Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
CAMERON
Sal’s Place
Brooklyn, New York
Sal’s always seems to smell something like citrus cleaner and regret.
The neon signs in the small window and around the bar flicker inconsistently and they cast everything in a tired blue haze.
The rest of the neighborhood around my apartment has been turned into luxe wine lounges and gourmet health food eateries, but here, the vinyl on the barstools are cracked and your shoes stick in places as you walk around.
No one stares too long, and no one asks questions they don’t want the answer to.
It’s perfect, and that's why I’m here.
Sal’s is only a couple blocks from my apartment.
Far enough so that Riley won’t wander in by accident, but close enough that I can stumble home if I need to.
The music is pretty decent tonight, an early 2000s mix playing just loud enough that conversations could lose the battle if they wanted to.
A pair of guys laugh loudly at a pool table, and someone is in the far corner crying into their phone.
It’s exactly that kind of place, and certainly the place where I want to be.
I slide onto one of two open stools at the bar, and the bartender wipes down the counter in front of me.
He looks like he’s in his mid-thirties, has a long tattoo sleeve of what looks like dragons and some names of past lovers, and kind eyes that look like they’ve seen worse.
“What’re you havin’, dude?”
I stare behind him at a grim selection of liquor that all glows amber and clear and promising. Bourbon, whiskey, gin, tequila. All beautiful vices.
“Something to heal my heart,” I say, my throat tight.
“Sorry, bro.” He snorts softly. “I’m fresh out of that.”
He grabs a bottle of tequila anyway and pours generously clear liquid into a glass that has water spots on it.
“First one’s on me,” he states, sliding it across to me. “You want a chaser? Lime?”
I don’t answer. I just pick up the glass and throw it back in a quick, but savoring motion.
It burns immediately, sharp and bright, searing its way down my throat and blooming hot in my chest. My eyes water, but I welcome the physical sensation.
It’s clean, contained, and it doesn’t talk back.
Fuck, it feels so good to taste this again.
I set the glass down and tap it against the bar.
The bartender studies me for a second, then pours another without a comment.
This time I let it sit on my tongue for a beat before swallowing slowly, feeling it trace its path downward through my ribs.
For a moment, the ache dulls, and the image of Gregg blurs at the edges inside my mind. The sound of Celeste’s voice fades away. And Harrison’s sharp words lose their teeth.
I don’t care about sobriety tonight, or being responsible or even reliable. I just want to feel like my chest hasn't been cracked open and left exposed, even if I am my own saboteur.
Then, of course, “Scars” by Papa Roach starts to echo across the bar, and I can’t help but let out a clipped snort. The bartender leans in on his forearms. “Rough one?”
“You could say that,” I agree with a hollow laugh.
“I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut…”
He nods like he understands more than I’ve said, and I hand him my credit card. “Keep it open, friend.”
“And my weakness is that I care too much…”
“But hey—” I call after him. “Before I get too committed, can I switch to gin?”
“You got it, boss.” He nods, pouring a generous amount of gin into a new glass.
The song continues, and honestly, it’s kinda rude how fitting it is, and I sing along under my breath. “And my scars remind me that the past is real. I tear my heart open, just to feel.”
Because if I can’t stop loving him, I’m determined to stop feeling it.
I’m halfway through my third drink when I hear his voice. Deep, smooth, and carefully amused. “Hola, guapo. I didn’t peg you for a Sal’s guy.”
Of course. Marc, ever charismatic, claps a large hand on my shoulder with a confidence like it belonged there, and slides onto the stool beside me.
His pompadour and beard are immaculate, and he’s wearing a crisp black shirt rolled at the forearms. He looks like he’s walked in from a different universe, but nonetheless, he does present as a good-looking guy, much to my dismay.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” he continues, taking a swig of his Modelo, glancing around the dive bar with theatrical curiosity. “And all alone.”
“Hey, Marc.” I take a swig of gin and pull my shoulder slightly out from under his grasp.
“Aw, come on, papi.” He croons. “I know when we last saw each other there were some feelings, but no need to be so cold.”
The bartender raises his brow as he wipes out a shaker. “Friend of yours?”
Marc answers before I can, “Oh, yeah. We go way back.”
I smile at the bartender, assuring him it was okay, and he goes about making other drinks.
“So, how’ve you been?” I ask cordially, taking another swallow of gin.
“Oh I’ve been great. Just taking some time to rest after that long ass trip.” He takes another swig of his beer. “Had to heal up from a nasty split lip I got.”
I wince, remembering the moment Gregg’s fist made contact with Marc’s jaw. “I’m sorry about that,” I admit, truthfully. As much as I’d enjoyed being protected and stood up for, I did regret that it got to that point.
“You don’t mean that,” Marc counters.
“I do!” I insist, draining the remainder of my glass and signal for another.
“Put it on mine,” Marc says smoothly to the bartender, tapping the counter.
I should say no, but I don’t. His dark eyes look me over. “Not really dressed for a night out. And you look like hell.”
“Thanks.” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “If you must know, I just got back from the U.K. this afternoon.”
“Ah.” Marc leans back, giving me some space but not distance. “So where’s your little aristocrat?”
I feel my jaw tighten, and Marc senses it. “That over?” he guesses way too easily.
I stare into my glass. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”
“It was never gonna work,” he finally says, and I look up at him.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Marc raises his hands in defense. “Hey, hey, don’t bite my head off. Just seems like he’s in a different world.”
“Yeah, a lot of people have made that connection already, actually.” I scoff, shooting him a spiteful glare.
“I’m not trying to gloat, but people like that? They don’t necessarily play fair.”
Marc has no idea what he’s talking about, but his words land heavy anyway.
I exhale, the alcohol continuing to numb my body.
“He says he chooses me, but there’s no way,” I explain quietly.
It’s not true at all, but I think I’m changing the narrative in my mind to make it easier for me.
“Sorry,” I mutter, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. ”
Marc’s expression softens convincingly. “You can talk to me about anything.”
The bartender drops another shot in front of me, and Marc nudges it closer. “Drink, you deserve not to think for a while.”
I should take that as a red flag, but I drink it anyway, and it feels like relief.
The burn is less intense now, and my body welcomes it as my edges blur further.
And as time passes, I tell him everything.
From being introduced as a business partner, to Celeste reducing me in the garden.
Gregg getting outed, to saving his dad after he hatefully called me a faggot.
Marc watches me carefully, attentively, and against my better judgement I ignore how he seems to be cataloging weaknesses.
“I loved him!” I laugh bitterly, and Marc’s jaw tightens momentarily before his suave mask returns.
“Yeah,” he agrees softly, ordering two more drinks for me without asking.
“I should stop,” I slur, my words are heavier than they should be. “I haven’t eaten much and—”
Marc’s smile doesn’t falter. “No, guapo. Drink.” His tone is warm and coaxing. He brushes his thumb lightly against the rim of my glass like he’s polishing it for me. “It’s on me.” He leans closer, his cologne wrapping around me intentionally. “You know I’d never hesitate when it comes to you.”
There’s something loaded in that sentence. Something that doesn’t quite land right.
“Aww,” I sigh anyway, swaying slightly on the stool. The room feels softer now. Edges rounded. “Thank you.”
The bartender returns, but not with another gin, but a tall glass of ice water. He sets it down in front of me with a firm nod.
“Here ya’ go, bro. Drink this.”
Marc straightens instantly.
“I ordered two more gins for my friend,” he says with an edge, sharp enough to catch.
The bartender doesn’t look impressed. He looks at me instead.
I blink at him, processing slowly. “I think one more is cool,” I mumble. “Thanks for the water, though.”
“Aight’. One more,” the bartender repeats, eyes shifting back to Marc. “Then he’s done, dude.”
Marc raises both hands, flashing a charming grin. “Just trying to take care of my friend.”
Friend. The word lingers strangely in my ears.
A sudden crash pulls all our attention toward the pool table.
The two guys who were laughing minutes ago are now chest-to-chest, shouting about a foul shot.
Chairs scrape, someone curses loudly, and the bartender moves fast. “Yo! Knock it off or get out!” he shouts, and everyone turns to watch, including me.
It takes maybe twenty seconds, maybe less, but when I look back, Marc is holding my water, shifting his body toward me as if he had been looking the other direction, away from the commotion.
“Drink up,” he says, pressing the glass into my hand, and he winks. “Make sure you get hydrated.”
The ice clinks against the side as I bring it to my lips. It’s painfully cold, and I take a deep gulp. The chill shoots up into my sinuses, sharp enough to make me wince.
“Brain freeze.” I laugh weakly.
Marc chuckles as he watches.