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The first time it happened was by chance, two weeks after Zoe moved in. After all, Zoe didn’t know anyone in town (and those she knew most definitely didn’t seem to like her!) and Lavon liked to have at least one day a week to regroup from the hardships of leading a town (or so he claimed) and Wade … well, Wade was Wade and he always seemed to be around whenever Zoe didn’t want him to be around, especially those first few weeks when she much rather George be around.
But the point was, there they were, hanging out in Lavon’s living room, watching bad reality TV, eating potato chips and pretzels and anything else that wasn’t at all healthy and slurping through cans of beer. They didn’t talk much. Or, rather, they didn’t serious talk much. There was lots of other talk — making fun of the people on TV, examining the nutrition content of a Frito, comparing Alabama football to Georgia football — but no serious talk. No talk of careers and career aspirations, no talk of families and family problems, no talk of relationships and crushes and who wanted to hook up with whom.
Just three people, hanging out, enjoying some time together with some mindless entertainment.
The second time it happened, a week later, was a little by chance but also because Zoe was bored and she still didn’t know anyone else and she figured some bad TV was better than trying to formulate a conversation with Burt Reynolds. And Lavon had said that morning that he didn’t have plans, and Wade being Wade was always where the action was, even if that action was only three people plopped around a TV gossiping about everyone else in town (but no serious talk concerning themselves!).
The third time it happened was definitely, most decidedly, by choice, although none of the three of them actually voiced this to each other. But at exactly two o’clock in the afternoon, coincidentally the same time as the two previous encounters, they all found themselves walking into the living room, each bearing cans of beer and different bags of chips and other food items, and seating themselves in front of the TV.
And so a ritual was born. Every Sunday, rain or shine, it’s what they did …
“Zoe, Wade and Lavon,” Zoe said on week four. “The three musketeers!”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” Wade said.
“Wait,” Lavon said. “’Zoe, Wade and Lavon?’ Why not ‘Lavon, Zoe and Wade?’”
“What?” Wade said. “Why should I be last? I’m never last.”
“Well, I’m certainly not last,” Lavon said. “I’m the mayor.”
“Fine!” Zoe said. “I’ll be last. Lavon, Wade and Zoe. The three musketeers.”
“Wade, Lavon and Zoe,” Wade said. “And we’re not the three musketeers.”
“Why not?” Zoe asked.
“We are never ever going to be the three musketeers,” Wade said.
“That’s right,” Lavon agreed.
Zoe just huffed.
•••
“I told you we were the three musketeers.” It was week 15, and the three of them were standing around in identical zombie costumes.
“Tell me again why we agreed to do this haunted house thing of yours,” Wade had said when Lavon handed him the costume earlier that morning with a big grin on his face. “This is embarrassing.”
“No one will know it’s you!” Lavon had said.
“Everyone will know it’s me!” Wade had said.
But now Wade and Lavon were giving their exasperated looks — as was normal — to Zoe.
“We’re zombies, not musketeers,” Wade said.
“Same difference,” Zoe replied breezily.
“Totally not the same difference,” Wade spit back. “What are musketeers anyway? Besides a candy bar.”
“Definitely not zombies,” Lavon said.
“Right,” Wade said. “Definitely not zombies.”
“Whatever,” Zoe said.
•••
“I’m going to break the Sunday musketeer code,” Zoe said. It was week 42.
“No,” Lavon said.
“We’re not musketeers,” Wade said.
Zoe ignored them both. “George left Lemon at the altar!” she said.
“No,” Lavon said again.
Zoe frowned. “Yes, he did,” she said.
Lavon sighed. “Yes, he did. No, we’re not talking about it.”
“But I need to talk about it.”
“You talk about it every hour of every day,” Wade said. “You talk about it at breakfast, you talk about it at lunch, you talk about it at dinner, I bet you even talk about it in your sleep. This is Sunday time. Our peaceful time.”
“It will be quick,” Zoe said.
“No!”
Zoe blinked back at the firm response from them both.
“You musketeers are not very supporting,” she grumbled.
“We’re not musketeers,” Wade said.
“Exactly,” Lavon agreed.
•••
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no,” Lavon said on week 73. “There is no hand-holding on Sunday afternoons! That is the rules!”
“There are no rules,” Wade said.
“None at all,” Zoe said, and as if to prove her point, she kissed her boyfriend.
“No!” Lavon cried. “No personal lives on Sunday afternoons. No couples! That’s the rules.”
“That is so not the rules,” Zoe said, and Wade nodded along with her.
“I’m the mayor. I make the rules.”
“You can’t make the rules,” Zoe said. “No personal lives on Sunday. If we can’t be a couple, you can’t be the mayor, so you don’t get to make the rules, so there are no rules.”
“It’s my house,” Lavon said. “So my rules.”
“We could stop coming,” Wade said.
“You could,” Lavon said. “But you won’t.” He paused. “Right?”
Zoe hid her smirk. “We’ll think about it,” she said.
Wade leaned over and kissed her. “Yeah,” he said. “We’ll think about it.”
•••
Week 87 and no one was in the living room except Lavon, holding his case of beer and his bag of tortilla chips.
“Oh, no, they don’t,” he said.
Five minutes later, he was dragging the other two into the room, practically kicking and screaming. The tension in the air was palpable.
“I can’t do this,” Zoe said when she saw Wade.
“No way,” Wade said when he saw Zoe.
They moved toward the door. Lavon blocked their way.
“I don’t care what happened in your personal life,” he started, then paused. “Or, well, I do. You know I do. But I care about what happens in your personal life during all other hours of the week. But on Sunday afternoons, I don’t care. Sunday afternoons are tradition. You can’t break up the three musketeers!”
“You always said we aren’t musketeers,” Zoe said.
“I lied. You win.”
“Nope, I’m not doing this,” Wade said.
“Yes, you are!” Lavon said, and he raised his voice to prove he meant business. “We have been doing this for too many weeks now to count and we are not going to stop now because you” — Lavon pointed at Wade — “are an idiot, and you” — he pointed at Zoe — “got your feelings hurt-”
“Hey!” Zoe protested. “That’s not fair!”
“Yeah,” Wade said, “that’s not fair.”
Lavon didn’t listen to them. “You’re always being an idiot,” he said to Wade (who pretended not to hear him), “and you’re always upset about something,” he said to Zoe (who huffed dramatically), “but this is our thing and I need our thing and I am not going to let you two ruin it. So sit down, grab a beer and let’s watch some horribly bad TV.”
The two other occupants of the room signed and glared at each other.
“Fine,” Zoe finally said.
“Fine,” Wade said immediately after.
They both made their way to the couch and plopped down. As far apart as they could get, but still there.
“I told you,” Zoe said into the silence a few minutes later. The tension was still heavy in the room, “that we were the three musketeers.”
She waited. And smiled.
Ten seconds later, two pillows hit her in the face.
She just laughed.
“The three musketeers!” she said. “Zoe, Lavon and Wade!”