“Oh,” Shane replies, and I detest how surprised he sounds. “I didn’t realize?—”
“Ok, bye now.” I hang up, covering my mouth as I cackle from sheer relief at the severing of the connection with Shane. Klein looms in front of me. Another ghost from college past. Shoving the phone in my purse, I begrudgingly mutter, “Thank you.”
A small machine on my right prints a drink order, and he jumps into action. He reads the paper for three seconds before laying it on the bar and preparing the drinks.
“You’re welcome,” he returns with his own mutter.
I’m quiet, sipping my wine as I watch the way he moves, confident in his maneuvering in the small space. He tilts a glass at an angle and pulls the lever on the tap. Amber beer spills into the cup.
A memory hits me.The edge of the counter digs into my lower back as our mouths collide. The kisses are sloppy, hasty, the alcohol elongating our limbs and rubberizing our lips. Someone bangs on the door, breaking the spell.
It was objectively the worst kiss of my life. But we were young, and sweet, and handsy, and for these reasons I look back on it fondly. When I pressed my nose to his neck, he smelled like spiced apples and something I couldn’t name but immediately made me a different kind of drunk.
Impossible though it seemed, I felt a deep and immediate connection to Klein. It sounded crazy, and felt even crazier, but when I looked in his eyes there was a future. It didn’t have form or shape, but it was there. It was Klein by my side. My friend, my partner, my lover. By then I’d spent the better part of two years hurting following thebreak up of my family, and Klein’s smile was like spreading magic salve on a wound.
The connection was one-sided. He didn’t use the number I put in his phone. Then he took my short story, which wasn’t fictional like the assignment was supposed to be, and ripped it to shreds.
I finish my wine, because I don’t know what else to do. I’ve never randomly made out with someone, hated them, and run into them eight years later. Is there a protocol for this sort of thing? A standard operating procedure?
Klein uncorks the rosé bottle and gestures to my glass.
I nod, not because I want another glass of wine, but because I want to keep him here. I haven’t decided if I’m going to let him have it. If he disappears on me now, I won’t get the chance.
“Where’s the rest of your crew?” he asks tightly, stowing the bottle in the fridge below.
“You saw us?”
He nods. “You’re hard to miss.”
Flipping the tiny plastic switch on my light-up ring, I lift my right hand in the air. “Was it the flashing penis?”
He grabs my raised hand, holding it still between us. His other hand moves for my elbow, fingertips slowly trailing up the inside of my arm. Goose bumps rise on the sensitive flesh, a ball of heat forming in my stomach. The intensity in his gaze highlights the gold threads in his green irises. The heat in my core blooms, spanning up and out, through my chest and into my arms. I force in a shallow breath, pushing it out with effort. What is Klein doing to me? And why is my body, the treacherous traitor, responding in such a way?
Klein’s touch skims my wrist, bumps over the heel of my palm and, using two fingers, he removes the strobing ring and tosses it in the trash.
Devious! The man used the power of distraction to disarm me.
My annoyance soars as I realize the sizzle of heat between our hands wasn’t attraction. I don’t know what it was, but I know what it wasn’t. I snatch my hand from his grasp. He smirks. It makes him even more attractive, and incenses me.
“I despise those things,” he says matter-of-factly.
“What a grump,” I shoot back. I’m actually glad to be rid of the accessory, which only annoys me further. I bought the rings, but I expected Sienna to refuse them. A couple drinks and she was insisting we all wear them to dinner. We’d ended up turning them off because they cast colors over our faces when we took pictures.
I hold back a sigh and assess Klein. Maybe we should clear the air. Just get it out in the open. Or maybe it doesn’t matter. I can go on my merry way and haul my rear end across the country to an island and fake smile my way through a wedding and never see Klein again.
Also, maybe I’m tipsy. More than tipsy. Topsy-turvy.
“Topsy what?” Klein folds his arms in front of his chest, biceps popping, and looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I clamp my mouth shut. The fewer words I say right now, the better. I cannot trust that my inner thoughts will not become audible.
Klein opens his mouth to speak, but a woman comesfrom out of nowhere and throws her upper half on the bar.
“I’d like to order a desert beetle,” she says breathlessly.
I lean back, but only so I can better take her in. She’s pretty, with brick red nails that match her lip stain. Her dress leaves little to the imagination, but that’s par for the course where we are. Her eyes are imploring, like she’s attempting to communicate something to Klein.
He offers a terse nod. “Coming right up.”
