8. Julieta
Chapter eight
Julieta
I’m still getting used to my new hair. The ends that used to touch halfway down my back now tickle the sides of my neck, but I can’t deny it’s been a welcome addition to this end-of-summer heat.
I walk briskly down the sidewalk to the entrance of The Ivy, a trendy restaurant downtown in the financial district where Agostina works. I like to stop in every so often to say hi and chat, usually meeting Delfi here to spend some time together outside of family dinners. Once I step in, I wave to the hostess and signal that I’m headed to the bar.
Agostina has worked here for seven years now serving and occasionally bartending. She’s hoping to make it to head bartender, but for now she just fills in when she’s asked to. I’m nervous about what her reaction to my hair will be, my heart beating in my chest as I make my way to a barstool. She looks up then, just as I adjust in my seat.
“Oh shit!” She gasps in surprise, reaching out to touch my hair.
I roll my eyes, but secretly want the praise. The validation that I made the right decision. So much for wanting to live my own life.
“Midlife crisis looks good on you, Julie.”
“Hi to you too, asshole.”
She laughs at that, leaning over to give me a kiss on the cheek. She eyes my hair again, a smile still gracing her face. “It looks really good.”
“Thanks.” I blush. “How’s work?”
“Not too bad. About to get busy. We’ve got some bigger parties coming in in about fifteen minutes.”
The bar is a large rectangle, with the top made of polished dark wood and seating on either side. There are glass shelves of liquor suspended in the middle, twinkling lights wrapped around to add a cozy feel. The lights reflect off the bottles, making everything glow. I’m sure she’s tired of looking at it, but for me, it’s always been a little bit magical.
Bar patrons are scattered about, drinking and chatting, picking at food. Trevor, another bartender, is mixing drinks for guests. Everything is still relatively calm and quiet. My eyes scan the crowd, people watching, and along the other side of the bar they snag on a familiar face. Messy dark hair, lush lips. And when we make eye contact, the furrowed brows give him right away.
I notice a drink in Logan’s hand as he’s lifting it to his lips to take a sip, and that’s possibly the reason for the smile he gives me now: a small one, tucked into a corner of his mouth, but showing a lot of restraint.
“Julie,” he says with purpose.
The bar area between us is maybe a generous twelve feet, and I can hear him clearly. I’m almost taken aback by the fact that he remembers my name. It was only two days ago, I know, but still.
“You cut your hair,” he adds.
My hands fly to my ends, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. This was too short. Shit.
“It looks nice,” he tells me reassuringly, eyes sparkling.
Agostina is busy making drinks for a bar that is quickly filling up so she doesn’t hear him say this, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’d like to keep this my secret for now.
“Thanks,” I manage quietly, then as discreetly as I can shake my head to get the message across that we should act like strangers. But in that moment, his date, the beautiful Tara sits down next to him and smiles right at me.
“Julie!” she says by way of greeting, in a joyous voice like she’s so happy to see me.
Agostina’s ears perk up as she walks over to our side of the bar, dropping off my usual glass of wine, and I refrain from slamming my head onto it.
“Clients?” Agostina asks in casual conversation, uncorking a wine bottle in a swift move and pouring two glasses for a couple that just arrived.
I shake my head more vigorously now and they finally catch on.
“Oh, no, no. I was talking about somebody else, sorry!” Tara says, stuttering her way through, but I don’t miss the smile that graces Logan’s lips as he takes another sip. The one that wraps around the rim of the glass, curving so slightly, mouth opening to drink.
Honestly, I’m the worst. He’s got a girlfriend, and she’s sitting right there . I’ve got no business thinking about his smiling lips, for crying out loud.
“So, when’s your flight, T?” I ask to change the subject, using her nickname.
When Agostina was in middle school, she went through a phase where she hated her name and wanted to be called Tina. Once she got to high school, everybody just started calling her T, and it stuck.
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
She’s taking a quick trip to visit a friend in Jersey.
“Come with me,” she says casually.
“I can’t. I have to work.” It’s always the same story. She pushes me to do things with her; I have to inform her that I have responsibilities.
“You know you get paid time off right? You are aware that you are allowed a vacation?”
Responsibilities have loopholes, too, she reminds me. I take a sip of my own drink ready to end this topic of conversation that I dragged us both into.
“She’s got better sense than to go on vacation with you, that’s the problem,” I hear a voice from behind me say. It’s Manny, T’s best friend and coworker.
“Hi, Manny.” I give him a kiss on the cheek and a smile in greeting.
“Is Delfi coming tonight?” He asks as he grabs a tray of cocktails.
“She’s running late, but she should be here soon.”
“Don’t you have tables to tend to?” T asks.
“Listen to her,” he says to me. “Not even lead bartender yet and it’s already going to her head. I’ll be back in a bit!” He waves as he walks away.
“You don’t have to come with me, but you still have to take me to the airport,” Agostina adds in as a reminder.
“Yes, I know,” I sigh.
Shortly after, Delfina walks in, stopping short when she sees my hair.
“No way!” she shrieks. “Your hair looks so good!”
The whole bar can hear this compliment. I sneak a glance at Logan and Tara who have looked up from their own conversation in curiosity. Logan gives me a small smile, and I whip back to Delfi, face flushed.
“Thanks,” I mutter, running my hand through the strands again. She adds her hand, messing with the ends, running them through their fingers. She beams at me, as she always does. Delfi is one big ray of sunshine, always has been, even as kids. I smile back at her, like we have our own language between us.
“Hey bartender!” she calls out, adjusting on the barstool.
“You’re so cute,” T says, deadpan. She leans against the bar and Delfi gives her a kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll take a mojito, please,” she calls out in a sing-song voice.
I sip my wine, chuckling as I do, taking this opportunity to calm my nerves.
“Want to get something to eat? I’m starving.” Delfi grabs the menu and looks through it, her eyes perusing the items, lip tucked between her teeth as she does.
“Whatever you want is fine,” I say agreeably.
“Hey T, can we get some calamari and the crostini, please?” she calls out. “You want anything else?” she asks me.
“Get the truffle fries. I want something snackier.”
“You got it,” T says, walking away to put the order in.
Agostina makes her rounds along the bar, checking on the patrons. A couple orders some appetizers, a lone bar guest asks for another bourbon. She brings Delfi her mojito, icy and refreshing in a tall glass, a bright green sprig of mint sticking out of the top. The parties have started to trickle in, making the space louder, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls. But I’m acutely aware of Logan on the other side of the bar, his presence its own sort of pleasant heaviness.
“How are you doing over here?” Agostina asks Logan. He looks like he’s debating whether to get another drink.
“We’ll take another round,” he decides. “Thank you.”
“Oh, the cute ones are out tonight,” Delfi mumbles under her breath beside me. It smells like mint and citrus.
“He’s taken,” I blurt, and sip my wine.
“He is? How do you know?”
Just then Tara sits back down from wherever she was, adjusting in the stool, smiling wide as T brings their drinks over.
“Oh. She’s pretty,” Delfi says with a sigh.
“Yep.”
She turns on her stool then to face me, gripping my arm lightly. “So, tell me about the shoes! I’ve been freaking out since Monday, and you’ve barely answered my texts.”
Right. The shoes. The shoes. “I’ve been busy,” I reason. “Besides, nothing to tell.”
“Are you kidding? Did you try them on? Tell me you tried them on.”
I sigh. “They fit like a glove.”
“Oh my God, I knew it! This is so amazing!”
“Anybody ever tell you that you speak in exclamation points?”
“All the time.” She smiles wide, unfazed.
“What’s all the screeching over here?” T chimes in, back in front of us to bring the truffle fries.
“The shoes!” Delfi says in response.
“Oh damn, that’s right. How are they? They probably fit you like a glove, don’t they?”
“Perhaps,” I eye her, shoving fries into my mouth.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“I haven’t thought about it yet,” I lie.
“You have to dance with them!” Delfi says loudly beside me, resolute in her idea. I can only imagine the looks we’re getting now from the professional dancers across the bar that I am actively trying to avoid.
“You should dance with them,” T says in agreement, vigorously shaking a cocktail shaker above her shoulder.
“Isn’t that kind of silly?” I hedge. My family, as loving as they’ve always been, have also been highly critical of anything I was interested in that didn’t involve my studies. Is dancing kind of silly? Or is that the judgmental voice in my head that has grown louder than my own?
“No way. We would do the same damn thing,” Delfi responds, then grabs my arm again with a gasp. “We could all sign up for dance classes.”
“Oh, no. I don’t know about that.” I go pale as a sheet.
“I can’t believe we’ve never even considered it.”
T pours the cocktail, thinking it over. “I could look into something after my trip. Sounds fun,” she shrugs.
“What sounds fun?” Manny chimes in behind us, back again and giving Delfi a kiss on the cheek.
“Tango classes!” Delfi screams to the whole bar again.
“I dated a dancer once. He was a hot mess,” Manny says, arranging drinks on a tray. “Sign me up for tango.” He nods, grabbing the tray and leaving just as quickly with it to his tables.
I chance a look over at Logan and Tara, still sitting side by side, but a man has walked over now and given Tara one very big kiss on the mouth.
I immediately sit up straight, suddenly confused. Suddenly inexplicably interested in whatever is happening.
Logan shakes his hand, and the man sits down with them. I lean against the bar, palm tucked under my chin. I pretend I’m snacking on the calamari but keep looking up in interest. Could they not be dating? Why the hell am I so invested in this right now?
Amid my very amateur sleuthing, my phone lights up on the bar with a message from my ex, Jeremy.
“This asshole again?” T asks, catching the notification on my phone before I can move it out of sight.
Jeremy dumped me eight months ago. Well, it was more mutual than anything, I guess. Both of us had demanding, full-time jobs. It was a struggle to balance both, and maybe we had an understanding that we were both just coexisting in the relationship. Ours was one where I wanted more than he was giving, settling for anything I got. It was, as I look back on it, mediocre at best. Doesn’t mean the breakup didn’t suck, though. Losing a piece of somebody’s affection. And it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t still text me every so often, asking what I’m doing, or if I want to meet up for a drink. The no-strings sex was fine, but even that had become a little boring, a little predictable. A little … unsatisfactory on my end. Maybe he wasn’t wrong when he had said to me months ago, “There isn’t any passion here, Julie.”
But there is a familiar warm body and a familiar, comfortable bed. There's somebody on the other end saying okay. Just going with it, like I do everything else. Just looking for the affection again, the part I don’t want to admit out loud.
“You’re still stuck on him?” Delfi asks.
“You should be one to talk, Delfina,” T says, with a knowing smirk, probably a jab at the crushes Delfi tends to hold on to.
“It’s fine,” I tell them.
“Yeah, that’s the problem, Julie. It’s fine. You don’t need fine . You don’t need basic ass Justin.”
“Jeremy.”
“Whatever.”
She walks away to refill more drinks when Delfi chimes in. “He wasn’t a bad guy, but yeah, he kind of sucks. And while I think you should definitely have your fun, this guy isn’t it.”
“I’m not looking for fun,” I lie again. It sounds even more pathetic than I thought it would.
“Why not? Why don’t you give yourself some joy?”
I look at her—sweet sunshine Delfina—and I wonder how it’s so easy for her. How it’s so easy for all of them. For T and Delfi and my brother and my mother and even Leo, who got out, who got his own happy relationship, his own successful life.
Have I become too numb to everything that I just take whatever comes floating my way? That I just keep saying okay because it’s easy? That is certainly easy, isn’t it? I can’t continue to be on this end saying yes.
What do I want right now? To be a different me. To be passionate and fun and to do the things I want to do. For me.
I catch Logan’s eyes across the bar again, the drinks warming up his smile, and I make a decision then: Maybe what I don’t need is easy. What I need is difficult and challenging and hard for me. Like a last-minute decision to get a haircut. Like a zero-hour decision to sign up to dance. Like keeping it going. I’m going to keep the classes going. I will at least see them through to the end of the session.
I give him a smile in return.
And then, another hard thing: for the first time, I leave Jeremy’s text unanswered.