Chapter 29 #2
“Not letting him freeload in an apartment that he doesn’t pay for isn’t ‘keeping him away from them,’” I say at the same time as the lights of the bar come into view.
I’ve just crossed off campus onto the main downtown drag.
“Listen, I’m at work, so I need to go. I’ll send the money in a second so that you can pay this month. ”
My mom’s quiet, but I can hear little sniffles. And it makes me feel awful, like someone’s repeatedly punching me in the stomach wearing bare knuckles, but the anger won’t abate. Finally, she says, “Thank you, honey. I love you.”
“Love you, too. Bye.” I hang up the phone, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I wish I could hit something. Just like Christmas day, I feel too keyed up, and there’s nowhere for my frantic energy to go.
I take a deep breath. Then another. It takes me at least a minute, standing outside in the freezing cold like an idiot, but finally, I get myself back to some semblance of normal.
As I check in at the bar and get ready for the night, I tell myself that I’m fine. Why then, every time I take a sharp inhale, do I feel like I’m on the precipice of doing something incredibly stupid?
It’s become apparent by eleven p.m. that most of the student body isn’t back from winter break yet. A smattering of students have come through for the night, but nothing that warrants me standing at the door like a guard dog.
Sasha, the bartender and tonight’s manager, seems to be of the same mindset. She pops her bleach blonde head through the doorway and beckons me. “Get your ass in here, K. If anyone else comes in before last call, I can check IDs at the bar.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. We’ve reached the point where I think a light tap on my frozen nose could cause it to fall right off. I hop off my stool and drag it behind me, leaving it inside the door.
When she’s back behind the bar, she holds up a bottle of whiskey. “Need a warm-up?”
I shove my gloves in my pocket and start rubbing my hands together. I’m not a big drinker, but nothing else has done a very good job of helping me escape my thoughts recently. My mind made up, I slide onto a stool. “Make it a double?”
She laughs at the same time she pours me a generous cup of amber liquid.
I like Sasha–she’s a townie, and she strikes a great balance of having her shit together enough to manage raucous crowds but also doing things like letting people have fun at the end of their shifts.
Provided they aren’t complete assholes about it.
After setting the cup down, she walks away to serve a small group at the other end of the bar.
Mulligan’s can feel intimate or massive, depending on what part of the building you’re in.
Right now, I’m in the front area, which includes a long bar situated against the far wall and a smattering of booths that run along the front windows.
Through a hallway behind me, there’s another, even larger room which consists of a dance floor and another smaller bar, which we don’t usually have open tonight.
The thing about Mulligan’s is that it always looks sort of dingy, even when it’s at its cleanest. The Christmas lights strung around give everything a whimsical glow, along with the paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling.
I down my shot in a single, burning gulp. The warmth washes through me. I lick my lips, chasing the feeling that’s settled in my stomach.
There are about a dozen other people in the front bar with me, and maybe that many back on the dance floor.
I watch the small clusters of people, having fun in a way that makes me feel homesick for some weird reason.
I’ve never been in a gay bar before–or, at least, at a gay night at a bar, except when I’m working.
And usually, all I see are the people heading through the doors and into the sanctuary that is Mulligan’s.
The thing is, it’s pretty much the same as any other night. Except that people are a little more affectionate–especially the men. Light touches and broad, toothy smiles as they tease one another.
I still haven’t labeled myself, and I don’t exactly feel a burning need.
But maybe that’s its own kind of privilege.
For months, I’ve gotten to decide that I don’t want to examine my attraction to Wells.
No one else knows, and there’s a freedom in that–and definitely the absence of fear at being forced to confront something before I’m ready. But it’s also sort of lonely.
My brain is getting a little foggy and I’m wondering if I should walk my ass home when Sasha returns and pours me another double. “You look like you could use this.”
“That obvious?” I ask, but I take the new shot and drink it quickly.
I feel a body next to me. When I turn, I recognize the guy, but I can’t quite place him, except that I instantly feel agitated. He has close-cropped dark hair, and he’s a few inches shorter than me.
I hope he’ll get his drink and be gone, but he slides onto the stool next to me. “Another one for my friend here.”
My lips are already feeling loose, whiskey soaking into my tired muscles. “Are you hitting on me?” I consider the idea. I’m not against it, in the abstract, but he’s not Wells. And that’s a way bigger problem for me than the fact that he’s a guy.
He lets out a strangled laugh. ““This place can be a bit of a meat market, but no. I’m Wells’ friend, Reed. I was with him on Halloween,” he reminds me. “And I think we both know about how well me hitting on you would go.”
I can tell that Sasha is interested in whatever is playing out, but I’m sure she’s heard far crazier things working at Mulligan’s. With a quick flick of her wrist, another double is in front of me, and she’s made herself scarce.
But still, my ears have perked up at the sound of Wells’ name.
I haven’t seen him in weeks. And I’ve been so busy channeling all my anger toward Rick, that it’s allowed me to push everything else to the side.
But apparently, that time has come to an end.
I miss him. And with the alcohol coursing through my veins, I feel it more acutely, like I’m suddenly aware of a missing limb.
I also understand him a whole hell of a lot better than I did before.
It feels like a cavern has opened up inside of my chest. But instead of acknowledging it, I tip my drink in his direction. “Thanks for this.”
He plays with a bar napkin, twirling it between his fingers and not looking at me. “So… how’s tutoring going? That’s what you two do together, right?”
I scowl at him. I’m not embarrassed about Wells–I’m pissed off that it’s over and all I have to show for it is getting teased by his friend. But I don’t take his bait. “Last semester, yeah. Not sure what this one holds.”
A small group of guys walk in, but I ignore them when they head straight to the other end of the bar. I’m in no position to play bouncer right now.
He clucks his tongue. “Wells is a tough one to crack, but he’s one of the best guys that I know.”
I put my empty tumbler down. “I’m not sure that we’re talking about the same guy, then.”
I watch him while he gives me a scrutinizing look. “I get it now. You’re both the self-sacrificing type. Saviors of the universe. Forget oil and water. You’re oil and oil.”
Alcohol is still sloshing around in my stomach, but enough has made its way into my bloodstream that I give him a slightly lidded stare. “Why can’t we be water and water?”
He holds his hand up and laughs. “You two can be whatever you want.” A beat passes. “Do you know what you want that to be?”
I’m trying to formulate an answer in my sluggish brain when I hear the scraping of barstools and voices growing louder. “What the fuck, man. I’m going to kick your ass,” a guy from the other side of the bar yells. I look over, Reed already on his feet and walking toward the melee.
I follow suit, realizing how slow my legs are at obeying my body’s commands. Still, I’m only a few steps behind Reed. Even in my drunken state, it becomes quickly apparent what’s happening. And it’s nothing good.
“I’m not a homo. Do I look gay to you? I don’t want your fucking drink.” The asshole is screaming, getting progressively closer to the source of his rage–a guy who’s at least six inches shorter than me and not even a-buck-fifty soaking wet.
Maybe the aggressively-self-identified straight guy would walk away if circumstances were different, but his friends are watching him. It’s clear that now he has something to prove.
There’s no world in which this is a fair fight.
And suddenly, some core memory dislodges from a deep recess of my body, as I watch the guy who bought the drink put his hands up to shield the impending blows.
He’s powerless. It’s gut-wrenching to watch.
And it’s exactly the way that I used to feel as a kid.
Everything’s fuzzy until it snaps into focus.
I grab the homophobe by the back of his collar and drag him backward.
“What the fuck–” he says at the same time he hauls around and knocks me squarely in the jaw. I barely feel it with the alcohol in my system, and I’m debating what to do when he punches me in the face again. I taste blood in my mouth, and I dimly register pain when I lick my split lip.
My mind’s made up, then. I’m seeing Rick when I land a solid punch to the guy’s stomach.
I’m drunk, but I’m not drunk enough to risk giving him a head injury.
Unlike his dumbass. He doubles over and goes down on a knee.
I’m above him now, adrenaline pumping, my hands balled into tight fists.
I wind back to hit him again when I feel resistance against my arm.
It’s Reed’s hand on my elbow, and he’s giving me a concerned look.
“Get him out of here,” Sasha calls to Reed over the bar, gesturing at me. “He wasn’t here.”
I wrench my arm away from Reed and haul back again. “He hit me first,” I fume. “Fucking asshole.”
I have to give Reed credit–he’s standing in between me and the guy, trying to maneuver me back toward the door. “I know that. But you’re probably the only one on a college scholarship with a zero tolerance policy.”
I squint at him. “What do you even know about that?”
“Pre-law. And I’m nosy as all hell. You need to get out of here.
The good news of the shitty news is that what that guy did is a hate crime.
He doesn’t have a leg to stand on, but having to go through some legal process isn’t what you want right now.
” He pushes his fingertips against my chest, but I don’t move. “Right?” he asks, pushing again.
I relent and walk out the door. Reed follows a second later with both of our jackets and hands me mine.
“Thanks.” I try to put my coat on, which is when I realize that I’m not especially coordinated.
It feels like the alcohol is hitting me all at once, but that’s probably what happens when you drink six shots worth of whiskey in about thirty minutes.
I wouldn’t know, except that I’m about to find out.
I realize that I’m in for an adventure when I try to start walking on the ice-covered sidewalk and slip, barely keeping myself upright.
I imagine myself as a goalie, trying to block a shot, which makes me laugh.
I try not to be an angry person, and what just happened inside aside, the alcohol is making me feel buzzy and light.
Reed is standing next to me now, and it feels like he transported there. “What’s so funny?”
“I basically live on the ice and now I’m like a little penguin,” I say, taking small, deliberate steps.
The nice thing about being drunk is that I don’t care about much right now.
Not the fight. Not the blood that I can still taste in my mouth.
Definitely not Wells. I try, and then fail, to put my gloves on.
“Where do you live? I’ll walk you home,” Reed says, walking a little slower to stay in step with me.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Reed. Can I call you Reed?”
He side-eyes me. “Not sure what else you’d call me.”
I wag my finger at him. “You’re a good guy. That guy at the bar,” I say, making an ‘x’ with my arms, “was not a good guy. What’s that even about? Everyone likes a free drink.”
Reed is trying to nudge me along, but I’m not budging. “It’s about the fact that some people are assholes.”
Warmth is swirling through me now, and all I can think about is how good Wells’ body felt against my own. I waggle my eyebrows at Reed. “That guy doesn’t know what he’s missing, ya know?”
Reed laughs, but if I was more sober, I’d probably notice the exasperation in his tone, too. “Kellan, where do you live? I can’t leave you out here in below-freezing weather. And we need to get going before that guy comes out. We don’t want a round two.”
I mimic punching, doing a quick right hook and left jab. “Let ‘em at me.”
“Why don’t we go see Wells?”
My eyes light up instinctively, even though there’s something just at the edge of my peripheral that I can’t remember. Oh, right. How we left things. He thinks I’m too chicken shit, and maybe he’s right. “He’s mad at me. He’s always mad at me. Maybe this time, I deserve it though.”
Reed puts his hand on my back, trying to move me along. “He only lives a few minutes away. You can sober up there and then do whatever you want.”
“In the fancy building,” I confirm. But I start walking, Reed letting out a relieved sigh next to me. “Do you think he’ll want to see me?”
When I look over at Reed, there are two of him that answer me. “I’m not sure, but we’re about to find out.”