When the phone rings a little before eight the next morning, Dante thinks it’s Ryan, calling to say he’s on his way. Hey sexy, he thinks, dropping his duffle bags in the hall as the phone rings a second time. I dreamed about you again last night. My sheets are still tumbling dry. The words are on the tip of his tongue and he gets as far as “Hey,” before he thinks it might be his mama calling from work. He’s sure she doesn’t want to know he’s running a load of wash because he came in his sleep.
But it’s not his mama and it’s not Ryan, it’s Bobby’s low voice that breathes into his ear. “Dante, hey man. What’s up?”
Like they’re old friends or something. Like he didn’t tell the guy not to call him before Sunday. “Bobby,” Dante sighs. “I thought I told you—”
“I know, I know,” Bobby concedes.
