CHAPTER 16
DEVON
"TELL ME THE truth." I slam my palm on the bar top, making the bartender—a guy about my age with a man-bun—jump. "Am I ugly?"
He blinks at me. "What?"
"Ugly. Am I? Scale of one to ten, one being 'would rather gouge my eyes out' and ten being 'would sell a kidney to hit that.' Be honest. I can take it."
Man-Bun looks around like he's searching for backup. There is none. It's a Tuesday night, and this bar is dead, which is why I chose it.
"You're, uh..." He squints at me. "You're fine?"
"Fine?" I clutch my chest. "Fine? That's the most devastating thing anyone's ever said to me. Fine is what you call room-temperature water. Fine is beige. Fine is—"
"Dude, I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to tell me I'm a solid eight! Nine on a good hair day!" I gesture at my head. "This is a good hair day, by the way. Hello? I used product."
He's backing away slowly now, which is fair. I know I’m acting unhinged. I am unhinged. I've now been stood up twice in one week, and my ego is in critical condition.
"Look." He slides a glass toward me. Whiskey, neat. "This one's on the house. You seem like you're going through something."
I stare at the free pity drink.
This is it. This is rock bottom. I'm so pathetic strangers are giving me charity alcohol.
"Oh my god." I drop my forehead onto the bar. "I'm a basket case. This is worse than the time I got dumped via Instagram story."
"That happened?"
"He posted a picture with his new boyfriend. Captioned it 'upgrade.' I found out when my mom sent me a screenshot asking if I was okay."
Man-Bun winces. "Ouch. That's rough."
"My life is rough. My life is a series of increasingly humiliating romantic failures, and I'm starting to think the universe is trying to tell me something.
" I lift my head, grab the whiskey, and take a long sip.
"Maybe I'm meant to be celibate. Maybe I should get cats. Do you think I'm a cat person?"
"I think you should maybe slow down on the whiskey."
"This is my first drink!"
"Yeah, but you're already at 'should I get cats', and that's usually hour-three energy."
He has a point. I'm speedrunning my breakdown tonight.
I take another sip and pull out my phone. Might as well do something productive with my misery.
First order of business: blocking that Reddit asshole.
Need_Tailor_Chicago. What a stupid fucking username. Who even needs a tailor that urgently? And who asks someone for drinks and then doesn't show up? A coward, that's who. A coward with probably terrible fashion sense despite supposedly needing tailoring services.
I find his profile, hit block, and feel a tiny spark of satisfaction.
Goodbye, mystery man. You're probably a troll anyway. And boring, and ugly, and bad at communication, and I hope Philip's mom sews your pants too tight.
Second order of business: checking the group chat I've been ignoring for the past hour while wallowing.
I open it and—
What?
There are, like, forty new people in this chat. The member count has doubled overnight. I scroll through the names, recognizing exactly none of them until I spot "Marcus" and "Parker".
Someone added the entire fire station.
Before I type, the group name changes right before my eyes.
Marcus changed the group name to: Poles For Paws.
Oh, absolutely fucking not.
Devon changed the group name to: Pints for Paws.
Becker changed the group name to: Pucks For Paws.
Devon changed the group name to: Pints for Paws.
Marcus changed the group name to: Poles For Paws.
I'm going to murder them. I'm going to find them and murder them with my bare hands, and then I'm going to use Hendrix as my alibi because that bird owes me.
Devon changed the group name to: Pints for Paws.
Devon: marcus, buddy, you're new here. behave. becker, touch it again and i'm telling everyone about the thing
Becker: WHAT THING
Devon: you know what thing
Becker: I DON'T KNOW WHAT THING
Devon: exactly ??
The group name stays. Ha!
I scroll up to see what I missed.
Marcus: Happy to be here! The station's excited to help.
Parker: We've been practicing skating. It's going... not great
Wall: Define "not great"
Parker: Three guys fell. One cried.
Petrov: This is normal. Crying is part of learning.
Becker: Is it though?
Petrov: In Russia, yes.
Groover: Everything is "in Russia" with you
Washington: Can we please stay on topic?
MamaPaws: What's the topic, dear?
Washington: I... don't remember anymore.
I snort. This chat is a disaster. I love it.
More messages:
Jinx: Has anyone seen my lucky socks? I left them at the bar
Hunter: The green ones?
Jinx: YES
Hunter: Hendrix has them
Jinx: WHAT
Hunter: He made a nest
Jinx: OUT OF MY LUCKY SOCKS?
Kayla: It's actually really cute
Jinx: IT'S NOT CUTE IT'S SABOTAGE
I'm wheezing now. Man-Bun is giving me concerned looks from the other end of the bar.
Becker: quick poll: is Die Hard a christmas movie
Wall: NO
Groover: YES
Marcus: The station says yes, 7-2
Wall: THE STATION IS WRONG
Washington: I'm not doing this again
I'm about to chip in when someone taps my shoulder.
I look left. Nothing.
I look right, and—
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Ace is standing there, because apparently God has a sick sense of humor and wants me to suffer.
He's wearing jeans and a henley that's doing absolutely criminal things to his shoulders, a puffer jacker in his hand, and his hair is slightly damp like he just showered, and I want to scream into the fucking void.
"Hey," he says.
"What are you doing here?" It comes out more accusatory than I intended, but whatever. I'm having a night.
"I—"
"You know what, never mind, I don't care." I spin back toward the bar, taking another gulp of whiskey. "I'm in the middle of a crisis."
"What kind of crisis?"
"The 'I got stood up twice in one week' kind of crisis." I wave my hand dramatically.
Ace slides onto the barstool next to me. "That sucks."
"It does suck, thank you!"
Ace is quiet for a moment. Then: "There was a fender bender."
I blink at him. "Okay...?"
"On the corner of Maple and 5th. Traffic's backed up for blocks."
"Cool. Riveting traffic update. Thanks so much."
"That's why I'm late."