“And do they know you’re bringing a date?” I ask, avoiding his casual invitation.
“No,” he admits, “but they know of you, so…”
“You talk about me to other people? You’ve never told me this.”
“Because we don’t really talk about things that go on outside of our little bubble here.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable with the shift in our conversation. “It’s not a big deal. I just noticed you don’t really seem to talk about things besides work, or maybe your family sometimes. You don’t really talk about Teeny, and I feel like that’s on purpose. I just thought you don’t want me to talk about…certain things too.”
“Like what?” A daze of confusion swirls in my head. How long has he felt like this?
“I don’t know,” he answers, his continued attempt to not turn this into anything more than an invitation for some drinks. “Like, I don’t really talk about my family with you. Mainly because I don’t want to remind you you’re Teeny’s friend, and that’s the reason we keep this between us.”
I don’t mention there are other factors. Things like the fact that when I was entering middle school, he was still in diapers.Or that I’m pushing forty, and I’m reminded every single day my biological clock is ticking away while Andrew has no plans to settle down and start a family any time soon. It seems in the grander scheme of things, Teeny finding out about us sits at the bottom of the list.
“But I don’t want you to keep things from me,” I assure him. Though, I know the assurance falls short because he’s not wrong. I find myself not talking about Teeny either. I had dinner with her the other day when Andrew was working late, and I never brought it up. In fact, I was finding waysnotto bring it up, intentionally keeping my plans from that night from him.
He ducks his head, averting his eyes from mine. “I just don’t want to scare you away. You seem comfortable and yourself when we’re just here. Or at my place. And…I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you into making this more than what you’re comfortable with.”
I grip his face and kiss him. The kiss turns deliberate, long and drawn out. He leans forward, forcing me further backward to the carpet.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t mean to keep this so private. I’m just…”
“It’s okay,” he whispers back. He brushes his nose against mine. “I get it.”
I like him so much. All of the feelings tug at my heartstrings, and I realize how I never want him to feel like I’m hiding him away because I’m ashamed of him or us. I feel so seen when he tells me he gets it. I don’t have to explain to him all my fears, and he just understands.
“Let’s go,” I tell him. “Tonight. I’ll go with you.”
His eyes light up, making a dull pang hit dead center in my chest. “Really?”
I pout a sad frown, my brow crinkling as I realize how much he’s been holding back. “Really.”
When we walk into the loud and cramped dive bar, it feels like we’ve walked through a small portal, not the stairs leading down into a hunkered basement-style taphouse. Andrew has my hand enveloped in his, and when he looks down at me, he smiles.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he says over the loud vibrations of music and chatter.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
He leans down and places a kiss on my bare shoulder. I opted for a floral dress. Flowy and light to get me through the summer air that remains stuffy even at night. It’s held up by two thin strands, leaving behind enough bare skin that shimmers with the extra layer of moisturizer I used. Andrew hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off me. At the back that dips low enough to expose the ridge of my spine. Every time he runs his thumb across my sensitive skin, I see his eyes flare with heat. He seems to have a thing for my backside.
We weave through the crowd, his hands at his side with the occasional stroke of his fingers against my waist. We reach a table where Andrew greets everyone with hearty hugs and keen handshakes.
“Hey, guys,” Andrew announces. “This is Grace. Grace, this is everybody.”
They go around the high table, following the pattern of the circle they’re huddled around.
“Jake,” says the first, a few inches taller than me with a mop of curly hair atop his head and a handlebar mustache.
“Ro.”
Andrew interjects and says, “That’s short for Rohan.” Ro bares his pearly white teeth from behind a full beard.
There’s a woman within the group, and she smiles warmly at me and extends her hand. “I’m Hayley.”
“Hi,” I respond, folding her hand in mine. I watch as Hayley leans into Ro, hooking her hand over his bicep.
