Eight #2
I consider denying it, but what’s the point? “It tastes like Pine-Sol,” I admit.
He grins. “You want something better?”
I hesitate, then nod.
He signals the bartender with a two-finger wave, orders something I don’t catch, then says to me, “It’s not on the menu. But it’s the best drink they make.”
When the drink arrives, it’s seems like a simple gin and tonic, heavy on the lime. I try it, and it’s infinitely better than the last one. I say so.
Alexander lifts his glass. “To victories over paper products.”
I clink mine against his. “To surviving the week.”
He gives me a long, appraising look. Not flirty, or at least I don’t think so. I don’t know if I would be able to recognize someone flirting with me anymore. Not that I want him to obviously…although he is handsome. No, bad Harper! Then he says, “Bad week?”
I take another sip. “Bad couple of months. The kind where you keep waiting for the twist ending and then realize you’re just stuck in the middle of the book.”
He laughs, a real one, deep and quiet. “I know the feeling.”
I look at him, really look, and notice the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shirt sleeves are a little rumpled at the cuff, the tired set of his jaw.
“You here alone?” I ask.
He nods. “Work thing fell through. I decided to see what the world looked like outside of spreadsheets and conference calls.”
I make a face. “You’re a corporate drone?”
He shrugs. “Lawyer. Which is like being a drone, but with more paperwork and fewer happy hours.”
I snort. “I write romance novels for a living. I guess that makes us both professional liars.”
He grins again. “You don’t seem like a liar.”
“That’s the point,” I say. “The best ones never do.”
We sit with that for a minute, the music from the jukebox thumping against the walls, the hum of voices behind us.
Back at the table, I see Liv craning her neck, looking for me. I hold up a hand, signal that I’m fine, and she goes back to bullying Luca into ordering jalape?o poppers.
Alexander says, “Your friends are protective.”
“Yours aren’t here?”
He shakes his head. “I’m giving them a break. I have a talent for making things messy when I show up.”
I nod. “Me too.”
We finish our drinks, and I realize that the drink went down much faster than the last. I also realize that I am hesitant to leave, but I force myself to move anyway.
“Thanks for the napkin,” I say, standing.
He inclines his head. “Anytime.”
I make my way back to the high-top, feeling the weight of the dress, the contact lenses, the whole weird shell of being alive and out in public. For a second, I think about ditching, about slipping out the door and letting the night dissolve behind me.
But then Liv grabs my arm and says, “You were gone for ages. What happened?”
“Had a conversation with another bar patron,” I say.
She narrows her eyes, then decides to let it go. “You ready for shots?”
I glance back at the bar, where Alexander is still seated, still watching nothing in particular.
“Yeah,” I say. “Why not?”
I lift my glass. The world is still off kilter, but the hum under my skin feels less like static and more like the beginnings of being drunk. Somehow those shots give me the courage to make my way back to Alexander’s side. This time I’m brave enough to take the seat directly next to him.
He looks at me with a genuine smile that makes my stomach do a strange wobble that I decide to ignore.
“So, counsellor.” I say, adding dramatic flair and a touch of flirt to my tone. “What is the strangest thing a client has ever told you they did.”
He looks at me, contemplative for a minute, and he says, “Saying ‘objection’ during sex,” deadpan, which makes me snort my gin and tonic up my nose and, just like that, we’re chatting again in our little bubble.
The friends have receded. Liv and Luca are in a high-energy argument about which decade had the worst fashion, and I can see Liv making frantic hand gestures while Luca models a literal runway walk between tables.
Elsie is posting pictures of the group to Instagram, each one more unflattering than the last, cackling with each new angle.
For once, I am not part of the chaos. I’m not even monitoring it.
I’m here, at the bar, with a man whose most intense offer so far has been a napkin and the luxury of not having to overshare.
We people-watch for a while. The couple in the corner is a goldmine: she’s overdressed, he’s under-shaved, and neither looks like they actually want to be there.
Alexander calls them “The Hostage Negotiation Couple,” and I nearly choke on my drink.
We create backstories for them in turns, never quite letting the characters off the hook but also not letting them be tragic.
“The bartender is running on a clock,” Alexander says, gesturing with his chin. “Watch how he lines up the glasses, how he only clears them at the half-hour mark. It’s like he’s got a timer running.”
I say, “That’s a power move. That’s how you keep a bar from turning into a therapy circle.”
He laughs, soft and honest. “Or a support group for the recently combusted.”
“Is that what we are?” I ask.
He shrugs, not smug but oddly serious. “A little.”
His hand rests on the bar, and I notice he taps the rim of his glass with his index finger when he’s thinking. My own fingers have a habit of tracing the condensation ring under my glass, chasing it in loops until the skin tingles from the cold.
“You ever wish you had a different job?” I ask, surprised by my own candour.
He gives it a full ten seconds of thought. “Only when I lose a case and I know the wrong person got the short end.”
I nod, and the motion of it feels heavy.
He asks, “You?”
I hesitate. “Sometimes I think about working at my friend’s coffee and book shop. It’s one of the good ones, with mismatched mugs and a wall of plants. Less drama, more free scones.”
He laughs. “You’d hate it in a week.”
“I would,” I say, “but it’s a nice fantasy. Lower stakes.”
He glances at me, the gaze direct but not invasive. “I googled you.”
I blink. “When?”
“While you were at the table. Your friend posted a picture and tagged you and this bar. I’m not a creep, I’m just curious.”
I process this. “So you know what I write.”
“I didn’t read any of it. That would feel…” He pauses, searching. “Like cheating at the test before the first class.”
I bite my lip, then say, “Most people can’t help themselves.”
He holds up a hand, palm open. “I promise, I’ll read it after tonight. Not before.”
“Why?”
He sips his drink. “Because I want to see if you match the voice, or if the voice matches you. In my line of work, it’s never the same thing.”
For a moment, I am completely stumped for a response. I almost can’t help my curiosity though.
“You ever had a client whose story was so different in person that it made you like them more?”
He considers. “No. But it makes me wish I did.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press. We’re both so practiced at skirting the edges of real talk that even the hint of something deeper sends a ripple through the conversation.
We cycle back to safer topics. We rank the bar’s best and worst cocktails.
(He is team “Bourbon Neat,” I am “Anything with Citrus and No Regret.”) We critique the art on the wall, which looks like a preschooler’s acid trip, and compare notes on the best public bathrooms in the town.
(We agree on the small museum, hands down, for the acoustics and the faint smell of eucalyptus.)
The hour blurs. The rest of the room begins to empty; even the Hostage Negotiation Couple has departed, leaving only a half-empty glass and the impression of defeat. The bartender is cleaning up in increments, stacking shot glasses in quiet towers.
I catch myself leaning closer, elbows on the bar, my face turned toward him. Our knees are nearly touching. His forearm rests along the rail, fingers curled around his glass, and every now and then he glances at my mouth before resuming eye contact.
We are well into another round when Luca slides up behind me, appearing with the stealth of a predatory house cat. He makes a sound that is half-cough, half-growl, and Alexander looks up, instantly reading the situation.
“This is him,” Luca says, addressing me. “The mystery man. I approve, but only provisionally.”
“Go away,” I say, voice flat.
Luca does not go away. He extends a hand to Alexander, who stands and shakes it. “I’m Luca,” he says, not offering a last name.
“Alexander.”
They exchange one of those brief, testosterone-measuring looks that says, “I am not a threat unless you make me one.”
Luca’s eyes flick to me, then back to Alexander. “You seem nice. But if you make her cry, I will weaponize all of Instagram against you.”
Alexander is unruffled at his threat though and I am tempted to go die in a whole from embarrassment. “Fair enough.”
Luca turns to me. “Liv’s ready to go. You coming with, or…?”
He leaves the sentence open, inviting me to decide for myself.
I look at Alexander. He does not ask for my number. He does not say, “I hope we can do this again.” He just waits, a line at the corner of his mouth that suggests he would, if asked, make this last as long as I needed.
I say, “I’ll meet you outside, Luca.”
Luca nods and retreats, leaving a plume of cologne and judgment in his wake.
I turn to Alexander. “He means well. He is just protective.”
He nods. “He’s good at his job.”
I take a breath. The kind of breath you take before you admit something stupidly true. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to do this.”
He says, “Do what?”
I gesture between us, vague. “This. Be normal. Not be a walking, talking subplot.”
He smiles, but softer this time. “That’s not all you are.”
I want to ask what else he thinks I am, but instead, I reach out and touch his hand. Just a light press of fingers. His skin is warm and there are small calluses along the heel of his palm, a detail I file away without knowing why.
He says, “If it makes you feel any better, I’m usually worse at this.”
“Why is that?” I ask.