Chapter Five
F uck. Fucking fucking fuck.
“Hi,” I sputter.
“Hi, Bennet.” He leans on the bar between us. “Or did you say your name was Andy ?”
“I…” Shit. “I might have said that.”
“Good thing there’s an ID in here so I have proof it’s you.” His hand stays tightly gripped around the wallet as he looks at me over the rim of his glasses. “How was the baptism, by the way?”
He’s baiting me to take the wallet right out of his hand, but I don’t want to touch him, let alone play tug-of-war with him.
“You work here?” is all I can manage to squeak out. My mouth has gone completely dry and I feel as if I might once again vomit in the bathroom of L’italiano.
“Why’d you think I picked a spot across the street for our date?” The sound of the word date coming from his lips makes my face get unbearably hot. I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I’m wearing my cater waiter pants and button-up, which are probably the least sexy things a human being could be caught in. I’ve got brown mustard stains smeared across my thighs and I’m sure I smell like gorgonzola.
“You’re a bartender and you picked a bartending class. That’s not fair.”
“Maybe I wanted to impress you.” He leans in, fingers tightening around my wallet.
“Give me that,” I snap, finally snatching it out of his hand.
He cocks his head, frowning. “You know, you might want to be nicer to the guy who spent all night waiting to hear from you.”
“I had a bad night,” I say, shoving the wallet in my bag.
“Yeah.” He gestures out the window at Rosencrantz the restaurant lights burn amber through the liquid. “Cheers,” I say. “To your really old dad.”
Henry smiles, raising his glass to mine. “To your dead ex-boyfriend.”
We clink them together.
Having Sam out in the open feels good. I don’t talk about him earnestly with anyone. When he inevitably crosses my mind, I do everything in my power to change the mental channel to anything else. There’s safety in sharing him with this stranger. There’s no threat that I’ll actually have to be vulnerable with Henry. I’m never going to see him after tonight. Turns out, even a pretend friend sort of feels real when you’re lonely enough.
···
Henry changes the music from Ella Fitzgerald to Alabama Shakes as soon as the last customers leave the building. It feels a little naughty to be in a restaurant after hours with the lights on. It’s like I’m seeing a person naked for the first time and I’m not supposed to. Henry throws a rag over his shoulder to pick up some dirty dishes. I finally slide a piece of pizza onto my plate. My mouth waters as I unroll a silverware set and cut off a bite.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Henry says, peering over my shoulder. “Cutting your pizza?”
“I don’t want to get my hands dirty.”
“I’m starting to second-guess this whole being-friends thing.” He gets a spray bottle from a waiter station by the bathroom and starts cleaning tables. His hair is always falling over his eyes.
“Not friends,” I say as I take a delicious bite and try not to shiver with pleasure.
“Not yet.” He stacks a couple plates and brings them to a busing station.
“You lied on your profile. How am I supposed to trust you?”
“I didn’t lie,” he says, cocking his head.
“Your profile said you were a photographer, not a bartender,” I say, taking another bite of the most delicious pizza I’ve ever tasted.
“I am,” he says, wiping a nearby table.
“Why are you at this restaurant?”
“Because I’m no Annie Leibovitz.” He continues to clean. “I work here to pay the rent until I can get my business off the ground.”
“What do you take photos of?”
“People.” He stops wiping the table and stretches one arm across his chest before picking the rag up again. “Mostly engagement shoots and family portraits, but I also do weddings and concerts and other stuff like that.”
“Cool,” I say as I take another bite.
“And you? What do you do?”
I hold up a napkin to cover my full mouth and mumble, “Next question, please.”
“That’s a softball.”
I sip my wine to wash down a clump of cheese. “Not for me.”
“Well, that’s obviously a catering uniform,” he says with a smile, gesturing to my clothes.
“This is actually how I dress every day, and I’m offended you would think otherwise.”
“All right. Don’t tell me.” He raises his eyebrows, baiting me. “But that’s really boring of you.”
I groan. Fine, I’ll play. It’s not like I’m going to see him again anyway. “Tonight I was a cater waiter. Tomorrow I’ll be a desk receptionist. The next day, who knows? President, maybe.”
He laughs and scratches his chin. “You temp?”
“Real winner, aren’t I?”
He pulls a chair out from the table he was cleaning and sits. “Nothing wrong with temping.”
“Oh yeah, my passion is serving mimosas and cocktail wieners to the one percent. I’m building my future brick by brick every day.” I give a sarcastic smile, batting my lashes.
“What is your passion, then?”
I shake my head, tossing my napkin on the bar. “I don’t have a passion.”
“Come on.” He drapes one elbow over the back of his chair. “Everyone has something they’re passionate about.”
“Not me. I think it’s what they call apathy.”
If you asked me in middle school, I would’ve said my passion was journalism. If you asked me in high school, I would’ve said my passion was acting. If you asked me in college, I would’ve said my passion was poetry, or, more accurately, the embarrassing poetry I wrote about Sam. Now the only thing I’m passionate about is making it from one moment to the next.
“I don’t buy it,” Henry says, wringing the bar towel between his fingers.
“It’s the truth whether you buy it or not. I’m a directionless loser in her twenties who doesn’t have a passion.” I gulp down the rest of my grapefruit wine. “If you want to retract your offer for friendship, now’s the time.”
“I don’t pick my friends based on their jobs,” he says.
“No, you seem to pick your friends based on nothing at all.”
“Everyone needs a passion,” he says, ignoring my comment. “It’s like the only reason I get up in the morning.”
I discard my wineglass on the bar. “Is this you telling me you’re actually a life coach? Are you going to pitch me a three-step plan to change my life? Are you going to try to sell me supplements next?”
“No…” He looks out the window. “But you’re giving me an idea.”
“I was joking,” I say. “Please don’t try to sell me supplements.”
Henry turns back to me, suddenly with bright eyes. I might actually be seeing a light bulb go on in his brain.
“What if I help you find it?”
“What?”
“Your passion,” he says, beaming. “What if I help you find it?”
Henry looks at me as if he just said something normal and not very weird and strange .
“Hello?” He snaps his fingers in front of my eyes. “Are you alive in there?”
“Sorry.” I blink. “What?”
“Do you want me to help you find your passion?”
I violently stab a piece of pizza with my fork. He flinches. “That’s such a weird thing to say to a stranger, Henry,” I say.
He shrugs. “What about this interaction gave you the impression that I’m not weird?”
“I didn’t think you were this weird,” I say.
“Well, we barely know each other. Plenty of room for surprises.” He smiles.
I roll my eyes. “You’re a little drunk, and I’m a little drunk, and we’re going to part ways after tonight and never talk to each other again. Even if I said yes to whatever you have in mind, that’s what would happen. And we’re both going to feel really dumb tomorrow.”
“That is not going to happen,” he says. “I’m weirdly committed to this.”
“Why?” I feel my heartbeat in my neck and I smooth my palm over it to quiet the thrum of the sudden and strange bodily reaction. “What reason could you possibly have for offering to help me, a complete stranger, and someone who ghosted you, find a totally vague and existential thing?”
“Because…” He dodges my eye contact, looking over my head.
“Because, why?”
“Because…” he says again. Have I stumped him? It looks like he’s about to say something, but then decides against it. “Is it so hard to believe that I just think it would be fun?”
The only word I can think of when I look at him now is… sincere . He’s being sincere. What if he’s right? What if the only reason for doing this is that it would be fun? When was the last time I had fun?
I clear my throat. “Say I agree to this….”
“Yeah?”
“Which I’m not,” I say, causing him to playfully roll his eyes. “But say, hypothetically, that I do…. What would that even look like?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know. We could just try some new things. Take classes, go to new places…once a week we could get together and try a new passion. I’m a lot of fun once you get to know me, you know,” he says, smiling. “Some might call me an expert in fun.”
“Who calls you that?”
“Doesn’t matter. Come on,” he says. “I can tell you want to say yes.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes. I can.”
“No, you can’t,” I say in a huff. “And you’re honestly pretty full of yourself if you think you can help me do this.”
“Nope.” He clasps his hands under his chin. “Just passionate about passion.”
“Ugh.” I cross my arms.
I think about the girl I was before everything went down with Sam. I was so excited for life to start. So excited for what my future would hold. I felt like life was a series of endless possibilities, surprises around every corner. But in chasing those opportunities, I lost the person I loved most. Now I have no spark left. Only guilt and grief.
Would it be so bad to try?
I lift my eyes to Henry, who’s looking at me expectantly. “What do you get out of it?” I ask.
He rests his elbows on his knees, holding the rag between them. “Why do I have to get something out of it?”
“Because otherwise this makes literally no sense.”
“I get a new friend. The presence of Bennet in my life.”
“Don’t be patronizing.”
“I’m not.” His mouth blooms into a smile. The single dimple on his cheek draws my eye for just a flicker of a second. “I’m being spontaneous .”
“You’re being crazy .”
“Come on,” he says. “I have a bunch of fun shit I want to do and no one to do it with. You’d be doing me a favor, really.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to imagine what this would look like between us. On one hand, I don’t have anything else to do in the foreseeable future besides several depression naps and a Netflix marathon. On the other hand, depression naps and Netflix marathons are my safe space. It would be so easy to keep myself hidden from the world, sheltered in my cocoon knowing that I can’t fail if I don’t really try. On the third hand, if there are allowed to be three hands in decision making…I’m a little tipsy and it actually seems possible right now. Things I would normally never consider are suddenly worth considering.
“I don’t even know you,” I respond, opening one eye.
“There’s this really wonderful thing I’d love to introduce to you. It’s called getting to know someone over the course of more than one hour-long conversation .” He flashes that bright smile at me, the restaurant’s light reflecting in his glasses. “Care to give it a go?”
“This won’t be a boy-saves-girl-and-teaches-her-how-to-live-life type of situation,” I say. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”
He raises three fingers in the air in Scout’s honor. “Never.”
“Because feminism.”
“Because feminism.” He nods.
“And I’m only going to agree to this if you promise we’ll just be friends.”
“You’ve made that very clear. You did stand me up, remember?”
“I mean it. I’m not…It’s not the right time for me.”
“Heard,” he says, his face suddenly serious. “I’m not in the business of crossing boundaries, Bennet.”
I swallow, my throat dry as ash. “Agh.” I wince. “This is ridiculous. I feel stupid.”
He tosses his head back and laughs. “Oh my god, it’s not that serious, Bennet. Do you wanna hang out with me and do fun shit, or do you want to keep ghosting guys on dating apps?”
“Both, kinda.”
“Good.” He smirks. “Every Saturday. We’ll do something new. The ghosting you can do on your own time.”
He holds out his hand to shake. It hangs between us in dead air, waiting for me to grab on.
Despite the fact that part of me thinks this is stupid, part of me thinks that Henry isn’t telling me everything, and most of me thinks I’m not made for a life of passion, I grab his hand and we shake on it. Even if I’m just playing along, I need to prove that I can. To prove that I’m not scared of everything.