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“Mezcal creates operational errors.”
I laughed. “What happens when we have to greet families tomorrow?”
“We bring mezcal.”
“There’s paired trivia.”
“We bring more.”
“Charades.”
“Make Briggs drink first.”
“A cooking challenge with an estate chef.”
Ryan considered it. “Daniel drinks first.”
“Lawn games.”
“Tequila might be more appropriate outdoors.”
“We’re supposed to be responsible members of the wedding party.”
“That was Bliss’s first mistake.”
I laughed hard enough to lean against his arm. Ryan steadied me with one hand at my waist, holding me without tightening his grip or making the contact into more than I could carry.
For several seconds, we remained that way.
His palm was warm against the curve above my jeans. My shoulder rested against his, and his familiar scent surrounded me beneath the clean bite of beer and mezcal. I felt his chest move when he laughed softly, joining me before either of us remembered how much hurt remained beneath the ease.
“Maybe we need mezcal for every event,” he said.
“That’s an irresponsible plan.”
“It’s the best plan anyone has made for this wedding.”
“Bliss has spreadsheets.”
“Spreadsheets don’t make Lance tolerable.”
“Neither will mezcal.”
“Enough mezcal makes everyone tolerable.”
“You broke your hand the last time you drank enough mezcal to test that theory.”
The laughter left him.
His hand loosened at my waist without disappearing immediately. The pain came back into the space between us, quiet and unavoidable.
I straightened, giving him room to move away.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Ryan dropped his hand and looked toward his beer. “You didn’t say anything untrue.”
“I wasn’t trying to drag us there.”
