Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Andi
Have you ever even …
I wonder how Cat intended to finish that sentence. She was rambling about her nickname when her face darkened inexplicably. Did I offend her somehow? But I didn’t even say anything!
Deciding there’s no rationalizing Cat’s behavior, I vacate the bay window and sidle up to the counter to settle the astronomical bill I’ve run up: a croissant along with two black coffees and three ’spros in as many hours. It’s a minor miracle my stomach isn’t pickling in its own acidic juices.
“Your friend’s cute,” Val says, handing me my credit card and a receipt to sign. “How long have you been seeing her?”
My signature goes way off the paper. “Cat?” I croak. “She’s taken.”
Val cocks an eyebrow. “By you?”
“By my ex, Sally.” I hand back the mangled receipt and pen. “Cat and I are coworkers, that’s all.”
“Coworkers,” Val repeats, pity softening her features. “That’s awkward for you.”
“It’s fine.” I busy myself with shoving my card back into my wallet. “Sally seeing other people doesn’t bother me.” That statement, at least, is true.
Val waits until I finish shouldering my bag, then asks, “So … does that mean you’re free tonight?”
I think about all the writing I have left to do—at home, because by now Gabe’ll be at the office. It can wait, right? I have time. I’m still staring down the barrel of a near-impossible deadline, but thanks to Cat, I’m less stuck than I was this morning. “Sure?”
“Wanna hit up B8 with me?”
B8, pronounced “bait,” is one of the last gay bars in the Denver/Boulder area that hasn’t been overrun by straight women looking for a fun night out without being sexually harassed. On account of Hollow , I haven’t been in months. “What’s the occasion?”
Val shrugs. “I’ve got steam that needs blowing off. You seem like you could do with some shots and mind-numbing music too.”
The door slams behind us as a customer leaves. I turn in time to see the force of the blow jangle the sign from OPEN to CLOSED . As Val goes to fix the placard, I check the wall clock over the register. If I go straight to the gym (my new gym, thanks to Brett and Carter) after this, I can pick up dinner on my way home and have five more uninterrupted hours to work before hitting up B8 with Val. Having that light at the end of the tunnel might even propel me to get more words down on the page.
“Sounds good,” I hear myself say when Val returns. “See you at ten.”
By half past nine, my laptop is powered down and I’m dressed in a short-sleeved button-up tucked into faded jeans along with a pair of Timberlands. I give my hair a final glance on my way out; I cleaned up my fade before showering, and it looks sharp enough to cut. Satisfied that I’ll be turning a few heads tonight, I hop on my bike to go pick Val up. She only lives a few blocks away from B8, but if I can save her the walk, I will. She’s on her feet enough as it is.
We pull up to the club a little past ten. Despite the early hour, there’s a short line out the door. Luckily, Val knows the owner, and we get waved through. Inside, we meander between shadow and fluorescence, sipping on well bourbon and bumping shoulders with a strangely large number of men wearing Cole Haan shoes and Brooks Brothers blazers—not your usual queer fashion. For the most part, I put their presence out of mind. The music is loud enough that it sinks into my bones, and by the bottom of my first drink, I feel loose enough to let Val tug me onto the dance floor.
Val, who’s an inch shorter than me, rests her forearms on my shoulders and rolls her hips up against me in a way that’s familiar and soothing. We’ve done this half a dozen times by now. When one of us is having a shit week, we go out, toss back a few shots, and wake up the next morning tangled up in each other’s arms. Then we part ways and return to our separate lives until the next time she needs me or vice versa. It’s a convenient arrangement, because neither of us asks too many questions. We simply figure out if the other person is still single and get the job done.
I don’t expect tonight to go any differently. Yet under the strobing lights, Val’s skin imparts less comfort than it usually does. I’m about to push past the incongruous feeling and kiss her under her ear, in a place I know she likes, when a man runs into me.
“Oh, fuck, sorry,” he exclaims, wide-eyed. He’s sporting a style so out of place—a short-sleeved polo with a pink sweater tied around his neck—that I wince. Now there’s a dude who’s not getting any action tonight, not with that getup. “Sorry,” he says again, likely registering my grimace.
“It’s fine.” I turn back to Val.
“Wait, I know you,” the man declares, wrapping his hand around my wrist.
My blood crystallizes in my veins. I twist away but resist the urge to grab Val’s hand and run.
“You’re Sal’s friend, right?”
The muscles in my legs relax, but only a micrometer. So he’s not an Aftermath player looking to start something. “Yeah?” I say none too kindly.
“It’s me, Chandler! Remember?” He ducks in close to whisper. “Sal brought me to one of your D the three of us are taking up valuable space on an overcrowded, pulsating dance floor. Making a snap decision, I snake an arm around Val’s waist and nod.
“Lead the way,” I shout over the music. Maybe if we get this over with, he’ll leave us alone.
We carve through the throng more easily than I expect (Chandler’s outfit clearly has repulsive properties) and ascend a short flight of metal stairs. On the second floor, we walk by a series of low tables surrounded by gay men, all of them white and dressed to the nines in floral-print shirts and too-tight slacks. Halfway to the far wall, Chandler breaks away from us and hurries toward the corner table, where all the golf shirts and penny loafers seem to be emanating from.
Beside me, I sense Val tense up. As far as I can see, we’re the only two people of color on this level. Pulling her even closer against my ribs, I murmur into her ear, “Sorry, this’ll only take a second.”
As Chandler reaches his destination, the press of people in front of us opens up, revealing Sally, laughing, with her head thrown back and her red hair cascading down to her shoulders. In her little black dress, she looks so different from her Friday night self that I wonder if Cat is around. If Cat is also in a little black dress along with two-inch heels and a gold Tiffany & Co. necklace.
I get my answer (sort of) a second later when the pile of coats on the couch next to Sally moves.
Cat.