“Yeah. Good song.” He holds the bottle to his lips and pauses. “I bet you five dollars they’ve got it in that jukebox over there.”
Oh, wow—I just got invited to a five-dollar bet by Roly Martinez.
That’s a good thing, habibi. I keep telling you he’s a good man.
I know, I know.
Both Roly and the bartender are looking at me funny now.
“What?” I ask, slightly embarrassed.
Roly’s eyebrows squinch together, and he asks, “Were you just speaking in Arabic?”
Oops. “Yeah, sometimes I talk to Asadi. And yes, I’m aware he’s dead. I promise I’m not seeing things.”
“I talk to my dad all the time,” he says with a warm smile. “It’s nice to know someone so well that even after you’ve lost them you can continue the conversation.” Fresh tears adorn his cheeks, but his smile is genuine.
I hold up my finger and walk over to the jukebox, scanning for Van Morrison. Sure enough, “Brown-Eyed Girl”is on the list. I feed the jukebox a five-dollar bill, choose that plus a few other songs, and walk back to the bar.
“I put your five dollars in the jukebox.”
He holds out his beer bottle, and I tap it with my can of now-lukewarm cider. We sit there in silence, nodding our heads in time with the tune, letting our complicated sadness and not-quite-friendship settle between us.
I’m proud of you, Rafi.
16
Rafi
This evening’s outfit adventure is brought to you by the eighties, John Travolta, and the letterRfor ri-fucking-diculous. I’m just glad I left the cowboy hat at home. The plaid pearl-snap shirt is butch enough, and the boots are super cute; the hat would’ve been too much. My jeans are skinny, so they’re tucked into my boots. I think I look like an Arab Howdy Doody, and I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.
Taking a deep breath, I walk into Everett’s shop with a big smile on my face. Windsor comes trotting right up to me and paws at my ankle. I scoop him up and begin loving on him while Everett takes one look at me and…growls.
“Nope. I’ve got the guys coming over for poker night in like, half an hour.”
I check out his shop, skeptical. “Here?”
“Uh, yeah. I have a table upstairs.”
A thousand responses come to me all at once, but I go with the obvious. “Wait—why wasn’t I invited to poker night?”
The question catches him off guard, and I press him. “Well, if I’m not good enough for your little poker night, certainly a quick five-minute tattoo can’t be too much to ask.”
Everett puts his fist between his eyebrows, shaking his head. I check myself out in the mirror near his station, still feeling pretty cute. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like my getup? At least I don’t look like jailbait anymore.”
Everett sets his lips into a thin smile and tilts his head to the side. “Okay, fine. What kind of tattoo do you want?”
I smile, happy I’m about to have his hands all over me. “I’d like Asadi’s name in white on my wrist.”
“Do you want that in English or in Arabic?”
I put Windsor down and pull the paper from my pocket, which is a little more difficult than I was anticipating because these jeans are practically a second skin. I finally manage to wriggle out the piece of paper without wrecking it too badly and hand it over for him to review.
His jaw tightens, but he keeps a professional face. “Do you want an exact copy of this, or do you want me to stylize it for you?”
“You can stylize it for me if you want to.”
He clenches his jaw again and does that little side tilt with an eyebrow raise that makes me go a little weak in the knees. Fuck he’s beautiful.
