“My dad’s only paying for grad school on the promise that I win an Oscar,” I offer, surprised to hear how quickly I share this confession.
But she grins and says: “So win an Oscar.” Like it’s nothing, like it’s not the finish line, the nearly unattainable triumph my father expects.
“Uh ... OK.” I grin back because I like her breeziness, her candor. “Now you sound like him: ‘If you’re going to do something, Benjamin, you’d better at least be the best!’”
“There are worse role models,” she says, and something like sadness washes over her for a beat before she sheds it.
“I’m probably making it sound worse than it was.” I am. Mostly I love my parents, loved my childhood. No one is perfect; we all did our best. “You know, to make you feel sorry for me or something.”
“Fun childhoods are overrated,” she says, but then chews on her lip, lost in that same trail of thought that she doesn’t give me access to. “But why would you want me to feel sorry for you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, so when you get my phone number, you might take pity on me and actually call,” I say. Daisy kicks me from underneath my side of the bar.
“Come on,” she says, incredulous.
“Come on what?” I know I’m flirting now, in spite of Amanda, in spite of my previously unwavering loyalty. To Paige Brewer, to Melissa Thompson (college), to Felicia Hollis (also college), to Amanda.
“What makes you think I want your phone number?” she asks. “And even if Ididwant your phone number, why then wouldn’t I call? For your information, as a female bartender, I get numbers thrown at me all the time.” She’s rattled.I’vebeen the one to rattle her. I picture her naked now, me beside her.
“Well, good, because I don’t hand out my number to strangers.” I grin. Daisy told me to drag this out for as long as possible, until after midnight.
“I’m not a stranger,” she says. “I’m Tatum.”
I want to say:I know. Now tell me everything about yourself because that won’t be enough. I want to consume you, breathe you, explore every inch of you.
Instead, I say, “But you don’t want my number, Tatum, so we don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Well, I don’t want your number, in fact.”
“Perfect,” I reply.
“Great,” she says. Then: “Well what if I do want your number?”
“I already told you: I don’t give my number out to strangers who scare me.”
God, do I want to give her my number.
“Something else you learned in your childhood?”
“They trained me well.”
“What if I’m not a stranger?” she says. “What if I tell you something about my own less than fun childhood that assures that I’m just Tatum, your local friendly bartender!”
“I’ll consider it.”
“I started working when I was twelve, have had a job ever since,” she says. “So, no fun for me.”
“Hmmm. Nope.” I try to shut that down quickly, worried she’ll ask me about my own work experience, which is shamefully lacking. A camp counselor for a summer, teaching racquetball for another. I’ve never callused my hands, never worried about a paycheck. Certainly never slung drinks for assholish NYU trust fund brats.
“Oh, come on,” she says. “Are you going to make me beg?”
“Yes,” I say.Please beg, please ask me to do whatever you want me to do. I’m sold.“I am going to make you beg. Very much so. Come on, give me your best begging face.”
Daisy clutches my shin, then pulls herself up to eye level, tears building, then spilling down her cheeks. She grabs my arm to steady herself against the onslaught of her laughter.
“What?” Tatum looks from her to me then back to her. “Were you, like, crouching underneath the bar? Listening to this the whole time? I don’t ... what the hell, Daisy?”
Daisy catches her breath in sputters. Then finally: “Tatum, Ben, Ben, Tatum. And just so you know, you lost.”
