Five
Gavin
Sitting at the bar after work on Sunday for trivia night, I slide my phone out of my pocket to check my texts again, but Mia’s
left me on read. That’s not like her. She probably got pulled away, but it feels weirdly like I’m being ghosted. Serves me
right for asking her out like that.
I had to think of a way to play it off. Maybe it’s all the romance plots that Mia’s talked through with me, but faking it
was the first excuse that came to mind. I know she doesn’t model her books off real life. It reminds me of the time a creep
came up after one of her events and asked if she needed help with “research.” The look she gave him was enough to have him
apologizing in an instant. But did I do the same thing? God, I hope not.
She doesn’t need me to fill the role of boyfriend in her life, but maybe she does need me to get past her writer’s block.
And we care about each other. That’s what friends do, right? They step up. But I can’t help but worry this impulsive move
will drag us down.
This dive bar, with its ripped vinyl booths and plastic pitchers and sticky floors, feels a lot like the college bar where Mia made me promise to never let her date a friend.
She made it clear that’s what I was to her, and I haven’t forgotten.
Haven’t let myself get close to that line, because I’d rather have her as a friend than not at all, and most of the time, I can convince myself I’m not interested in anything else.
But I’ve heard all the stories about her bad first dates, watched her try to make it work with mediocre guys. I’ve seen her
pick herself up and try again, and I’ve done the same, telling myself I’ll find someone who makes me feel better than she
does. Hasn’t happened yet.
I’m still staring at the screen as if a response will magically appear when my buddy Morris yanks my phone out of my hand.
“Man, quit checking that.” He slams it face down on the bar. “You’re going to get us disqualified.”
“No one’s even looking at us,” I mutter, but it doesn’t matter. Even though trivia night has been taken over by a new bartender
who just reads off a tablet with the enthusiasm of a substitute teacher, Morris and Riley take this seriously. They dragged
me here after work a few years ago and decided I was worth keeping around for the sports questions. Sometimes one of the other
guys on our crew joins us, but he likes to win, and we don’t do much of that.
“Doesn’t matter if he sees or not,” Riley says, eyeing me from under the swoop of bangs, more auburn than red in the low light.
“They’ll review the security footage if someone complains.”
I doubt they have cameras in here to deter theft, let alone keep trivia teams honest when the prize is a T-shirt. “Isn’t that
a violation of our rights?” I say, just to egg her on. Somewhere along the way, we became good friends outside of work and
trivia night. In fact, I don’t think trivia night is good for our friendship, if I’m being honest.
She gives me a flat stare. “Why do you keep checking it, anyway?” Not waiting for an answer, she stuffs my phone in her purse, zipping it shut for good measure. “Did you meet someone?”
“No,” I say, grateful not to have to lie.
“Is your dad pestering you?”
“No,” I repeat, more annoyed this time. I love my dad, and only I get to call him a pest. Did he rely on me a lot in the years
after the divorce? Yeah. But lately, I haven’t heard from him much. I would worry, but he posts plenty on social media. Mostly
pictures of meat he just pulled out of the smoker or baseball memes. When I checked in with him last week he was in good spirits,
talking about the new contract our family’s tree farm scored for a fancy mixed-use development.
“Then get your head in the game, because the next category is sports. Last time you cost us the win because you were too busy
chomping down on nachos,” Morris says.
They rely on me to pull my weight, but I’m mostly here for the half-price food. Not having to cook dinner on Sundays is a
bigger draw than getting quizzed.
Intense teammates aside, I love my life here in the Chicago suburbs. After college, I had a job waiting for me at the tree
nursery, but when the time came, I just couldn’t bring myself to go back. Going to college in Illinois had given me some distance
from Dad, and the idea of being his whole support system again was too much. Not to mention running the farm isn’t the type
of job you can clock out of at the end of the day.
The bartender reads out a question about pickleball and by some miracle I get it right. By the end of the round, we’re in
the lead, and Morris buys a round of beer. I’m more interested in dinner and am biting down on a brisket-topped corn chip
when Riley comes back from the bathroom, scowling.
“Your phone kept going off while I was in there,” she says with disgust, like it’s my fault she confiscated it. “What kind
of person keeps their volume on?”
The kind of guy waiting on a text, that’s who. I can’t remember ever feeling this nervous to get a reply from Mia; usually it’s the opposite. But the texts are from my brother, not her.
Scott: Just made it to the farm.
Scott: Dad says you haven’t come by in a while.
Big talk for someone who lives halfway across the country, but there’s no point in arguing with my brother.
Gavin: Summer gets busy, but I’ll be there for the cookout.
Dad hosts a big end-of-summer party for the employees and their families. These days it also serves as a send-off for Scott’s
family. He’s a stay-at-home dad and ever since his wife started working remotely, they’ve extended their summertime trips
to a month or more so the boys can spend time with our parents—especially Dad, who rarely takes time off to visit them. Mom
always comes to the party in August, too, even though she lives in Madison now. Mia has joined me in the past, but this year
she’ll be too busy prepping for her trip to Los Angeles the following week for the season three premiere.
Scott: Let me know if you can make it out sooner. The boys are asking when they can see you.
That strikes a nerve. My nephews are awesome kids, and I fly out to Colorado to spend time with them at least once a year.
But even though Dad’s cooled off lately on hinting that I’d be better off at the farm, he always seems to ramp things up when
I go home for a visit, and I’m torn between wanting to see everyone and not wanting to deal with the guilt trip.
Riley nudges me. “Next round is starting.”
“Just a sec,” I say, tapping out a reply to my brother.
“You’re good.” Morris leans across me to snag a chip. “The category is nature, and Riley’s all over that.”
“Don’t pressure me, man,” she says, but I tune them out to finish the text.
Gavin: Why don’t you bring them to the game this weekend? I can grab extra tickets.
Scott: Way past their bedtime. They’d fall asleep by the third inning. What about an afternoon game in Milwaukee? Then we could
have dinner at the farm.
Scott’s persistent, always has been, but something feels off. I shoot off a quick text to my dad asking how he’s doing, and
he sends back a selfie of himself holding a platter of what I’m guessing is prime rib and a thumbs-up emoji. Nothing unusual
there.
I’m about to put my phone in my pocket when I see the notification for another unread message. It’s from Mia.
Mia: Ready if you are. Tomorrow night?
I stare at the screen. We’re really doing this?
Morris grabs my shoulder and shakes it. “Dude, we won!” He shoves a T-shirt into my hands, tonight’s prize.
Riley pulls hers on over the wicking long-sleeve shirt we wear to work and climbs onto the barstool with a loud whoop, earning
a round of applause from the other two teams of regulars. It’s our first win in a few months, and I’ve got to say, it does
feel good. That’s the reason for the giddy feeling in my chest, not the fact that I’m going out on a date with my best friend
tomorrow.