Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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Jenkins is louder than usual tonight, mostly because the Braves game is on and half the bar seems personally invested in every pitch.
The four of us are packed into our usual booth near the back, surrounded by enough food to feed twice as many people. Two baskets of wings sit in the middle of the table beside a plate of cheese fries we've already demolished, and empty ranch cups, crumbled napkins, and discarded bones are scattered between four sweating bottles of beer.
It looks pretty much the same as it did when we were seventeen, except back then we weren't legally allowed to have the beers.
Getting all four of us here at the same time has become harder over the years. Mitchell and I spend most of our days juggling jobs for the company, Cash practically lives at his accounting firm, and Wyatt has been bouncing between tutoring, substitute teaching, and trying to find a permanent teaching position. Add everything going on with my dad and the fact that I'd rather spend most of my free time with Delaney these days, there aren't many nights when all four of us have nowhere else we need to be.
Tonight, somehow, we've managed it.
Cash reaches across the table and grabs the last cheese fry at the exact moment Mitchell goes for it.
"You've eaten half the fucking plate," Mitchell complains.
Cash dips the fry into what's left of the ranch. "Should've been faster."
"You're six-five. Your arms are longer than everyone else's."
"Sounds like a personal problem."
Wyatt snorts into his beer while Mitchell flips Cash off, and I just shake my head and take another wing from the basket before Cash can steal that too.
Some things don't change between guys who've known each other longer than they haven't.
Mitchell reaches for a jalapeño popper and says, "Alright, serious question."
The collective groan around the table is immediate.
"That's usually when your questions are the worst," Cash tells him.
Mitchell rolls his eyes and ignores him. "Do you think you could beat a kangaroo in a fight? Be honest."
I stop with my beer halfway to my mouth. "What?"
"A kangaroo. One-on-one. Could you take it?"
"No."
Mitchell looks at me. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"You didn't even think about it."
"I don't need to."
"Why?" he asks, seeming genuinely confused.
I set down my beer. "Dude, have you seen a fucking kangaroo?"
