“And I’m happy to connect you.”
There are a few excruciating beats of silence before Nick says, “Thanks. That’s really nice of you to think of me. I’ll let you know.”
I’m forcing myself to look at the TV, but I assume my mother beams at this noncommittal answer.
“And if you ever need a babysitter, you have one right next door,” she says. “Sam doesn’t work Monday and Tuesday nights.”
I raise my eyebrows at Perry, who pipes up, “Jen? Shouldn’t you ask Sam first before volunteering her?”
“Well, you can ask Sam yourself,” she says. “If you find yourself with plans on a Monday or Tuesday.”
14
Hal sloshes a highball glassdown on the service well, sticking one sad little lemon wedge on the sugared rim. He doesn’t care about creating pirate ship sails out of rinds like I do. I have an artist’s attention to detail, even if it’s almost last call.
“I want you to come to Treehouse on Thursday.” I like the way he phrases this. It’s direct, intentional. He has made a plan. That means something. It’s just a few degrees off from a literal date. I adjust my mental coordinates accordingly. “They’re hosting a book launch in the back room.”
Okay, soplus-one at a boring-ass hipster literary eventisn’t the most romantic proposition.
When I make a face, he shifts tactics.
“You have to come. I don’t want to suffer through MFA small talk by myself. I don’t want to hear about anyone’s poetrychapbook when there’s no one I can surreptitiously roll my eyes at. Do me this one favor.”
“Can you domea favor and invite me to a venue with a restroom that isn’t a summer home for a family of rats?”
“Come on, it’s just likeRatatouille.It’s part of the charm.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, and the degree to which this excites me is embarrassing. “And you owe me because I already agreed to go to your mom’s wedding. That’s a much bigger commitment, Samantha.”
A beat passes. His hands linger a little too long, I think. There’s a flicker of anticipation shooting up my body, almost like he could kiss me. Here. In public.
That’s something we don’t really do. I mean, it’s happened, but only when we get really carried away.
“Jesus, who wanders into a fucking tiki place twenty minutes before closing?” Hal peers over my shoulder, apparently watching a customer make their way to the bar. “Wearing a fucking U2 shirt.” He looks back in my eyes again. “If you take the bullet and make this Margaritaville motherfucker a frozen daiquiri, I’ll run the trash out to the dumpster by myself.”
“Deal,” I say. “If you also restock the sparkling wine.”
“Done.”
Until the moment I turn around, I hadn’t given any thought to the possibility of Hal meeting Nick. They occupy such separate spheres in my head that the actual fact of them encountering each other simply hadn’t occurred tome.
And yet, I’m standing here, watching Nick amble up to the bar in a U2 360 tour T-shirt, backpack slung over his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” My voice sounds like a strangled cat.
“Just left work,” Nick replies. “I thought I’d see if you want a ride home.”
“Oh. You don’t have to do that.” I wasn’t planning on going back to my mom’s apartment tonight.
“It’s on my way. I saw the flaming torches and I thought I’d see if you wanted a lift.”
“What can I get you?” Hal slaps a napkin and a drink menu down on the bar between Nick andme.
“Fastest trash run ever,” I mutter, stepping to the side.
“I’m all about efficiency, Samantha.”
“You do start your pre-close as soon as you clock in,” I reply.
Hal turns his attention to Nick. “Speaking of which, it’s last call, but I’m sure Sam would be happy to get out the blender one last time.”
