“This beer comes courtesy of that gentleman,” the bartender says, gesturing to the side of the saloon.
“Oh, no, please,” I say, “tell whoever it is I’ll be paying for my own hangover tonight.” I don’t even need to look at the elderly desert lizard who likely bought my drink to know this is my answer. But then, on impulse, my gaze follows the bartender’s nod, and who else would it lead to?
Jude de Silva.
He’s sitting at the other end of the bar in his blazer, lookingcompletely out of place. Why is he here? Why isn’t he at the production dinner, being worshipped by all?
He points at his drink—a Sierra Nevada as well. He points again.
He’s trying to tell me something. I lift my own drink off the coaster, where he’s scrawled a note in pen.
Acknowledging the obvious: We’re both here.
There’s an arrow prompting me to flip over the coaster.
Would you rather: A) lean into our introverted instincts and pretend we’ve never met, or B) celebrate you saving today’s scene with another round?
My chest tightens with trapped frustration as I tell myself Jude is the director of my show, so I can’t behave like a completely antisocial Neanderthal. But one assumes Jude also came here to be alone, so what if he wants me to pick option A?
I reach into my bag for a pen and scrawl under his question:
Dealer’s choice.
Just when the bartender—who seems to think this coaster-passing is cuter than it is—delivers my response to Jude, a horde of twenty-odd bikers flood the bar, crowding in around me as they bark out Budweiser orders.
I look toward Jude, who glances at the empty stool to his left. He raises an eyebrow and smiles. Surrendering to thecosmos he doesn’t believe in, I rise from my stool, offer it to the hair-sprayed, leather-clad biker chick waiting behind me, and signal to the bartender that I’m moving seats.
“I was hoping it would go that way,” she says.
I slide in next to Sam. “Those bikers were right on cue.”
“Well worth the fifty bucks I paid them.”
“I thought you’d be at the production dinner. Kevin and Matt were pregaming strong on the deck next to my room.”
“I can see why you’re here,” he says with a wince. “Today was exhausting. Exhilarating but exhausting. I needed some space to come down.”
Jude’s comment makes me jealous. I want that exhilarating, exhausted feeling. I was supposed to have it on this trip. I was supposed to be the one needing to come down right now.
“Oh,” he says, picking up on the shift in my mood. “I didn’t mean I needed space from you.”
“Two burgers,” the server says, setting down our identical plates.
We reach for the ketchup at the same time but then both pull back to let the other take it. Finally, we both take a bite and chew in contented, if awkward, silence.
“I have an amazing burger recipe,” Jude says. “I pack crumbled blue cheese and these homemade pickled jalapeños in this little secret lair inside the patty. Throw it on the grill…” He studies my expression. “What? Is this boring? Do you not like to cook? I thought because you were in the kitchen the other night, you were maybe into—”
“I cook,” I say. “I don’t know why, but I assumed you didn’t. I kinda took you for a toast-burner.”
“Recovered toast-burner,” he says. “These days, my kitchen is the place where I can use my hands and let everything go.”
“Apparently I only cook when I’m angry,” I say. “My brother-in-law called me on that the other day.”
“So…have you been cooking much since I came onZombie Hospital?”
“I’ve packed my sister’s deep-freeze full,” I joke.
Something cold and wet nudges my ankle and makes me jump. I spin around and look down into the adorable brown face of some kind of shepherd mix puppy crouched under a barstool. “Woah, there’s a dog in here!”
