37. The Feels
LAbrINTH
“I can feel it, Celie. I’m gonna fuckin’ say it. I’m gonna blurt words and shit.”
She huffs. “No you’re not.”
I’m pacing the sidewalk outside the Draft Room, looking like a girlfriend who just caught her boyfriend inside flirting with the waitress.
The street’s disgusting.
There’s trash juice in the gutters.
A man just burped beer-fog near my ear.
Another guy’s chanting ‘let’s go, baby’ at a trash can. A girl’s screaming at her boyfriend for liking his ex’s story.
Inside, it’s all high-tops and high-volume and people pressing their whole bodies against other people’s whole bodies for no goddamn reason.
I already want to go home.
“Celie, there’s strangers touching strangers.
Like full-on, open-air arm brushing.” I groan.
“I haven’t even walked in and I already feel their sweat on me.
” I lean my head against the brick and close my eyes.
“This isn’t my scene. Everyone’s wearing the same fuckin’ thing. People are high-fiving and shit.”
Celie clicks her tongue. “Nah. In a sports bar? In Midtown? During a Giants game? How weird.”
I hunker down and whisper-shout into the phone, “My tongue? It’s heavy as fuck, bro—swollen with secrets and lies. Brandon’s name’s gonna burst outta me.”
I hear Celie sit up taller. “That’s why you gonna keep your mouth full,” she says. “Fries. Wings. Coke. Six-Point-Five’s tongue. I don’t care.”
“Nah, too risky,” my hand cuts the air, “what if I just throw it mid-sentence like ‘pass the mayo, I fucked Brandon’?”
She groans. “C’mon, Allie. What’d I say about eatin’ that shit in public? Deadass, one fry in mayo, and he’ll never look at you the same. Don’t do it.”
“He’s gonna ask about my weekend. What then?”
“Pretend your ears broke. Kiss him, drop a napkin, grab his thigh. He’ll forget.”
“I can’t lie to him, Celie. He’s...” My eyes slide to the window, crash into him through the glass, and my voice falls away.
He’s sitting on a stool, one leg kicked out, arm thrown lazy over the table, laughing with his head tipped back, neck veins out. He’s wearing a grey Giants crewneck with the sleeves shoved up, forearms showing, navy trousers, a backwards cap, glasses, his long fingers wrapped around a glass.
I haven’t seen him in two days, though it feels like twenty. And now he’s sitting there like Sunday mornings—worn-in, cozy, warm and safe enough to curl up in.
“…He’s so cute. Ugh.” I groan. “I literally can’t stand him.”
“You wanna keep him?” she asks, and I can see her face in her voice: lips pursed and brows high. “Then do not, I repeat, do not tell him about Three-Point-Nine.”
I freeze at the curb and look through the glass again. Andrew’s smile dies, and he shifts in his seat, eyes bouncing from the door back to the TV.
“Aight. I’m goin’ in.”
I end the call and round the brick corner.
Some guy holds the door with two fingers on his way out. I slip past him, and the door shuts behind me, cutting Midtown off my back.
Inside, it’s deafening. NFL Sunday on steroids, classic rock blaring, a line of dudes at the bar losing their shit over a fumble that happened in the second quarter.
As people see me at the door,
a wave of reactions build.
Five men boo at the same time.
One guy near the bar—
“No fuckin’ way.”
Another drops a wing from sauce-covered fingers as if I spoiled his appetite.
The TV volume dips for one second when—“That a fuckin’ Eagles jersey?”
I glance down, smirking to myself.
Someone lets out a long, wounded
“Naaaaahhh.”
The room erupts.
“Security! We got a threat!”
“Yo! Take that shit off!”
“Is she lost?”
“Go back to Philly, sweetheart.”
Andrew’s out of his seat before I clear the black mat by the door.
The second our eyes meet,
I mouth across the bar to him: ‘Go Birds.’
He scrapes a hand over his mouth,
head turning to fight the grin,
moving toward me through bodies,
pulling up his sleeve
with a bite of his lip,
eyes coming back to me,
staying on me the rest of the way—
hot, heavy, holding me still.
The bar’s still throwing insults around.
I’m wearing the most hated team in this room, spitting in the face of the Giants, flipping off the whole damn bar, including him.
I thought this’d repulse him—
me waltzing into the Draft Room in Eagles colors, begging for a stabbing. It should’ve been enough to not meet me at the door.
But he’s still making his way through the crowd, set on me, on us, the only team he’s rooting for.
And the closer he gets,
the faster everything else goes under:
the trash talk, the bar, the music.
Only Andrew remains,
wetting his lip as he walks—
all hips and heat and fuck-me cadence.
Until he’s in front of me,
his scent circling.
He takes my hand
and dips his head slow
‘til his nose brushes mine,
mouth stalling at my lips,
just shy of kissing me.
He’s so fucking close,
it hurts my chest—
mouth hovering,
breath warm,
body close,
driving me insane.
And he just waits.
One second,
and I feel the way his breath cuts out,
the way his body’s humming—
you want me, baby, take me.
Two seconds,
with one inch between us,
his mouth right there.
Who the hell does this?
Who volunteers to get rejected in a room full of men? What kind of suicide mission is this, handing me the knife, then offering their throat?
and—
I FUCKED ANOTHER GUY,
I want to scream.
Will he care?
Well, no shit, he’ll care.
He’s a hand-holder. Fuck.
I can’t kiss him with that secret in my mouth, he’ll taste the toxic waste.
And he’s hanging on by a thread.
But I can’t do it.
Three seconds,
and I drop my head,
my mouth falling away.
Andrew releases his held breath, an embarrassed laugh slipping out with it.
He turns his head, eyes on the ground.
“Damn. Yeah, that cut deep.”
I can’t look at his face.
If I do, I’ll want to patch him back up.
“Andrew—”
“Nah. You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re good.”
He steps back and tries to reset, tugging on my Eagles jersey to distract himself. “Swear t'God, you better have a Giants shirt under this.” He laughs when he says it, but it’s weak and full of wishing the last five seconds never happened.
“Or what?” I tip my head, both of us faking it. “Gonna leave me at the door?”
“Don’t play,” he murmurs.
“You know better than that.”
His gaze sweeps around us.
“But don’t think I gotta choice here. Pretty sure I’m about to get jumped. Whole bar’s starin’ ‘cause you makin’ me look like a traitor.”
I glance around the room.
One guy sticks out, high-top by the window—slim dark jeans, cuffed over unlaced Timberlands, forearm parked on the table, hand gripping a half-finished beer, eyes all absence as he looks this way, like whatever was in him got stripped. Ink climbs his throat and cuts behind his ear. A Grim Reaper.
I rip my eyes away and face Andrew again. “You really think I’d do that to you?”
I step back to peel off the jersey,
Philly green, gone in a heartbeat,
wearing a sports bra underneath.
Andrew lurches forward an inch,
then halts.
“Jesus. What’re you doin’?” He scans the bar quick to all the eyes watching.
I take my old Giants crewneck out of the plastic bag, slip it on, then my hat. Toss the bag and Eagles jersey into the corner trash.
The room erupts into cheers—
chairs scrape,
beer sloshes,
some guy on a barstool yells, “THAT’S WHAT I’M FUCKIN’ TALKIN’ ABOUT!”
Andrew’s head cocks sideways, and he gestures to me.
“Nah. Nah, see. Look at you.” He grabs the brim of my Giants hat and pulls it down over my eyes.
“Now you’re even more fuckin’ dangerous.
” He tries to smile, but it only makes it halfway before it falls off again. “Aight. Put the Eagles jersey back on.”
For half a second, I feel the tension.
I feel his fingers brush mine, craving to slip between my fingers.
But he hesitates, then pulls away, slipping his hand into his pocket instead. “C’mon. Guys are in the back.”
I follow him across the bar, weaving between bodies and tables, my shoulders curling inward to avoid bumping into anyone.
The bar’s louder in the back. Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” shakes the speakers.
Every table’s packed,
every glance staying longer than I want.
“Yo,” Andrew says when we reach the table, where two other guys are sitting. “This is Allison, my pain in the ass.”
There’s a little fucking smirk when he says it, his eyes sliding to me to catch my reaction, his thumbnail itching his brow.
His words bounce around the table.
A millisecond of silence passes,
then a Boston accent in a faded Red Sox hoodie and backwards cap rips the quiet apart, all attitude and vowels that never end.
“Hold the fuckin’ phone.” His mouth pulls into a shit-eating grin, and he looks between us, as if he’s picturing us doing filthy things to each other.
“What is this, fuckin’ bizarro world? Andrew Harding bringin’ a woman into public? ”
Boston wipes his fingers with a napkin, then bends over the table and offers his hand. “Peter. Nice to meet you, sweetheart.”
His pretty green eyes flick to Andrew.
Brows up, he mouths,
‘Bro. She’s gorgeous. What the fuck.’
He’s got the Southie swagger,
all Boston mouth and baseball arms.
Andrew dips his mouth to my ear. “Peter plays third and short for the Brooklyn Brawlers. Minor league hotshot. Real humble, too,” he adds with sarcasm, then nudges his chin to the guy across from us. “That’s Ricky.”
Ricky's wearing a too-tight polo and a finance face. He's staring at me suspiciously while swigging his beer.
“Take my seat,” Andrew says, dragging his stool closer with his foot. “You ain’t standin’ the whole time.”
“I'm good,” I say, leaning my hip against the table. “If I sit, I commit. And I don’t know if I’m staying.” ‘Cause if I do, I’ll probably ruin your night. “Keep it warm, though. I might circle back.”
He flips me a look, dropping onto the stool. “I know you. You’ll stand there bein’ stubborn all night.”
Peter points a stripped drumstick at me. “So you’re the troublemaker who played an entire bar, huh? Walked in as public enemy number one, walked off with a standin’ ovation.”