They’ve got their standard table at lunch, so Vic sits two over, near the window, and tries not to stare. When Steph asks him, he can’t even tell her why.
Maybe it’s the way they sit, leaning just a little towards each other, projecting clique-strong force. Or the weird archetypal synchronicity: the smart/cute one, the funny/tall one, the strong, unexpected leader. Or the way they talk, backwards cadences and whip-fast repartee. The confident arc of their necks. The bruises they come back with in the morning.
He doesn’t know why. He just knows he wants in.