2
It was a strip-mall storefront in Sandy with an illuminated sign that said Sally’s Soup and Salad. Red balloons floated near the door. Shiny red balloons. A little too shiny, actually, for Tean’s liking.
Tean double-checked the instructions on his phone. “This is the right address.”
“Soup?” Jem said. “And salad?”
“I mean, I guess they have to have these events somewhere.”
“They couldn’t have them at a steakhouse?”
“Well—”
“They couldn’t have them somewhere good?”
“Maybe this place is good,” Tean said.
Although the Google rating was barely three stars, so…
He sounded more defensive than he liked when he added, “It’s not like they could have a networking event at McDonald’s.”
He thought maybe it would help to get ahead of the conversation, but it didn’t—Jem just gave him a sidelong look that was not impressed and then, in a too-bright voice, said, “Oh my God, you know what would be good right now? Crab cakes.”
“Okay, well, we’re not here for the food, Jem. We’re here to meet people. To socialize. To network.”
Although that point seemed to be undermined a moment later when two women—twentysomethings in tiny dresses and heels, in spite of the cold—hurried into Sally’s Soup and Salad.
Jem’s silence made Tean think of a predator lying in wait. Then, slowly, he said, “Read me the description again.”
“It says, ‘Build your network at our Mega Match Date Night Networking Meetup.’”
“Mega Match Date Night?”
“It says network and networking!”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m sorry. Never mind. The tickets were only eight dollars, so let’s just go home—”
“Are you kidding? No way. This is going to be amazing.”
“It’s not going to be—”
Jem pointed toward the plate-glass window. “There’s literally a woman giving a PowerPoint presentation while those girls are trying to dance.”
And Jem was out of the truck before Tean could do anything productive—like drop his foot on the accelerator and speed away.
“You look cute,” Jem said as they made their way to the door.
“Because you picked out my clothes.”
“I know. But I like telling you that you look cute.”
Tean had no idea what to say to that, so he said, “You look very handsome.”
And Jem did look handsome: the dark jeans, the crisp white shirt, the jacket that managed to be professional but…cool. His hair was back in its neat part. His beard had been trimmed. He grinned at whatever he saw on Tean’s face, the crooked front teeth flashing out, and squeezed Tean’s hand.
Inside, the restaurant was loud and hot.
Music blasted overhead, competing with the droning voice of a woman who was explaining the Poster Boy Strategy, which to Tean sounded like a lot of the Instagram accounts Jem followed.
Aside from a rat-faced man who was eagerly taking notes, the rest of the crowd—and it was a crowd—seemed more interested in the Mega Match Date Night portion of the evening.
From what Tean could tell, this seemed to consist of men moving from table to table, where women sat.
“This is amazing,” Jem said.
“It’s not amazing,” Tean said. “It’s a disaster. And they might be breaking the law. What do you think the maximum occupancy is? Can you see the fire marshal’s sign?”
“They have name tags!”
“There are definitely more than sixty people—Jem, wait!”
Jem snaked through the crowd, though, making his way toward a table where a pair of middle-aged women sat with clipboards and name tags and Sharpies.
Jem said something. One of the women checked something off her clipboard.
He filled out two name tags, said something else that made both the women laugh, and brought the name tags back.
He was patting his into place as he arrived. It said, JEM. NO SEX STUFF.
“Oh my gosh,” Tean whispered.
Tean wasn’t sure if his was worse or better. It said simply, I’M TAKEN.
“That’s very possessive,” Tean said as Jem pressed the name tag onto his shirt.
“Totally.”
“But not in a healthy way.”
“Well, you’re mine, and I want people to know that.”
“See, that’s what I mean about the ‘not healthy’ part.”
“I know, babe. Just don’t take the name tag off.”
Which he probably said because Tean was maybe, the tiniest bit, starting to peel back the corner.
“It could say, ‘I’m in a healthy relationship.’”
“Yeah, I guess it could.”
“It could say, ‘I’ve already chosen my partner.’”
“Yep.”
“It could say, ‘Politely not interested, but thank you for considering.’”
For some reason, that made Jem laugh until three Utah blondes glanced over at him. Tean poked Jem, and Jem recovered himself—kind of—and croaked, “I’m going to get a drink.”
Which left Tean alone. By the door. With a borderline-problematic name tag. He tried the corner again; the adhesive wasn’t very strong. What if he told Jem it fell off?
Jem would probably know, though.
Jem pretty much always knew.
Tean sidled off, managed to find a nook between the fountain drink machine and a trash can, and wedged himself into the narrow space. The floor was sticky under his shoes—not his Keens, which Jem told him he couldn’t wear tonight, but a pair of oxfords that had appeared as if by magic.
Across the room, Jem talked to the man tending bar. He handed over cash. Took his beer. Stood there, sipping from the bottle as he glanced around. And then, responding to some cue that Tean didn’t catch, he flashed a smile at a passing woman, said something, and fell into a conversation.
Just like that.
Because he was Jem, and that was what he did.
The woman smiled at Jem. The woman touched her hair and moved it away from her neck. The woman shifted her weight, put a hand on Jem’s arm, leaned in to say something that made Jem scratch his beard like he was trying—not too hard—to hide a grin.
Tean started to squirm his way out of his hiding spot.
Before he could, Jem shook the woman’s hand and stepped away, and the woman turned to the bar to get a drink.
So, they were networking.
Probably.
It wasn’t that Jem talked exclusively to women.
In fact, if anything, he seemed to split up his conversations evenly.
With the men, he looked more relaxed, his body language more open, and he laughed more loudly and stood a little taller.
With the women, he was—well, not subdued, but more attentive, head cocked as though listening intently, waiting for them to finish speaking before he offered a response.
He was good at this. And Tean was surprised that his eyes stung. He was so good at everything.
After refreshing his beer, Jem made a beeline for Tean’s—well, could you call it a cave if it didn’t have a roof?
“Are you doing okay, babe?” Jem asked.
“Great,” Tean said. “How are you doing?”
“Good.”
“It looks like you’re meeting people.”
“Babe, networking is the shit. Listen, I met this guy who owns this condo at Bear Lake, and he said nobody ever uses it. Like, it’s just empty. The whole year.”
“Uh. Right.”
“And Megan—I think it was Megan, but maybe it was Meegan. Anyway, Megan’s grandma is loaded, and her grandkids never call her—well, except Megan—and Megan says she has a cousin who looks just like me.”
“Uh huh,” Tean said slowly. “What about, like, a job or a career or where she works?”
“Oh yeah, I totally got that stuff down in case anybody asks.”
The best Tean could manage was a sound kind of like “Hmm.”
“And get this,” Jem said. “Gary—he’s the one with the hair plugs—he’s going out of town for, like, two weeks.
And look at his Facebook.” Jem produced his phone and swiped a few times until a photo of a thirtysomething guy in an ill-fitting sweater vest appeared, standing in a kitchen, a sliding glass door behind him.
“You know how long it would take me to get that slider open? Fifteen seconds. Tops.”
Tean had to take about fifteen seconds himself.
And then he said, “I think it’s time to go home.”