Three
JULIEN
On Tuesday, the LANTA bus bounces down West Broad Street as Julien tries to focus on the steady stream of Bach flowing through his wired headphones andnothis annoyance over having to arrive to work early. Uncle Martin has called a staff meeting before they officially open for dinner service to introduce everyone to the new guy.
Greg.Julien found out his new coworker’s first name by creating an anonymous TikTok profile and scrolling through a few of@GoodWithHisHandsHarlow’s videos. He remains firm in the fact that this hadnothingto do with Greg’s long, fluttery eyelashes, his well-placed and appealing brown birthmarks, or his cocky but somehow goofy smile. (It tips more toward the right—like it’s picked a favorite side of his face and stuck with it.)
He will not admit, no matter how long he spent staring at it on his phone with his heart rate spiking, thatbothsides of Greg’s face are worthy of favoritism.
He especially won’t admit that Greg’s good at cocktails. Granted, Julien’s relationship with hard alcohol is complicated, so perhaps he’s not a voice of authority when it comes to vodka or gin or whiskey. He is, however, a voice of authority on professionalism in the service industry. It’s a whole facet of his sommelier studies. And fake spills and no shirt and unwashed hands (no matter how large and supple-looking) are, for sure, red flags.
He tries not to think about all that, instead tuning in to the concerto that hugs his brain and squeezes it tight with familiar violins.
He doesn’t remember exactly when he started listening to classical music to calm his mind before another hectic night at Martin’s Place, but it helps. A lot. Ever since selling his used car and switching to public transit (which he explained was for the environment but was mostly for his bank account), he’s come to rely on the quiet, passive ride as a sort of meditation. A clearing away of a busy morning studying before an even busier evening serving the masses.
Somedays, when he’s particularly anxious about his shift, he gets so lost in the music—eyes closed, fingers waving—that he nearly misses his stop.
Today is one of those days.
Except worse.
Because he doesn’t nearly miss his stop. Hedoesmiss his stop. And when he opens his eyes, he’s on the South Side of Bethlehem, on the wrong side of the river.
Frantically, he yanks off his headphones, stands up, and exits the bus. Breaking into a jog down Third Street and across Fahy Bridge, he tries not to panic. He takes up his rhythmic breathing practice—the kind he learned for long, mind-clearing runs. Inhale for three steps, exhale for two.
If he maintains this pace, he’ll arrive in twenty minutes. Twenty-five if he hits any flashing red hands at the plentiful crosswalks. Good thing the streets are never that crowded on a Tuesday, and thanks to his tall frame, he has a long stride.
It’s sweltering for September, the sun just coming down off its peak. The breeze from the river does little to cool him thanks to the bomber jacket he wears over his T-shirt. His boots pound across the sidewalk as he passes the old YMCA, the Moravian Bookshop with its fun window displays, and a chocolate boutique he wishes he could afford on days like this. Dark chocolate and a bubble bath this evening sound divine.
By the time he arrives at Martin’s Place, the meeting has already started. Chairs have been pulled away from tables and arranged over near the tiny stage where Frank Sinatra impersonators or indie acts sometimes perform. Now,@GoodWithHisHandsHarlow—Greg—stands before the staff looking perfect in a gray T-shirt that stretches over the gentle curvature of his pecs. The hint of his nipples can be seen through the thin fabric, and his ab muscles appear when he reaches for an ingredient and then stops at the sound of the bells over the door.
The whole room turns to see Julien standing there, sweaty, winded, and without escape.
Mortified, he hangs his head, mumbles a brisk apology, and finds a seat in the back to change into his nonslip sneakers.
Greg continues as if nothing has happened, which makes perfect sense. Guys like Greg don’t get rattled by guys like Julien. Guys like Greg eat guys like him for breakfast alongside raw eggs and protein shakes.
It’s not that he’s embarrassed of his body. Normally. Today is the exception due to his overactive sweat glands and his lateness. But he was a bit of a late bloomer. When the other boys in the high school locker room sprouted pit hair and got shoulder muscles, Julien was shooting up, up, up but never out, out, out. He got tall, gangly. The other boys got broad, defined.
Julien suffers a similar self-consciousness now as he coaches his too-tight lungs into working properly, and watches Greg up onstage wearing a Gucci belt.
What a tool. Nobody in this part of Pennsylvania needs to be wearing a Gucci belt at a mid-priced bar.
“The Getting to Know You gin and tonic is meant to loosen you up and get that awkward small-talk portion of meeting someone out of the way,” Greg says with such confidence that it makes Julien squirm. Until Greg sings completely off-key, “Getting to know you, getting to know all...”
The song is familiar fromThe King and I, one of Aunt Augustine’s favorite movies that they watched a lot together when he was a kid.
“This one includes gin and tonic, obviously.” Greg flashes a toothy, charming smile. What makes it so charming is that while the rest of Greg is impeccably put together, his teeth overlap just slightly in the front.A perfect imperfection. A weapon.“And hibiscus tea and lemon juice.”
At the first flex of Greg’s large biceps as he pours the gin into a short glass with a few ice cubes, Julien crosses his legs and sits forward in his chair, suddenly enraptured. His breath picks up impressive speed. He doesn’t even see Greg add the other ingredients because by the time he’s done ogling those biceps, Greg is placing the garnish—a swirled lemon rind affixed to the rim. The drink is a dark pink and utterly pleasing to the eye.
“Now, who wants a taste?” Greg asks, producing a large serving tray of tiny plastic cups. “Just a little bit for everybody. I assured Martin we wouldn’t get anyone drunk before their shift.” Greg’s laugh is warm and buttery, and Julien feels it in his toes.
Greg steps down off the stage, loose laces on his black, high-top sneakers clattering against the hardwood floor. Julien hurriedly tries to make himself look presentable—sweat blotted, hair brushed off his slick forehead.
Argh. Why am I doing this?
“Here you are,” Greg says, flaunting the near-empty platter in Julien’s face.
