beer in each hand, grin already in place. “Lance, mate. You missed the last two game nights and Becca hasn’t shut up about team balance.”
“I’ve been busy playing nurse.” I take the beer and follow them into the living room, where the furniture’s been pushed back. “George’s hand is still in a splint. He needs help with most things.”
“How’s he doing? I’ve seen him a couple of times, but work’s been hectic lately.” Trevor drops onto the couch and pulls Becca down onto his lap.
“Good. The thigh stitches are out, and we’re just making sure the cut doesn’t reopen. He’s mostly impatient about the hand.” I don’t mention how he made it worse by punching my drunk, homophobic attacker during my first ever disastrous attempt at a date with a man.
I settle into the armchair across from them, taking in the space. There are new photos on the walls from the wedding, including one of all of us on the Azure Tides beach that makes me smile despite myself. “How was the honeymoon?”
Becca lights up, and I know I’ve just opened the floodgates. “Bali was incredible. The beaches are unreal, and everything smells like salt and flowers. We stayed in this villa tucked into the jungle, and Trevor almost fell off the balcony trying to get a sunrise photo.”
“I didn’t almost fall. I was perfectly safe balancing on my sturdy foot,” Trevor says, laughing.
“You climbed onto a chair to get a better angle. You’re lucky you made it to breakfast.”
I’m still laughing at the mental image when George walks in, and my brain locks onto him all at once.
He’s wearing that black henley that fits him like it was poured on.
The fabric stretches tight across his broad chest, hugging the heavy muscle of his pecs and the sharp cut of his shoulders.
I’ve never paid attention to how a shirt can cling to a man’s chest before, but right now I can’t stop noticing it.
His hair is pushed back, a little messier than usual, and he’s carrying that relaxed weekend energy with shoulders loose and jaw relaxed.
Fuck. He looks good.
I’d spent the entire drive here trying not to stare at him.
He’d insisted on driving even with the splinted hand, muttering something about “not letting a little tape stop me from driving my own damn truck.” I’d argued for about thirty seconds before giving up, because arguing with George when he’s made up his mind is like arguing with a brick wall.
“George!” Becca jumps up to hug him, careful of his splinted hand. “How’s the patient?”
“Surviving Lance’s medical tyranny,” he says, accepting a beer from Trevor with his good hand.
“I’m not a tyrant.” I take a sip of my beer, watching him settle onto the other end of the couch. “A tyrant wouldn’t bring you coffee every dressing change.”
“A tyrant would definitely use coffee as a manipulation tactic,” George counters, and Trevor snorts.
“You two bicker like an old married couple,” Becca observes, heading back toward the kitchen. “Kim, come meet Lance and George!”
A woman steps out of the kitchen holding a glass of red wine. She’s striking, with long, dark red hair cascading in loose waves over her shoulders, warm brown skin, and a smile that lights up her whole face. She wears jeans and a simple black top, effortless yet somehow perfectly put together.
Becca appears right behind her, one hand landing lightly on the woman’s shoulder as she steers her forward.
Right. There it is.
It’s so familiar I almost don’t notice it at first. This almost always happens.
Good-looking new girl, single, and somehow she ends up right in front of me within minutes.
No one really decides on this, but it’s understood.
Lance will take it from here. Lance will flirt, keep things light, make her feel welcome. Lance will do his thing.
The old version of me would’ve been halfway through charming her already. Now, I just stand there, hesitating a little.
“You must be the notorious Lance.” She extends her hand. Her grip is firm when I shake it. “Becca’s told me a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” The line comes out on autopilot, the smile following right after it, like muscle memory.
“She said you’re trouble.” Kim grins as she settles into the other armchair. “But the fun kind.”
“She’s not wrong. But I’m also extremely helpful, moderately funny, and an excellent charades partner if you’re looking for one.”
“Is that an offer?”
“Absolutely. We’re redefining what it means to have fun at game nights.”
I glance at George. It’s brief, not even a full look but more like a quick check to see if he’s reading into this the same way I am. It’s as if I can explain something without saying a word, that this isn’t what it used to be, and that I’m not stepping into it the same way.
He’s leaned back on the couch, beer in hand, watching it all with that calm, observant expression. When our eyes meet, he lifts the bottle slightly in acknowledgment.
There’s no judgment or interruption. He just lets it play out.
For some reason, I want to drop into his lap and stay there instead.
Kim leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “So, Becca tells me you’re a nurse? That must be intense.”
“Emergency, so yeah, it gets pretty wild. It’s never boring though. How about you? What brings you to San Diego?”
“I’m a marine biologist, visiting from Monterey. There’s a conference at Scripps next week, but I came down early to spend time with Becca.” She takes a sip of wine, her eyes bright with interest. “I study kelp forest ecosystems. It’s also never boring.”
“That’s actually really cool. I did a rotation in hyperbaric medicine during school and got kind of fascinated by the whole underwater thing.”
We fall into easy conversation about diving and ocean conservation. George is talking to Trevor about their plans of coming back to work after the honeymoon, his deep voice carrying across the room, and I find myself tracking their conversation even while maintaining my own.
“Alright!” Becca claps her hands together, standing up. “Charades time. Lance and Kim versus me and Trevor. George, you’re sitting this round out because of your hand, but you’re judging for fairness.”
George grunts, settling deeper into the couch.
“You’re definitely taking our side,” Trevor argues. “Family loyalty.”
“I’m only a stepbrother. Doesn’t count,” George says.
“It bloody counts. You’re a Macklin.”
Becca pulls out her phone and sets up the app, explaining the rules even though we’ve all played this a hundred times. “Standard charades rules. One minute per turn. No talking, no props, and no pointing at actual objects in the room. George is our official timer and judge.”
We start the game and fall into fierce competition almost immediately.
Kim and I crush the first round because she’s quick and I’m good at reading people, which turns out to be a dangerous combination.
When I act out “zombie attack” by charging stiff-legged around the living room making feral faces, she gets it in one second flat.
“You’re really good at this,” she says, high-fiving me as we sit back down.
“I’m good under pressure.” I wink at her, and she laughs, the sound warm and genuine.
“I bet you are.”
I catch George watching us from the couch, his expression neutral but his eyes tracking every movement. When our eyes meet he looks away, taking a long drink from his beer, and I feel the shift land square in my chest.
Thinking about this way too much makes me feel concerned. Do I want George to be jealous of me flirting with Kim? Why would I want that? Would he even feel anything of the sort?
Trevor stands up, glances at the phrase, and goes all in. He starts charging around the living room, arms flailing, making aggressive stomping movements that are honestly impressive in their commitment to the bit.
“Bull!” Becca yells. “Bull something! Bull in a china shop!”
Trevor relaxes out of the pose, turns too fast, and clips the side table with his leg, sending it sliding straight into George’s legs.
The corner of the table catches George right on his injured thigh, and I watch his face go white. He tries to hide it, jaw clenching as he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, but I see it.
I’m across the room before I consciously decide to move.
“G, you okay?” I’m kneeling at his side, hands already reaching for his leg. “Wait, don’t move.”
“Fine.” But his voice comes out strained, and that’s all the confirmation I need.
“I’m going to have a look,” I say, my authoritative nurse voice surfacing on its own.
“Shit, George, so sorry.” Trevor’s hovering nearby, looking badly stricken.
“It’s fine,” George says, smiling and shaking his head, but I can feel the tension in his leg under my hands.