I watch him toy with his empty shot glass. “I just had a rough night.”
“Don’t tell me you had a horrible blind date too.”
“It was a work thing,” he reminds me. “I wasn’t lying to you about that.” I see his tongue press against his cheek, like a confession is tumbling alongside it, still deciding whether or not it wants to leave the safer confines of his mouth.
It’s my turn to stay quiet. Let him pour out his own heart onto the sticky bar top to join my woes. I start to wonder if tequila has the same effect on him as it does for me. Maybe a few extra drops, and he’ll tell me if and where he keeps his private stash of porn. Most likely in an unmentionable file on his desktop marked something unassuming like “Pictures” or “Solitaire.”
“I was just at a dinner thing with my boss and some clients, and he is just…the biggest asshole.” He signals another round to the bartender, making the hand gestures quick and discreet. A blip of an interruption. “He sees me as his little peon. He has his own assistant, but he has no problem telling me to pick up his dry cleaning or fetch him a cup of coffee. I think it’s his life mission to make my life as miserable as possible. And tonight, he was so belittling. I know it’s his way of trying to impress the clients we had dinner with, but fuck, it’s so demeaning.”
“You can’t just quit?” I ask cautiously, keeping in mind that some problems don’t have such easy solutions.
As expected, he shakes his head. “I’ve been at it for a few years, and I know I just need to do my grunt work until I’m promoted. Or until I can get enough experience to find a job with a different company, but I just have to take it for now.”
I nod. “Can I give you some of my old-lady wisdom?” He rolls his eyes, and I give him a light punch to his arm. A request—or maybe a demand—to humor my self-deprecating comment. “If this job brings you this much misery, don’t wait it out so long for a promotion. Life’s too short to spend it doing something you hate.”
He looks at me, a contest of opposition and accession swirling in his eyes through a wrinkled brow and a stark realization as the truth washes over him. He finally nods, words too absolute to take back should he change his mind.
We’ve been spending so much of our night in a flippant repartee. This sudden change in topic makes the air around us murky, filled with silent questions and the realization that just a few hours ago, Andrew and his sharp jawline and protruding Adam’s apple that slides over his throat with every swallow and laugh was exceedingly far from my mind. And now he’s everywhere. A pair of blinders has been slapped onto my face, and Andrew is all I see.
Our drinks arrive, and I eye them warily. More truth serum. “I think I’ve hit my limit on tequila for the night.”
“You had one shot,” Andrew argues.
“Yeah, and I was already pushing my limit when I tossed that one back.”
“Come on, Grace. Live a little.” He clinks his drink to mine, causing some of it to slosh over the rim, and holds it up in front of him, urging me to do the same.
I give. Through the thick, distorted composition of alcohol and glass obscuring more than just my view as I hold up my drink in my hand, I have a moment of fallacious hope. Adeceptive thought that I need to loosen up, take more chances, and drink more alcohol. What a damn fool.
“Fine,” I say. “But only if you talk some more shit about this horrible boss of yours.”
“No arms need to be twisted for a deal like that.”
When I drink, my laughs tend to come more loosely. A joke that isn’t really funny is usually followed by an uncontrolled giggle. And when someone says something categorically clever, I find myself a snorting, guffawing mess. That’s what’s happening right now with Andrew. Over some complimentary roasted peanuts and ridged potato chips the bartender presented like a magic trick, a pleasant surprise we found particularly funny for absolutely no reason at all, we’ve found ourselves in a heap of stomach cramps and watery eyes.
Another factor adding levity to our night: Andrew’s hatred toward his boss. And I meanhate. From what he’s been telling me, it seems to be reciprocated by this asshole whose life goal really is to make Andrew’s life a living hell.
“So you just let the security guard take the hit for it?”
He lifts his shoulders in mock innocence. “What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” I tease. “Maybe don’t let some stranger take the hit for your slipup?”
“I mean, it’s way more believable that a diligent security guard making his nightly rounds knocked over his decanter of scotch than me,” he states, defending himself. “And besides, I didn’t say it was the security guard. I just didn’t deny it when he came to that conclusion.”
“What were you even doing in his office that late at night?”
“He forgot his wallet, and he was on a date with his girlfriend, so he asked me to bring it to him.” He starts to tilt back his third tequila shot but stops, adding, “No, asking is the wrong word. Heorderedme to bring it to him.”
“What does he do? Threaten your job?” I lift my own glass, my refusal for more thrown clear out the window in exchange for the best night I’ve had in a long time. I genuinely can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun. And there are no ties behind it. It doesn’t feel transactional where he’s giving up his valuable time to be here. When I hang out with Teeny or Jade, it always feels like our minutes are measured. While my time with them is appreciated, I always feel like they have a laundry list of responsibilities that keep them distracted. With Andrew, I’m just enjoying his company. Just as much as he’s enjoying mine.
“At first, he did. But now, it’s a given. He’s said it enough times for me to know to keep my mouth shut and do what he says.” Those stories about his boss started out with a tinge of bitterness and spite, but now they’re lubricated with a more matter-of-fact tone, slipping out of him with an added flair of jokes and sarcasm. I have a feeling it has to do with the informality this night has bled into, which I’m taking note of as I reluctantly realize is going to have to end at some point.
We both empty our shot glasses. And I say through a lime wedge pressed to my teeth, “He’s a fucking piece of shit.”
His tongue rolls over his bottom lip, and a smile curves his mouth into a Cheshire cat-like grin. “I appreciate your support, Grace.”
“What is it that you do, anyway? Just so I know never to make a career change to the same path.”
