“Now, why did you go and lie to the boy? You have no interest in marriage and as far as I can recall you said kids were quote, ‘nice for some but definitely not for me, and so far off my radar the concept might as well exist on another planet.’”
“Twenty-two,” I hiss in response and he takes the gin from me, pouring it down the drain and saving me the torture.
“Speaking of twenties. I expect mine when we leave.” His smile is sly, and I wish he still had his longer dark hair so I could ruffle it. This shorn and bleached look works for him, offset against his golden skin, but it’s way less fun.
“Have I ever let you down?” I ask.
“Not unless we’re counting that first night.”
I sigh again, second time tonight, and it feels a little excessive to be this annoyed by small things when other—bigger—things are what drove me here to drink in the first place.
“How the hell was I supposed to know you were going through it? It wasn’t until we were in bed and you were crying that I realized I was just a rebound. The only way I let you down was by not being Jesse—something you were super kind about at least.”
His smile drops into something more regretful, “And thank goodness for it because he was a mess. One I was tired of cleaning up. Plus, we work so much better as friends.” Pushing the glass of water closer to me, Ángel urges me to drink.
I swig the liquid back, my stomach so pleased it doesn’t burn on the way down. Ángel heads over to the other side of the bar to take care of another one of my colleagues.
And then I feel the heft of an arm slung over my shoulders and the acrid smell of alcohol already leaching through Keith’s skin. He’s put his drink on the bar beside my glass of water and effectively boxed me in with his body. The heat is unwelcome and the smell in conjunction with the gin I’ve failed to wash away the taste of is enough to make me want to gag.
“Rach, Rach,Rach. What did you say to scare off the little cub? It took quite a bit of bolstering from us to get him to approach you. You’re not getting any younger, you know. You’ve got to grab life by the horns before it’s too late. Then again, maybe you like your men a little bit more”—Keith bends down, taking the invasion of space from uncomfortable to unbearable—“experienced.” The last word is a rasp against the shell of my ear and I shudder. And the fact that it echoes what Andrew said earlier makes me feel sick.
Stroking his fingertips over my shoulder, I shrug him off of me and slide to standing in order to put some distance between us.
“You’re drunk. I think you should have some water and sober up.”
“You’re just upset about the imbalance between us now. I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know what that intensity means.”
It means I hate your fucking guts.
“I won’t tell anyone. You don’t have to worry about getting in trouble at work if we do. Just because I’m your boss now doesn’t mean we can’t have fun outside of the office.”
He’s encroaching on my space again and I take a step back, bumping into the barstool beside me. Part of me wants to lash out but the smarter, more careful, part of me reminds me for a second time tonight not to antagonize them so that I don’t have to worry about retaliation, either physically or at work.
“There a problem here?” Ángel asks and I sigh in relief. Keith’s attention is diverted.
“This is none of your business.” Keith’s rudeness would have been red-flag enough even without all the unwanted attention.
“If you’re harassing one of my patrons then it’s my business. Now, unless you want to get cut off and kicked out, you’ll back off.”
Keith sneers at Ángel but grabs his drink, sloshing some of it over the side before he walks away.
“Just in time. Thank you.” My relief is a little too acute to dismiss as no big deal and Ángel can tell I’m shaken.
“Now, we have about fifteen minutes until Shelly will be here to relieve me. Think about where you want to eat and then we’ll talk about why youreallycame here tonight, since it's not your regular Friday, and because I know it wasn’t to get picked up by Mr. Austin Powers.”
Returning the now-empty glass of water, things feel a little clearer, but no less bleak.
“Deal. But you know my answer never changes.” Creature of habit down to the core.
Walking to the Metro, and then down the sidewalk as the early spring air leans just a little too cold for comfort, I cross my arms to keep warm and hustle to get inside.
Our booth in the back is empty and we slide across the slightly cracked leather to take our regular spots. The hole-in-the-wall burger joint I found during my sophomore year at Georgetown isn’t much to write home about where appearances are concerned. Ángel is appalled that I keep coming back here when this place takes grunge beyond trendy to downright questionable. But the building is so old it feels like a person greeting me when I step through the creaky door, and the food is always good.
Although I don’t need to be as frugal as student-me used to be, it’s a bonus I appreciate. Coming here makes me feel closer to who I was back then—excited, ambitious, and so sure of her success that the roadblocks barely registered.
But that was eight years ago, and the roadblocks turned into dead ends.
“So, you going to tell me what this is really about?” Ángel sips his diet Coke from the paper soda cup that will start leaking from the bottom in about thirty minutes, and winces against the cold.
