Chapter 3 #11
It’s so weird to see her coworker in a house as opposed to the office. She feels protective of the clothes that are spilling out of her open suitcase on the floor and self-conscious to be seen in a bed, even if it’s not her own; it all feels too intimate.
“Tomorrow,” she promises. “Tonight I have to review the newsletter.”
“Sucks to have actual work,” he says.
“Drew, what do you even do anymore?”
“I say yes or no to twenty-two-year-olds about their dumb story ideas.” He shrugs. “Mostly no, though.” He hits the top of her doorframe as he turns to leave, in a way that comes off as a little boyish, a little rambunctious, like he’s showing off how tall he is.
For the first time, it occurs to her that Drew is cute. It’s a confusing thought. She shakes it off immediately.
“Text me if you change your mind,” he says.
She doesn’t.
That next day, she and Drew make a list of shows they want to hit, and then they begin hopping from one venue to another.
Thanks to a recent partnership, Spotify gives them VIP wristbands and they get to cut the lines.
It’s exhilarating to have access to whatever they want.
Susan knows the wristband is symbolic, but it truly does make her feel like a Very Important Person.
They have a few drinks at each stop, grabbing free cocktails from the various liquor sponsors, and at some point they’re splitting a joint, and before Susan knows it, she is drunk and high enough to be enjoying herself.
Around midnight, they head to a cowboy bar, a dusty wooden house with a gate that looks like it’s from the set of an old Western, actual tumbleweeds in the dry dirt surrounding it.
Outside the bar, there’s a man with an enormous, tangled beard wearing dirty Levi’s and cowboy boots holding a sign that says I HAVE THE RIGHT TO CARRY IT.
A gun is prominently displayed in a holster on his hip.
He looks like he could be one hundred years old or twenty.
Impossible to tell under the grime and the beard and his thick, large glasses.
Seeing the gun, Susan feels jumpy. She walks a little closer to Drew as they pass. He hovers his hand near her lower back, not quite touching her, as though he’d be ready to move her out of the way if he needed to.
“I forgot it’s your first time in Texas,” he says.
“I don’t think I’ve seen a gun that’s not on a cop before,” she whispers.
It’s a strange moment between them, Susan leaning into him—for, what, protection?—as they pass the scary man with his weapon. She feels embarrassed that this was her instinct. And he just went with it, as though it was natural, maybe even inevitable.
On the other hand, it probably didn’t mean anything at all. They are both quite tipsy.
Inside the bar, Drew goes to the bathroom, and Susan orders beers. Her phone buzzes with a text; it’s from Drew.
“Should we make out?”
She groans, putting her face in her hands. They’ve been drinking for almost twelve hours straight.
There’s nothing to do but drink some more. When the bartender brings her beer, she says, “Actually, can I also have a tequila shot, too?”
She considers the text and tries to be open-minded.
She thinks of her high school obsession with Kyle, the validity of it or lack thereof.
It’s hard to remember. She likes Drew a lot as a friend, and he’s definitely cute in a rumpled sort of way, and sometimes she wishes she could be more like him, the way he’s so cool and easy to be around.
She could be attracted to him if she stops overthinking it, maybe. If she turns her brain off.
Out of the corner of her eye, Susan sees Drew leave the bathroom and linger by the jukebox in the corner, looking busy with something on his phone, probably waiting for a response from her.
The attention would be nice. Is nice already.
She wants someone to hold her, to help her forget that the last person who held her also broke her heart.
What would making out with him actually entail?
She knocks back the tequila and grimaces, trying to imagine it.
She orders another one, and then another one, until the tacos she ate earlier start to breakdance in her stomach.
The problem is she doesn’t want Drew’s tongue in her mouth or his cigarette smell on her clothes or his weirdly long hands on her body or, most horrifyingly, to feel his boner poking her through his jeans. The room is spinning.
She wonders if anyone has ever died of desperation.
She gets up and finds herself wandering toward the corner where Drew is leaning against the wall.
He’s still staring down at his phone and doesn’t see her approach.
He looks up just as she’s upon him. He’s a good bit taller than she is, and she stands on her tiptoes to press her whole body into him as her mouth lands on his.
He wraps his arms around her and though his body is warm and sturdy and he doesn’t even smell bad, everything about it is off. His stubble is painful against Susan’s skin, like she’s getting jabbed by a thousand tiny needles. She wonders what about this experience is appealing to anyone.
She doesn’t mean to but she actually says, “Oh, shit.”
She pulls her mouth away from his as she sinks back onto her heels. She rests her face on his shoulder. He keeps his arms around her and they stand like that, hugging for a while, as the room spins.
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“I thought I caught a vibe,” he says. “You sure?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, dude,” he says, and pats her back. He sounds a little resentful but resigned. “Just thought it was worth a try.”
She’s grateful for his forgiveness, even while she knows objectively it’s within her rights to refuse him. Still, she can’t help but feel like she’s done something wrong.