“Noted.” I enter it and immediately wish I hadn't. David's email sits at the top of my inbox like a giant 'fuck you' to my state of mind. “Thanks again.”
“I assume you're not from here.”
All too happy to take any bit of distraction from the reminder of David, I bite. “Does everyone just know the Irish word for cheers?"
“In Boston?”
“Technically, we're in Somerville,” I say.
“I'll give it to you that usually is a worthy distinction, just not in this situation.” He leans against the back of the bar, pulling a silver pendant from under his shirt and letting it fall against his chest.
“Fine,” I concede. “You're right, I'm not from here.” I don't offer any more information and pretend to turn my attention back to the screen.
“Not even gonna give me a hint?”
I grin at my screen before sliding my eyes back to him. “I'm pretty sure I already did.”
He seems to actually contemplate that for a moment. “I got nothin'.”
“The y'all earlier didn't give me away?”
“So somewhere southern?”
“Texas,” I clarify. He grimaces. “Ouch.”
“Sorry. Just . . . not my scene, ya know?”
I nod. “I know too well.”
“You here for school?”
“God, no.” I scoff. “You couldn't pay me to go back to school. Well, you probably could. But I just needed a change of scenery.”
“Big change.”
“Big need.”
He looks like he's about to say more when someone else walks in. “Well, welcome. Let me know if you need anything.”
A few carnal needs flash through my mind, but I keep them to myself. “I will.”
With David's email moved to its own folder to rot, it falls into the shadows of my mind. I spend the next hour being impressively productive. As an added bonus, I only shame-spiral a tiny bit over tasks I could have finished days ago because they took approximately zero time.
The universe couldn't let me get in a whole hour of productivity, though.
A vaguely man-shaped strip of crimson takes up residence in my periphery. At first, I write it off as him trying to get the bartender's attention. Then he's possessed by the spirit of assholery that seems to plague all men whose frontal lobes aren't fully developed. It's the only explanation for him sliding up this close to me at a practically empty bar top.
Some people have keenly developed flight responses; they feel the tingling of a situation and immediately seek ways to remove themselves from it. Me? I'm pretty sure I was born with a malfunctioning flight system.
Fight though?
But I wasn't in my early twenties anymore. I no longer threw the first proverbial punch. Even if I had to grind my teeth to keep from asking this Ivy League fuck if he doused himself in stale beer and Axe daily or if he'd done it just for me.
Maybe if I kept my mouth shut, he'd go away.
I was definitely out of practice being around humanity.
“What're you doing?” His voice is making my fight system go intooverdrive.
