“Stop. Really. You just said you don’t judge, but you’re judging yourselfhard. And it’s not fair to you.” Since I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes, I look down at my hands, trying to concentrate on the soothing, percussive sound of the rain.
“What’s the other thing?” Ran asks abruptly.
“What?”
“You said there were a couple things that kind of changed your outlook about bartending. What was the other one?”
“Oh.” I give him a rueful smile. “Realizing that nobody really gave a great goddamn what I had to say. I’m not getting paid to talk. I’m not even getting paid to pour drinks. People pay me to listen. As soon as I figured that out, things kind of clicked. It’s almost like a script. I rattle off my lines, and they tell me what’s bothering them —the boss, the wife, you know.” I laugh a little. “I’ve had customers say, hey, it’s cheaper than therapy.”
10
AARYN
“Huh.” Maybe talking to Errolistherapeutic, because I’m surprised how much better I feel than I did when I first left New York City without any real plan or sense of where I was actually going. Even though the hurt and embarrassment of being cheated on and the upheaval of selling my business are still in the back of my head, they’re not filling my thoughts like they were before. I feel more or less at peace. And that’s because of him.
A swell of gratitude rises in my chest as the rain pours down around us. I scoot over on the truck’s shitty bench seat, all the way until my leg touches Errol’s, and lean my head on his shoulder. “You’ve always been a good listener. I hope your customers appreciate you. I didn’t always — I think maybe I took you for granted,” I say hesitantly. “But I sure appreciate the hell out of you right now.”
Errol sighs heavily. Under the weight of it, my heart splinters a little. I lift my head up, about to say something, but his voice interrupts my thoughts. “You can stay there,” he says quietly. “Reminds me of how you’d fall asleep on me sometimes when we were watching a movie or whatever back in high school.” Hefalls silent for a moment before adding, “I used to like that —you know, being close.”
Impulsively, I turn towards him. I don’t know what comes over me that compels me to press my lips against the white hair at his temple. “I’m proud of who you became after we graduated,” I say. “I know you said you were proud of me, but I’m proud of you, too. And it hurts when I hear you talk about yourself in a way I literally can’t evenimagineyou talking about anybody else.”
He snorts. “Whatever. I’ve always been fat.”
“Dude, you’re notfat.”
“Shut up. I am.”
“Goddammit.Stop.”
“OK, fine. Iwasfat.”
“So what?” I can hear the frustration in my voice, so I know Errol can, too. “I was a skinny nerd who got my glasses ripped off my face on, like, a weekly basis.”
“Well, you’re sure as hell not a skinny nerd now. You went and turned into a stud on me.”
Is… Errolflirtingwith me? Did I invite that? Did he just feel like he had to respond like that because I sat close to him and leaned against him?
“You’re not doing so bad yourself there,” I tell him. A look I can’t read flickers across his face.
“You think I look better than I did in high school?” Even though our faces are just inches apart, his voice is so quiet I have a tough time hearing him over the rain. “Even with —” he runs a hand through his hair with a grimace, “this?”
“Uh-huh. You carry yourself like a man who knows how to get shit done —you look confident.”
He gives me a faint smile. “I put up a good front.” I watch something sad pass through his eyes before he gives his head alittle shake. “Well, between your glasses and that jawline, you remind me of Clark Kent,” he says.
I frown. “Is that supposed to be… a compliment? Like, asexyClark Kent?”
“What? Clark Kentissexy!” he retorts. To my surprise, he spins himself around in his seat and abruptly straddles me, plunking down right onto my lap. I’m acutely conscious of his ass, the weight of him settling onto my thighs, his close proximity to my cock.
There’s definitely something hungry about the way his eyes rake over me. “But if it makes you feel better, then yes — a sexy Clark Kent.”
He’s looking at me like he expects a response. I smirk and roll my eyes, mostly to distract myself from an inconvenient, embarrassing realization: My dick doesn’t mind Errol on my lap like this atall. The drumming of the rain echoes in my head as I try to sort out this impossible tangle of thoughts.
For somebody who’s supposed to be smart, I feel incredibly stupid sometimes. I mean, I like women. Ever since the hormonal haze of pubescence when I began to realize my dick had opinions about things, I took the thought in stride without further examination. I never dug more deeply, never flipped the question over and asked myself if Ijustliked women. I mean, obviously Inoticeif a guy is attractive —but everybody does that, right?
I realize I’m having this entirely dumbass conversation with myself so I don’t have to think about the fact that Errol basically just called me sexy. When I shift, maybe a little awkwardly, beneath him, his face changes. He cringes.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m probably crushing you,” he says hurriedly. He puts his hands on the back of the seat on either side of my head as if to push off of me.
