Slouched in a secluded corner, Mets cap pulled low over his eyes and a heavy shadow of graying stubble covering his jaw, Ethan was as close as he ever got to invisible. Context was on his side. Nobody expected to see him here, so they didn’t.
Even so, the group at the pool table had started stealing more and more looks at him, their formerly raucous conversation dropping to whispers. Ethan took another long draw from his glass, draining it in anticipation of the inevitable next step.
Sure enough, he saw someone approaching him out of the corner of his eye. The man had clearly had a few drinks of his own, as indicated by his swaying walk and unfocused eyes. He leaned over Ethan, his concept of personal boundaries obviously as impaired as his motor skills.
“Hey.Hey,” he whispered theatrically, spraying hops-scented spittle on Ethan’s shirt. “I knew you were you this whole time…but don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Ethan shoved a few more fries into his mouth, his eyes glued to the television above him.
“I think you have the wrong guy. Sorry.”
The man shook his head, crowding Ethan even further.
“Itisyou. You’re Ethan Atkins. What are you doing in a shithole like this, dude?” His voice got louder. A few more heads turned.
Ethan finally tilted his head to look at the man, a grim smile slowly creeping across his face.
“Nah, I’m nobody. Just trying to have a quiet drink like everyone else.” He lifted his empty glass to punctuate the sentence, catching the eye of the bartender, who grabbed the bottle of Maker’s and headed over to top him off. The bartender glanced at Ethan’s new friend, eyebrows raised. Ethan shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible movement.It’s okay.
Ethan lifted his newly full glass toward the man, who blinked at him a few times.
“Cheers. Have a good night, man. Next round’s on me.” He knocked back half of it in one swallow, then pointedly turned back to his fries.
The man looked like he wanted to say something else, but the bartender cut in, asking what he and his friends were drinking, and assuring him he’d have another round coming right up. Ethan closed his eyes as the murmured conversation between the bartender and the man faded into the vague, rippling ether that enveloped him. Everything was going to be okay. He could almost feel the vibrations of the universe pulsating through his body.
Wait, maybe those were the vibrations of his phone. He dug into the pocket of his jeans and squinted at the caller name. Audrey Aoki. Normally he would let it go to voicemail since he was in public, but after that last round, he was feeling downright chatty.
“Audrey. Babyyy.”
Audrey snorted, her clipped British accent oozing over the line. “Why do I feel like I could set your breath on fire right now?”
“That’s what you get for calling this late.”
“It’s eight-thirty.”
Ethan could feel renewed attention focusing on him from the pool table. He downed the other half of his drink and reluctantly slid off the barstool, taking a moment to regain his equilibrium before shuffling out the front door.
It was January, so the Valley was about as chilly as it ever got. Not cold enough to wish he’d brought a jacket, but a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the bar. Everything was still and silent. Even the solitary car going through the Jack in the Box drive-through across the street seemed to be moving in slow motion. Beneath his feet, a few blades of grass had optimistically sprung up between the cracks in the concrete, the only green thing he could see in any direction.
Ethan leaned on a low cement wall and pulled a crumpled pack of American Spirits from his back pocket. As he fished around for his lighter, he made sure to over-enunciate every word.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can you come into the office for lunch on Friday? There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Lighter acquired, Ethan pulled a cigarette out of the pack with his mouth. He responded with a muffled “Mmm?” as he lit it.
It had been years since he’d been to Audrey’s office. They’d come up together, almost twenty years ago now; he and his best friend, Sam, had been two of her first clients. Their meteoric rise had helped propel her to the elite ranks of L.A.’s publicists, and she, in turn, had helped them stay on top. He had, thus far, resisted her regular attempts to drag him back to something resembling his old career, but for some reason he kept taking her calls. He hated to admit it, but she was the closest thing he had to a friend these days. A friend he paid to check up on him.
Which, now that he thought about it, pretty much described most of his relationships since Sam’s death.
Audrey’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.
“Well? What do you say?”
Ethan dragged on his cigarette, relishing the rush of the nicotine colliding with his booze-soaked brain.
“What do you mean, meet someone?”
