Chapter 4 Henri
Henri
Your celebrity crush wants to buy you lunch and you didn’t immediately reply yes?” Iris says, slamming her hands on the bar top in exasperation.
“He’s not a celebrity, he’s just some writer. And I haven’t decided yet.” I got the email just before I needed to head out for my shift at Fender. I’ve barely processed, let alone decided what to do with it.
L. Hughes.
You know what they say about meeting people you idolize.
Don’t.
Because if you’re like me, you’ll make the world’s worst first impression and lose one of the few things that bring you joy.
I was happy to be in denial that it was him, until this year's "Feast in the City" was released with his name on it the day after Thanksgiving, and the unanswered email only further confirmed my worst fears.
This is what I get for helping a man. I should have just left him on the slushy sidewalk.
“You’re fucking joking, right?”
“I don’t know if it’s a smart move. This job is important, I don’t want to ruin it.”
“You’re only going to be doing this for a few more months—this is the perfect way to commemorate it.
Imagine in ten years, you’re sitting around with all your new, less-interesting-than-me academic friends and you whip out this badass article about your cool life in your twenties.
” She gives me a wide-eyed expectant look.
When I don’t immediately respond, she softens her voice.
“If you’re worried about work, just make sure it’s anonymous. ”
“Even if I do that, I’ll screw it up.”
I’m great behind the bar or on dates. I know exactly how to meet expectations. It’s not exactly a high bar—let’s be real, men aren’t creative when it comes to the dream girl they want to take home to their parents.
But being the person who talks instead of listens? Being me? Fuck that.
The only reason I was starting to move on from the interaction with the man—who I now know was L. Hughes—in the cab and at the restaurant is that I have no plans on ever seeing him again.
“I think it’s safe to say that if he still wants to talk to you after everything that happened, you’ll be just fine. And this proves your celebrity crush isn’t an asshole. Not all of us get to say that. You have to tell him yes. Go out with him.”
“It wouldn’t be a date. It would be an interview,” I remind her, but I doubt my words will do any good to shatter her delusions.
“And it will go great. He’ll fall in love with you, because how could he not, and you’ll have yet another reason to stay in the city.
” Iris perks up, attention shifting from me, thank God.
I follow her gaze to where Jasmine is weaving toward us wearing a comically ugly Christmas sweater trimmed with tinsel.
She calls out, “Help me convince Henri to fuck her celebrity crush.”
“I’m going to grab dishes and pretend you’re not using my sex life to flirt.” I head to the side room just off of the bar where we keep the dishwasher and extras of the liquor we tend to go through most of.
We’re not too busy yet, but that will change now that it’s four.
I load up my arms with steaming, freshly-cleaned glassware.
I let Iris do her thing as I put everything up at both well stations, hoping by the time I’m back they’ll have already covered the meager details of my sad excuse for a romantic life.
I haven’t actually dated anyone since college, and I was never actually in a relationship with anyone then.
At first it was because I was too busy. Now that I have a more flexible schedule, it would be too complicated.
I move too often for anything long-term and I don’t know how well telling someone I date people for a living would go over.
Iris has tried to help get me laid over the last few years, and I always say no. That’s the one area I’m not quite sure how to perform in—to be the person a partner would want. I’m not a virgin, but a handful of sloppy, fumbling frat party hook ups does not an expert make.
I can play at being sexy, but the idea of being with someone and disappointing them makes me feel vulnerable and anxious.
I like it this way. I have complete control over who I meet and when I leave.
“Jasmine, what can I—” I start, turning to face her but the rest of the sentence catches half way up my throat.
“Manhattan for me and whiskey sour for Liam,” Jasmine says eagerly, apparently not noticing how I’ve turned to stone at the sight of the man next to her, also wearing a gaudy sweater with about a hundred tiny bells attached to it. “Thanks, Henri.”
“Yeah, thanks, Henri.” L. Hughes makes my name sound like a new inside joke he’s testing the shape of—rolling it around on his tongue.
Keeping my eyes fixed on the bottles in front of me, and thankful for the bar between us, I make drinks as the conversation picks up again.
“Liam, you have a lot of freckles,” Iris says loudly, making sure I can hear. “Don’t see too many people with so many. I bet there’s like a billion.”
“I guess I haven’t thought about that?” His voice tips up at the end in confusion.
“Well, now that you’re both here, you have to help me convince Henri to go out with her celebrity crush. She got this email and she’s thinking of saying no.” Flames lick up my body. I won’t have to worry about grad school or the future if I die right here from humiliation.
“It’s not a date.” I enunciate the best I can through gritted teeth. “Just a work thing. If I say yes.”
“What exactly do you do for work? Sounds interesting if you’re being given an opportunity like this?” Liam has the gall to sound innocently curious.
“This, and freelance consulting on the side,” I say. Finishing the drinks, I hand them across the bar and give Iris an SOS glance.
“Jasmine, how do you feel about pool?” she asks. Traitor.
“That I’d love you to teach me how to play.” Jasmine’s mouth cracks into a wide smile as she scoots off her barstool. Iris guides her further into the bar where a pool table has opened up.
Iris looks back over her shoulder and I take the opportunity to mouth “I hate you.”
She blows me a cheeky kiss. Just wait and see how she likes it when I don’t bring her back leftovers anytime soon. That’ll show her.
“Jas is really great at pool,” Liam says.
“Well, Iris sucks at teaching people things. One of the few actual fights we’ve gotten in was when she tried to teach me a card game. And her only goal was to leave me with you, so I guess they’re a perfect match.”
“Yeah, I figured.” His eyes flick down and he trails a finger over the rim of his glass. “Am I really your celebrity crush? Not that I’m complaining. It’s a pretty nice ego boost after being cornered and told off for stalking you.”
Just when I was starting to think we’d spend the entire night talking about our friends, he had to ruin it.
“I used to like your articles.” I shrug casually.
“Used to?”
“It might be a while before I see your name on a byline and don’t die of shame.”
“So . . .” he starts slowly, drawing out the word.
It’s like he’s composing and rewriting his thoughts between sentences, causing him to speak in a jerky stilted sort of rhythm.
“Would being a part of one of those articles be completely off the table then? I sent an email a few hours ago asking, but there’s a chance you haven’t seen it. ”
“No, I saw it, and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Because you realized you were desperately in love with me?” The way he says it is less cocky and more like he thinks it’s ridiculous. Like it would be impossible for me to fall for someone like him. His eyes have gone wide and his bottom lip protrudes in a pout.
“Stop it.” I laugh despite myself, holding up my hand to shield my gaze from his pitiful expression.
A customer comes up to the bar, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts as I take their order and make their drink.
When I get back to Liam, I say, “I’m not good at talking about myself.
It took me months to write my personal statement for my grad program.
A thousand words to convince a school to let me pay them a shit ton of money and it took months.
” And my essay was amazing—had to be since my grades were average at best even after relentless studying.
“Nice. What type of program? I did an MFA, so I get it on some level. But it was expensive as hell and I was lucky to have some assistance from my family.”
“Mental health counseling.”
“Is there a reason why?”
“Right now, I get to help people for a night or a few days, depending on what they need. I want to do more—I feel like I can do more if I have the chance to.” I’ve always had more fun solving other people’s problems than my own.
“So, you’re a liar.”
“How? I mean I am sometimes, but not right now.” I throw my hands up and nearly knock a glass into my ice.
“You are good at talking about yourself.”
“Oh.” I can’t help but smile. “Only because you tricked me.”
“I think that’s what they call being a good interviewer.” His hand dips back as he grabs his phone from his pocket. He taps at it then sets it on the counter with the recording app up. “Since you’re so vehemently opposed to having lunch with me, we could talk now.”
“And you’ll keep me anonymous?” Even though I plan on quitting the professional fake dating job I’ve invented for myself if I get into grad school, I don’t want to risk the reputations of my clients.
It would be nice to keep the business going and have some extra cash, but the last thing I want to do is run into someone I went on a date with only to find out they’re a classmate.
“Of course, Juliet,” he says. "I'll make sure not to include your name or your pseudonym."
His playful tone sparks something rebellious in me and I reach over and tap the record button. “Then ask away.”
For the next two hours, I walk Liam through the basics of my process from background checks to picking the perfect outfit.
Even as I’m hit with small rushes, the conversation never truly stops.
In addition to using the recorder, he writes in a small spiral notebook with a tattered green cover that has seen better days.
When he’s not writing, he taps his pen on the bar top or shoves it behind his ear only to forget momentarily where he put it.
The next shift comes in, and I’m cut for the day, but have to take care of my closing tasks before I go home. I say a quick goodbye to Liam as I restock liquor and soda.
I’m tugging on my puffer over my work clothes as I step out of the break room.
Iris is there, waiting for me. I’m sure the reason she didn’t ignore the employees only sign and join me has something to do with how her arm is slung low around Jasmine’s waist. “We’re going to head out back to Jas’s place. You two all good here?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“Great, you can entertain Liam,” Jasmine says, flashing a wicked smile before she steers my roommate toward the exit, leaving Liam and I alone to fend for ourselves.
“Take pity on me? The walls at our place are thin.” Liam says, rocking back on his heels with hands shoved deep in his pockets. Standing so close to him I can tell he’s tall, but he holds himself so his shoulders are curled in and he looks far shorter than he actually is.
“I guess I can show you where the magic happens.” I slip my arm through his and nudge him forward. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”