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to twist my arm,” I lied. Believe it or not, these fools were great conversationalists, and I really didn’t feel like being alone tonight, either. Howard was out with a friend, and I was in no mood to listen to Jayne’s man problems. She’d be bent, but she’d get over it. If anything, Jayne was forgiving.
    I grabbed myself a beer and flopped down on the sofa. Pop’s furniture was ancient, but I had to admit it was more comfy than ours. Howard insisted on this wacky leather set that makes you slip all over the place.
    “Why don’t you come sit over here next to Francisco?” Pop said, patting him on the shoulder. “He’s a quiet one tonight.”
    The boys, as I refer to them out of their presence, laughed and made cat-call noises.
    “That’s okay, I don’t want Carla to get jealous,” I said, not making a move.
    “You losers just hang on to your wallets,” Francisco shot back.
    Lou let out his you just got told whistle and we all cracked up. I’d pretty much mastered the various Lou whistles and what they meant. When I was really young, three short whistles meant, “Hey! Pipe down, the kid’s listening.” One medium length monotone whistle usually meant, “shoot” or “oh, brother.” Sometimes he would let out three quick, barely audible tweets that told me whatever was going down had to be kept secret, like letting me watch TV when I wasn’t supposed to or slipping me a dollar to get lost.
    I mused and marveled at the group as they ate, laughed, and chatted about everything from sports to the good old days. I often wished my life was that carefree. But I figured it came with age and wisdom, and I wasn’t ready for either of those yet. Or maybe it was simply from not giving a shit about much, something that seemed impossible at that point in my life.
    Whenever the conversation got heated or turned to more serious topics, one of them would always say, “Yep, the world sure has changed.” I was grateful Pop had his little group, but I still felt sad for him sometimes. I wondered if he was lonely, because he’d never tell.
    My cell vibrated in my pocket, and I fished it out to find a text from Jayne. “Where are you?”
    Ignoring it wasn’t an option. Jayne had powers that reached beyond cellular radar. She always knew when I was avoiding her texts. I excused myself to step into the back room to call her.
    “What’s up?” I asked.
    “What?” Jayne yelled into my ear. “Emma, where are you?” Music and laughter blared through the line. “You’re missing happy hour.” Jayne could have fun at a carwash, so her level of excitement needed to be taken with a grain of salt.
    “Sorry, I’m not gonna make it. It’s Pop’s poker night.”
    “So you’re telling me you’d rather hang with a bunch of old guys than drink margies and stuff your face with fatty foods?”
    Actually, yes. I barely paused and Jayne dug in for more. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. And Guy’s here, too.”
    “Guy’s there?” I couldn’t figure out if the sudden lurch of my stomach was from annoyance or jealousy or what.
    “Yeah, Adam invited him. He seems like the sweetest guy. Don’t you think?”
    “Yeah, real sweet.” But was that sweetness part of the lie, too? Was he genuinely that nice of a person or was he simply trying to get people to trust him? To flush out another Lizette waiting to happen? “Any word from Hank?”
    “No, but I’m not gonna let him ruin my night.” Her on again/off again relationship with Hank was what had brought Jayne and me closer together over the last year. Before that we were strictly co-workers. We’d socialized at work functions, even one or two Adam bashes. But I wouldn’t have considered us friends, of which I really have only one other—Howard’s sister Emilia.
    The first time Jayne and Hank broke up, I found her in the ladies lounge, tears flowing down her cheeks, carrying clumps of mascara along with them. She looked like hell, and I told her so, which made her