Vincent pays the bill, tips absurdly, and steers me out into the freezing Seattle air. He’s already unlocked his car, a black Subaru that’s cleaner than anything I’ve ever owned, and he leans in, hand braced on the roof, face inches from mine.
“Is this weird?” he says, and he’s not asking for permission, just cataloging the moment for reference.
I shake my head. “No. It’s… good.”
He kisses me, hard and efficient, no hesitation. I kiss back, because the last thing I want is to be alone with my own brain.
We get in the car. I stare out the window the whole way to his place.
My phone stays in my pocket, silent, forgotten.
Tonight, I’m not the sub. I’m not the ghost. I’m the guy who said yes.
For once, that’s enough.
———
Woodbury is one of those places that’s almost too well designed, like the owner had a nervous breakdown in a Restoration Hardware and decided to weaponize it.
The lighting is all Edison bulbs in birdcage pendants, the tables are reclaimed wood with nails still sticking out, and the menu is printed in lowercase, courier font, on something that looks like a failed art student’s thesis paper.
Even the barstools have “personality,” which is to say they are all different heights and all equally uncomfortable.
I get there before Vincent and immediately regret it, because the only open seat is directly under a vent that cycles freezing air every seven minutes.
I shiver, then try to play it off by checking my phone, which is still a barren landscape.
I swipe through the cocktail menu, which includes things like “deconstructed negroni” and “pine smoke julep,” and realize I could do five rounds and not find anything that doesn’t taste like a dare.
When Vincent walks in, it’s like someone spliced him in from a better movie.
He’s in a perfect navy button-down, sleeves cuffed twice, a watch that looks vintage but probably isn’t, and jeans that fit like he was born in them.
He scans the room, makes eye contact with me instantly, and flashes a grin that’s so confident it should be illegal.
He slides onto the stool next to me, close enough that our knees touch, and says, “Nice pick. Very ‘Seattle grunge but make it $16 a drink.’” He’s got a voice like a radio host, low, smooth, just enough bite on the end of every sentence to keep you off balance.
“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t get the memo on the dress code.” I pull at my henley, which suddenly feels like pajamas.
He leans in, conspiratorial. “You look great. The last guy I met here wore cargo shorts. You’re a step up.”
He orders drinks for both of us. “Two of the Laphroaig, neat,” without even checking the menu, and I realize he’s done his homework. The bartender raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
Vincent asks about hockey, and I deflect with every trick I know—sarcasm, stories about the bus rides, O’Doul’s stupidity, how Raz once got us kicked out of a hotel in Kearney by launching a grapefruit off the fourth floor.
Vincent laughs at all the right moments. He knows how to keep a conversation alive, and how to keep the attention centered exactly where he wants it, on you, or more specifically, on the version of you that he’s building up, one layer at a time.
He’s full of stories too.
He grew up in Bellevue, “escaped” to NYU, then came back after a family thing. He’s got a younger brother he’s clearly raising by proxy, and parents who “collect second homes the way normal people collect kitchen magnets.” When he talks, his hands move a lot, but never awkwardly.
Every gesture is measured, like he’s rehearsed it, or at least thought about what it would look like.
The drinks arrive. The whiskey is peaty, rich, way better than anything I’ve had before.
I cough on the first sip and he laughs, “It’s an acquired taste. Like kombucha, or being disappointed by Seattle sports.” The way he says it makes me laugh even harder than the actual joke.
He asks about my last relationship, and I say “Not much to tell.” He raises an eyebrow, the same way the bartender did, but lets it drop.
