Chapter 11
eleven
“Are you sure this is the place you wanted to go?” I yelled over the loud music playing through the speakers.
When I had thought of the “holiday bar,” as Jackson had described it over the phone—which made me feel like maybe this guy might not be another obnoxious dud (positive thinking going out into the world and all that)—this place on the corner of a street I was unsure I’d ever traveled to before in daylight wasn’t it.
Though the place had old garland and slightly withered red ribbons—which were fading to something closer to pink—decorating the bar, the music was anything but the holiday-themed drinks date number two, Jackson, had promised. In fact, the only way to describe this bar in particular was a dive.
I wasn’t picky or anything, but for some reason, I was thinking back to my first date—no, practice date with Josh and the Jingle Bell Martini on the menu. The more I thought about it, the more it didn’t actually sound that bad.
In fact, I was pretty sure I would love one right now.
“Yeah, this place is great!” Jackson yelled back, unperturbed that he had to. “Plus, like I said, the drinks are dirt cheap!”
“I thought you said that it was a holiday place?”
“I’m sure they have something!” He pushed us through the thick crowd of people stuffed inside the building until we reached the front, where bartenders were pouring over lines of tequila shots with lime.
At a house party, I wouldn’t think twice about it, and yet I was still looking for any sign of Christmas cheer here other than Jackson's red striped flannel he wore open with a black tee shirt peeking out from underneath.
All I managed to see was Christmas depression, which, honestly, was starting to match my mood as of late.
Over the past two weeks, I had gone on five dates. Five. After the first douche canoe, I’d made sure that I wasn’t going to let myself get stuck in a possible three-course meal.
My last date (or was it two dates ago? I was already getting them mixed up.) had been polite, but talked about his mom.
A lot. For our date, we painted mugs at a paint-and-create studio.
It was his idea, which I loved, and I was still excited to pick up my final creation whenever they called.
But by the end, I had known his mom’s favorite color, holiday, astrological sign, and health history—where he was still concerned about how she always managed to get the flu each year, no matter what she did, even with all the herbal, holistic stuff she tried, except for quarantining herself away from humanity.
Another date had taken a scheduled phone call halfway through the date and then seemed shocked when I ate half the soft pretzel he’d ordered for us.
After nearly a half hour of waiting for him to return to the table, I wanted to sneak out the door and leave, but he was blocking the exit as he chortled with whoever he was talking with, who clearly had more interesting things to discuss than I did by that point.
Another date had been shocked that I was freelancing at the moment though he’d seemed ok with it.
“So, you’re unemployed,” he corrected.
“Not completely.” Though … kinda.
I’d had a two-day break before getting another one-off job of writing copy for a website selling bespoke lingerie, which was actually pretty fun after the owner said to give it a sweet and spicy tone.
Oddly enough, after posting on my newsletter about date number two, I had been accumulating more followers on my platform than I could’ve ever expected.
Lots of people related to the bad or simply sub-optimal dates and were all too happy to add their own jokes.
A few people started to question just how real my experiences in the newsletter were, but were hooked nonetheless.
I had readers!
I might not have had a job still, and I felt like I was relying on Josh staying with us to split the rent three ways now more than ever, but I had actual people reading my writing, and for some reason, my heart hammered with excitement every time I got a notification for another one.
I hadn’t given up on the job search either amongst all of this.
On the contrary, I’d also sent over twenty job applications.
I heard back from one, who informed me that the pay was barely enough to cover my MetroCard for the month, let alone rent and groceries, and there were also no benefits, but they were looking for someone with a master’s degree and a flexible schedule, so I’d be a great fit!
I was beginning to feel that the only place I was a great fit was akin to a trash shoot.
Or a dive bar.
“What do you want?”
Honestly, I was about to say I’d like to leave.
I took a deep breath. I was going to give this a chance. It would be wrong not to. So what if all my other dates hadn’t exactly gone to plan and only proved that all the good guys in the world were truly taken—a very sad fact for someone only in their mid-twenties?
I was not going to ruin something—if there even was something here—just because Jackson was someone who enjoyed an off-the-beaten-path location. The city was full of unique bars.
Maybe this was one of them, and I just didn’t know it yet.
Positive thinking.
“What was that?” I asked, blinking as I refocused on Jackson, taking in how he had a rather delightful spattering of freckles up the sides of his face and deep, hooded brown eyes.
He gave me a hesitant, crooked smile and looked at me up and down again, as if he was deciding what was wrong with me that I had to ask again. “What do you want to drink?”
I heard him that time. “I’ll just have a vodka cranberry.”
He gave me an A-okay sign with his fingers.
Great.
He shouted over the noise at the bartender before both of our glasses—his a beer—were slid over. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, wait.”
He reached for it back, and unsure of what else to do, I let him take it, watching the dull glimmer of the glass as it was exchanged between us. Then he took a sip out of my drink.
Right through the thin straw.
I was certain that I couldn’t help the way my eyes widened.
“Tastes good. Just wanted you to know that it was safe and everything.”
He had taken a sip of my drink to … show me that he hadn’t drugged me?
I took the slightly dingy-looking glass back and took a big gulp of it, trying not to think of any backwash possibilities.
He was right at the very least. It was good. Strong.
I had a feeling that I was going to need it if I was going to make it through tonight, though I quickly shot a text to Gina.
I may need an SOS.
No!
Yes.
Why???
Just a feeling.
And a whole lot of other reasons.
A few dots popped up for a new response, but I quickly slid my phone back into my pocket and out of view.
“Sorry about that—”
I stopped myself as I looked up and noticed that my date had already moved on to the other end of the bar. He was talking to another woman, who gave him a tight hug.
What in the world was going on here?
“Hey, Brenna,” Jackson called, seeing me, waving me closer.
“It’s Brielle,” I corrected him.
“What?”
What did he have me saved in his phone as?
I raised my voice, hoping that maybe I hadn’t heard him right. “My name is Brielle!”
“That’s what I said. This is Cassie.”
I blinked at the girl in front of me with long, wavy hair. “Hi.”
She looked me up and down with confusion on her face that I was pretty sure mirrored my own. “Um, hi.”
Then Jackson didn’t say anything else. But he did talk to her. “So, where were we again?”
“You just asked me if I have been in the city for long. I said that I have been here for the past three years,” she said.
“And you?” He turned to me for my answer.
“I just moved here in August,” I answered hesitantly.
What was going on here? This wasn’t an interview, but Jackson was sure treating it as one, looking between the two of us. I wouldn’t call myself the most date-savvy, but after my last two weeks of dates, but—
“Wait a second.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Are you on a date with her?”