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Summary
‘Excuse you,’ says Richie in a snotty Voice, ‘I’m the epitome of grace and beauty. Check all of this out, Spaghetti.’
‘I’m sorry, but with that nose?’ Eddie waves a hand at the said nose slowly freezing under the gel pack. ‘Not a chance. Even now you’re wearing Hawaiian prints over your shirts. I’m surprised Hollywood didn’t throw you out as soon as they saw you. And for God’s sake, stop calling me Spaghetti. We’re forty years old, Richie.’
‘Nuh-uh,’ says Richie, ‘you’ll always be my Spaghetti, Spaghetti. My Baby K. My Shortcake. My Eds.’ That last "my" feels one too many, catching on the tip of his tongue with how possessive it sounds. ‘I mean. Uh.’
Eddie gives him a sly look. ‘Smooth,’ he says, ‘and very presumptuous.’