He watches me, assessing, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to dare me to do so, put my money where my mouth is, prove him wrong and jump on the counter and yell like a banshee—and I pray that he doesn’t, doesn’t call me on this ridiculous bluster, because I can take a part only so far before my self-awareness kicks in. But he checks his watch and glances toward the door, then fishes his wallet from his back pocket and flattens forty dollars on the wood paneling. “I should go; looks like I’m getting stood up.”
“Well, that sucks.” I grab a glass from below the bar and pour myself a beer, ignoring two borderline-legal kids with backward baseball caps who are waving me down. “And you don’t owe me forty bucks.”
“It’s midnight, and you lost the bet,” he says. “A big tip—an actual tip, not a smart-ass tip from that girl who went to my high school—is the least I could do.” He hesitates. “Anyway, I actually feel kind of bad about setting you up to lose. I really never do things like that.” He points at Daisy. “She begged me. So I apologize, and please, take the tip.”
“I did,” Daisy says, nodding. “It was too perfect not to. But yes”—she holds up her right hand—“I can attest that Ben, whom I have known since childhood, is the rare breed of actually decent man who is not a total asshole.”
“Nice,” he says.
“She’s not from here,” Daisy interrupts. “She’s only very recently become acquainted with New York men.”
“Ohio.” I shrug. “We only breed nice men in Ohio. Nice men who don’t trick us into losing.”
“Thus, the forty dollars.” Ben inches the bills toward me.
“Well, Idon’tlike losing.” I frown. “And I do like big tips.”
“No one really likes losing,” he says. “And I think everyone likes good tips.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No.” He holds his hand over his heart. “I swear, I am not making fun of you. And I have Daisy to testify that I am indeed a non-asshole New York guy who wouldn’t do that sort of thing.”
“We went to elementary together,” she says. “I’ve known him since forever.”
“I suppose losing a bet and getting forty bucks is better than getting stood up, so my night is not quite as bad as yours,” I admit. “So, fine, I will see your forty bucks and raise you a tequila shot. On the house.” I reach behind me for the cheap tequila that the undergrads are more than happy to overindulge in. I never do shots on the job, but it feels exactly like what the persona would do, so shots it is.
“I’m not sure if I’m quite being stood up ... it’s complicated.” He sighs, and for a moment, it’s like I can see his whole childhood across his face: his aspirations, his disappointments, his hopes that he still pins himself to. “My girlfriend’s in her third year of med school. She’s just ... busy ... occupied—that’s the word she uses—she’s ‘occupied’ all the time. Saving lives and whatever, so ... I mean, how can I argue with that?”
“Sounds like you need a new girlfriend,” I say.
“Probably, probably. But I’m one for loyalty. I don’t bail until the ship is sinking.” That look again: nothing but naked openness, like he is still eleven and hasn’t yet been jaded by the ways of the world.
“Meaning you’re loyal, but she might not be?”
He laughs. “What are you, like, my therapist too?”
“So I couldn’t have gotten your number even if I hadn’t been set up by my so-called best friend?” I slam three shot glasses down and dump the tequila in each.
He shrugs and smiles. “Hey, Daisy put me up to it.”
“Well.” I toss the shot back too quickly, and it burns all the way down. “I guess you owe me one.” I smile at him now as Tatum, not Tatum the bartender, not Tatum the brave.
He smiles back as Ben.
“Well,” he says. “I guess I do.”
3
BEN
JULY 2015
“Constance is sick,” Tatum says. “Or else I’d have sent her to get him.” It was part of our separation agreement: that Constance, our nanny, would do most of the handoffs, though we’d gotten more casual about it in the four months since I moved out. Tatum shrugs and stares at my pathetic doormat, which is gray and muddy and in need of a wash. But how do I wash a doormat? I don’t even know. We both let our eyes linger on it for a beat too long.
“I’m throwing that out,” I say, and point downward. “I’m getting a new one later today.” I don’t know why I care about impressing her; I’mangrywith her; I amuntanglingmyself from her. These are the words I use with Eric when he takes me out after work to nurse my wounds. He tells me to consider a real therapist, not my best friend from college who is now my producing partner and is not really good at advice for shit, especially since he is still single at forty-one and trolling Tinder.
“OK,” Tatum replies. “Though you could just wash it.”
