Eight
Harper
I’m three drinks in, maybe four, but the numbers matter less than the sensation of it, a slight buzz that makes my nerves slightly less jagged than usual.
I’m perched at a high-top, legs crossed at the knee, dress hiked a fraction higher than I’d intended when I put the thing on.
The dress is a dark red wrap number that Liv brought me, the kind of thing you buy online after one too many “You deserve this!” emails and then wear only when you want to prove to someone (yourself) that you have not, in fact, let yourself completely go.
My hair is down and I can feel it tickling the side of my neck whenever the air conditioner cuts on, which is every forty seconds.
I’m wearing contacts, which I haven’t worn in years, but Liv bullied me into it on the basis that “your cheekbones deserve to be liberated from those frames for one goddamn night, Harper.”
Speaking of Liv, she is next to me, elbows on the table, dissecting the cocktail menu like she’s grading a failing student.
The bartender is ignoring her but not in a hostile way; more in the way you’d ignore a very loud toddler with a colouring book, certain that the self-absorption will eventually correct itself.
On the far side of the room, Luca is in the process of dragging Elsie onto the makeshift dance floor.
This is hilarious for two reasons: one, Elsie hates dancing with the unholy fire of a thousand introverts, and two, Luca has the rhythm of a raccoon on a slip-n-slide.
I watch, amused, as Elsie pretends to protest while actually letting herself get spun in a slow, ridiculous circle.
This is the first time since the proposal that Elsie has been out past nine.
I can see the conflict play out in her posture: the urge to be wild, cut with the instinct to corral and supervise the rest of us.
“Are you even listening to me?” Liv jabs her elbow into my rib. “I said, there’s not a single espresso martini on this menu. I’m starting to think this place is a front for organized crime.”
I take a sip of my drink, something with gin, lemon, and an aftertaste of something floral, and say, “Maybe they don’t trust the clientele with caffeine.”
Liv snorts. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
I look at her, eyebrows raised, and she shrugs. “You once drank three large coffees and then live-tweeted your own panic attack. You don’t get to judge my caffeine intake.”
“That was an experiment,” I say, but it’s a half-hearted retort. I’m distracted by my own reflection in the mirrored wall, the way the dark red of the dress makes my skin look almost translucent, the way I keep catching my own eye and not quite recognizing myself.
Liv is staring at the menu with theatrical concentration, but I can tell she’s watching me in the periphery. She’s been doing it all night, not quite hovering, but flanking me with the protective menace of a guard dog who’s read too many self-help books.
I shift my gaze to the bar and let the noise of the room recede.
There’s an older couple at the end, both drinking Bud Light from bottles and not speaking to each other.
Two guys in matching polo shirts are playing darts, and the lingering touches suggest they are each secretly in love with the other and have absolutely no idea the other feels the same.
The bartender is refilling a row of shot glasses with the mechanical precision of someone who long ago gave up caring about the quality of his own work.
The drink in front of me has already begun to sweat, condensation pooling at the base and seeping into the thin cardboard coaster. I swirl the ice, watch the lemon slice rotate, and let my mind drift.
A memory surfaces, completely unwelcome: Ethan at a party, years ago, before Leo, before the house and the books and the slow erosion of everything I thought was forever.
I’d worn a red dress then too, not quite the colour of my dress tonight but close, and he told me I looked like I could set a city on fire.
He’d meant it as a compliment, but now the phrase seems like an insinuation.
I shake my head, hard enough that a drop of gin jumps over the rim of my glass.
Liv notices. “Are you going to sit here and brood, or are you going to at least pretend to have fun?”
“I’m fun adjacent,” I say. “It’s practically the same thing.”
She gives me a look, the one that means she’s about to throw me under a moving bus for my own good, but before she can, Luca and Elsie return, breathless, to the table.
Luca fans himself with a cocktail napkin. “If you don’t want to dance with me, at least have the decency to fake a leg injury, Elsie.”
Elsie, still flushed from dancing, says, “That would require more acting talent than I have. Also, your hands are like actual space heaters.”
He grins. “It’s all the carbs. They burn hot.”
Liv leans in, stage-whispers to me, “He once ate an entire tray of baked ziti and then fell asleep at a funeral.”
I laugh, because the visual is perfect, and also because it is exactly the sort of thing that I could see him doing.
For the next half hour, I let myself fade into the group, letting their stories and jokes and petty arguments wash over me.
At one point, Luca gets into a heated debate with the bartender about whether or not “Pink Floyd’s The Wall is a danceable album.
” Elsie quietly orders water and begins slowly siphoning off half the cocktails that Liv orders in my name.
Liv tries to convince me to download a dating app, which I refuse on principle and also because she once catfished her ex using my picture as a decoy.
The last thing I need it someone talking to me that already thinks they know who I am.
Eventually, I realize I need a break. Not from the company, but from the feeling of being on display.
I excuse myself with the universally accepted “I need to hit the ladies’,” but instead of heading for the bathroom, I snake around to the far end of the bar, the dead zone near the arcade machine and the door to the walk-in cooler.
It’s quieter here, though “quiet” is relative. The jukebox is playing a synth-pop cover of “Tainted Love,” which makes the ice machine’s clatter sound almost delicate.
I lean against the rail and stare at the rows of bottles, their labels catching the red and gold neon until everything looks a little bit radioactive.
It’s only when I set my glass down that I notice someone two stools over.
He’s alone, like me, but there’s a difference in the way he fills the space.
Where most solo drinkers at Lola’s hunch in on themselves, this guy sits upright, not quite relaxed but not braced for attack, either.
Dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a watch on his wrist that probably cost more than my car but looks like it was chosen for function rather than show.
His hair is dark, a little too long for the business type he seems to be but a little too neat to be an artist. He’s not looking at anything in particular, just turning his glass slowly between his fingers.
He notices me at the same moment I realize I’m staring.
There’s no double-take though. Just a brief flicker of awareness, and then his eyes drop to the napkin under my glass.
He watches as I worry it to pulp, picking at the edge until it’s a damp, shredded mess.
Without a word, he slides the napkin from under his own drink down the bar toward me.
I look at the napkin, then at him, and say, “That was weirdly considerate for a place like this.”
He shrugs, one-shouldered. “You looked like you were losing that fight.”
I glance down. There are actual flecks of paper stuck to my fingers. “I lose most of my fights with paper products. It’s a whole thing.”
He smiles, the corner of his mouth curling up like it’s not entirely convinced it’s allowed. “Some days, that’s all you can do.”
For a moment, I expect him to say something more, to ask if I’m here alone, or make a joke about the weather, or otherwise tick off one of the required boxes of small talk. But he just turns his glass again, slow and deliberate, and waits for me to take it from his waiting hand.
It’s a weird relief. I pick up the napkin he offered, use it to blot my fingers, and say, “Thanks.”
He nods, like we’ve completed some sort of business transaction. For the next minute or so, we both just watch the bottles behind the bar, not speaking.
Eventually, he says, “You’re with the group at the corner table, right? The one with the guy in the pink shorts?”
I laugh. “You spotted those?”
“They’re hard to miss. He seems… enthusiastic.”
“He is. He runs on carbs and main-character energy.”
He nods, a genuine smile this time. “The girl with the skull necklace looks like she’s planning a heist.”
“That’s Liv. If you ever need someone to talk you out of a bad decision, she’s not the person to call.”
He laughs and then holds out a hand, still seated. “Alexander.”
I shake it. His hand is warm, the grip firm but not aggressive.
“Harper,” I say.
He repeats the name, testing it, like he’s making sure it fits the person in front of him. “Harper.”
We lapse into silence again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels like a break in the middle of a long conversation you haven’t had yet.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall behind the bar.
The red dress, the way my hair falls, the slightly off kilter look in my own eyes.
I try to imagine what he sees: a woman who can’t keep her napkin together, or maybe just someone who’s a little too tired for the version of herself she’s pretending to be.
Alexander glances at my drink. “You don’t like it.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What gives you that idea?”
He tilts his head, points at the untouched lemon wedge, the way the straw is bent but not used. “You’ve been holding it for ten minutes and barely taken a sip. If you liked it, it would be gone by now.”