Chapter 12
12
“They get better every year, I swear!”
Carlos is beaming from ear to ear, one arm around Bryan, the other beckoning for a waiter to come take our drink order. We’re at a super hip queer bar across the street from the concert hall. Carlos made reservations for one of the private tables there several weeks ago, before the place filled up. It was a good call, since every table is taken, and just like at the concert, the rest of the place is standing room only.
“Seriously,” Carlos says. “You guys were so good.”
“Aw, thanks, babe,” says Bryan.
“It’s true! And I’m the biggest fanboy. So, so big.”
“So, so big,” Bryan agrees, smirking suggestively.
“Why aren’t you in the chorus, Carlos?” I ask, kicking Bryan under the table.
“Oh, I’m one hundred percent tone deaf,” Carlos laughs.
“It’s true,” Bryan says, wrinkling his freckled nose. “But luckily he’s hot.”
“And a doctor, don’t forget,” Carlos says.
“I never do,” Bryan says. “And so, so big...”
“Shut up, Bryan,” Sasha and I say in unison.
“And a good Catholic schoolboy to boot,” Bryan adds sweetly.
“Were you really a good Catholic schoolboy?” Sasha asks.
“I had them all fooled,” Carlos assures her. He gives Bryan another squeeze, then asks him, more seriously, “Hey, did you see the text from Monica? Can you go in for the paperwork tomorrow?”
I exchange a glance with Sasha.
Do we know who Monica is, and what this paperwork might be?
Sasha lifts an eyebrow.
We don’t.
Bryan gives a small shake of his head, clearly indicating to Carlos that they should talk about this later. It must not be anything super important; the two of them are clearly genuinely happy. Carlos nods and kisses Bryan’s cheek.
My stomach rumbles.
“Is there any food here?” I ask.
“Oh, honey, no,” Bryan says. “But don’t worry, we’re gonna fill up on drinks.”
An hour and two rounds of cocktails later, we’re all laughing and relaxed. The dance floor is packed and we’re eyeing it occasionally, remembering what it was like when we were the ones pressing ourselves up against strangers and grinding the night away.
“I was a little nervous heading into the concert this year,” Bryan confesses. “There was gonna maybe be a protest, according to the socials. Some Klanned Karenhood types saying this was immoral, going after us like with the drag brunches and stuff.”
“Are you serious?” Sasha asks. “They’re trying to pull that shit here?”
For a half second, my mood darkens again. It’s sometimes easy to forget in a city like Chicago how fragile everything is for so many of us, all the time. The uptick of ugliness. The looming threat of those who don’t want to allow room for anyone unlike them. The sort of monsters I was taught to fear as a child in Hebrew school, while being simultaneously assured that world peace was a realistic goal.
“So they said,” Bryan says, then grins. “But no one showed up to their little protest, so cheers to that!”
“Cheers!” we all yell, and Carlos orders another round.
Soon the momentary darkness is drowned in a sea of vodka and buried in a landslide of cackling over inside jokes. It’s the best night I’ve had in such a long time. Even Sasha seems to be enjoying herself. She sips her third martini and nudges me.
“Okay, Eve. You gotta tell Carlos about Rosie’s Camp Hanukkah wedding theme.”
“Do what now?” Carlos asks, confused.
“Oh, yeah, this is good,” Bryan agrees.
“My sister’s getting married this weekend,” I say, with an over-the-top roll of my eyes. “At a Jewish summer camp. And she’s, like, making it kind of a big candles-and-latkes Hanukkah-themed extravaganza. Ancient festival of lights meets modern lesbian wedding. It’s a whole thing.”
“That sounds fun,” Carlos says.
“But it’s also Eve’s fortieth birthday, so it’s kind of brutal,” Bryan says with a look of faux sympathy.
“Can we please stop mentioning my birthday,” I sigh. “And the wedding is the day before, it’s not the exact day, okay?”
“The big four-oh!” Bryan says, ducking to avoid me dousing him with the last drops of my drink.
“I crossed that bridge last year, it’s not so bad,” says Carlos.
“That’s because you look twenty-five,” I tell him. “And you’re married. And a doctor. If I had even one of those things going for me—”
“Okay, okay, no pity party,” Sasha chides.
“Did you ask Hot Josh yet?” Bryan chimes in.
“Hot Josh?” Carlos says.
“Cute British guy, just moved into her building,” Bryan explains. “She’s gonna ask him to be her date to the wedding.”
“I didn’t ask him yet,” I say. “But...”
“But...?” Sasha asks, taking the bait.
“But it turns out he’s Jewish.”
They all squeal.
“What!”
“OMG!”
“British and Jewish? Unicorn! We have a unicorn , people!” Bryan yelps, which is hilarious, since his pale Irish Catholic ass would never have known this was something to be excited about until Sasha and I came into his life. “No—wait—oh my God, he’s a Jewnicorn . Oh, girl, this is fate .”
“Jewnicorn? Jesus, Bryan, that sounds like a foot disease,” Sasha says. “Evie, how did you not lead with that when you got to the concert?”
“I was just way too excited about all the big gay Christmas joy,” I say with a grin.
“Fair,” Bryan says, sipping the last of his gin and tonic. “Okay. Who wants to dance?”
“Not me,” says Sasha. “I’m about to tab out.”
“Boo, no fun!” Bryan says, pouting.
“I got the tab tonight,” Carlos says.
“No way, you always—” Sasha starts to protest, but Carlos silences her with a peck on the cheek.
“Always, nothing!” he says. “You haven’t even been out with us in a year! Let me get this. I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks, Carlos,” Sasha says, then blows a kiss to all of us. “I’m gonna call a car. See you kids at the office. Don’t get into too much trouble.”
“Aw, stay a little longer,” Bryan pleads, but Sasha’s already headed for the coat check. As she exits, and Carlos makes his way to the bar to settle the bill, Bryan grabs my hand. “Looks like you’re my dance buddy, Evie Goodman!”
Before I can put up any sort of resistance, he hauls my ass to the dance floor. I let him. The night is tinged with holiday magic and good drinks, and some part of me really does just want to dance. It’s also kind of refreshing to know that no one here will wind up asking me to go home with him, seeing as literally every dude here is gay. At least for a little while, the pressure’s off. I can just cut loose, like in the old days.
Within seconds, Bryan and I are flailing around like drunken Muppets to old-school Madonna dance remixes. It turns out that it’s ’90s Night, which just makes this already-delightful night even better. Bryan and I know the lyrics to every single song and scream along at the top of our lungs. We’re probably the oldest people actually dancing, sweating in our ugly holiday sweaters while everyone else is dressed to impress. But we don’t care. We’re having fun. And it feels so damn good.
“You getting tired?” Bryan yells over the pounding bass line.
“I could do this all night!” I yell back, shaking my menorah-lit tits at him.
Just then, I’m doused with something cold and wet.
“Oh shit! I’m so sorry!”
A kid who looks barely eighteen, with a dyed-pink faux-hawk and huge kohl-lined eyes, is looking down at me sorrowfully. They just spilled an entire cheap gin drink all over the front of my menorah-boobs.
“No big deal,” I say, dabbing at my chest. I hit the button to turn off the lights so I don’t wind up electrocuting myself or something. Death-by-ugly-Hanukkah-sweater-on-gay-bar-dance-floor is just not the way I want to go.
“You okay?” Bryan asks.
“Yep,” I say. But the buzzy spell is broken, and I’m realizing how late it is and how tired I am. Dancing at a bar past midnight just isn’t my speed anymore. I suddenly want nothing more than my sweatpants and pillows. “I think I’m gonna head home, though. Past my bedtime.”
“You sure?”
I nod and turn to go. But suddenly there’s Carlos, with three tequila shots in hand. He’s grinning like the mischievous schoolboy he once was. Before I can even protest, he’s handed one of the shots to me, another to Bryan, and is holding his own aloft.
“Yassss,” says Bryan.
“?Salud!” Carlos cries.
“L’chaim!” I yell.
And we take the shots.