I was grinning at nothing like an absolute idiot, still visualizing colorful wings struggling against theweight of an ungainly penis, when my phone buzzed again. My thumb moved faster than my brain could react.
Mark: DUDE
Mark: DUDE
Mark: Answer me!
Mark: Fuck it. Check Instagram. Now.
Mark: THE BAR ACCOUNT IS BLOWING UP.
I blinked at the screen, confused, then opened Instagram.
Five hundred and forty-three new followers since last night.
What?
I scrolled through the notifications, and then I saw it.
Someone had recorded the kiss.
Not just recorded it—captured the whole moment in perfect clarity: me leaning across the bar, Chase’s face lighting up, the kiss itself, the bar erupting, Benji in the background jumping up and down, and somehow, impossibly, they’d tagged Barbacks inthe post.
The caption read: “This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed at a bar. New favorite place in Tampa. #barbacks #ybor #gaytampa #cutest”
The post had 2,847 likes and God only knew how many views.
“Oh God,” I said to my empty bedroom. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
My phone buzzed again.
Mark: People are OBSESSED with you two.
Mark: The comments are all “relationship goals” and “this is so cute I’m crying.”
Mark: We got like 15 DMs asking when we’re open next.
Mark: NO FUCKING WAY! Some dude with an account that looks legit—a LIGHNING PLAYER—commented! WTF?!?
Mark: This is the best marketing we’ve ever had and it cost us NOTHING.
Mark: Also you’re a LEGEND.
I scrolled through the comments on the post.
“The way he just WENT FOR IT”
“That bartender’s face though”
“I’m not crying. You’re crying!”
“I need a man who will kiss me in front of 80 people without hesitation”
“WHEN WILL IT BE MY TURN”
“Adding this bar to my Tampa bucket list immediately”
I was going to die. Right there in my bed. I was going to die of embarrassment.
