Something shifts in the guy’s expression. The way he looks at me isn’t teasing anymore; it’s more…considering.“You’re sober?”
I nod. I’m not sure where he’s headed with this. Some people—men, mostly—are really turned off by the realization that theycan’t simply ply me with liquor and have me fall drunkenly into their beds. But this guy isn’t like other guys, apparently, because if anything, my answer makes him lean in closer, bracing one elbow against the bar and facing me more fully, as if I just became the most interesting person in this place. I have to keep reminding myself that this is a gay club, meaninghe’sprobably gay, meaning I shouldn’t get too far ahead of myself.
He’s hot, but he needs to be hot in the way that fictional characters are hot. He’s unattainable.
“Me too,” he says. “A little over ten years now.”
“Four,” I say, a little shyly, which surprises me. But then again, I don’t get many opportunities to talk about my sobriety with people who actually give a shit. “A little more.”
“Four’s great,” the guy says. “Four’s awesome. Congratulations.”
A couple comes up to the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention; they sidle their way in behind my new friend, who has to shift closer to me to make room. I’m near enough to him now that I can smell the smoky, salty scent of his deodorant—or whatever that smell is, because I’m pretty sure this guy isn’t the type to wear cologne.
The bartender chooses this moment to finally show up, and the guy—whose name I still don’t know, but he looks kind of like Jamie Dornan, so I’ll call him Jamie—orders us both seltzers in martini glasses with lemon garnish.
“Cheers,” he says, and clinks our glasses together.
We each take a sip, and I can’t stop watching him over the rim of my glass—which he notices, apparently, because his grin when he lowers his drink is a little sharper than before.
“Here’s the thing, though,” I say. “These places always use well seltzer. When really, Sanpellegrino is the only sparkling water option worth considering.”
He rolls his eyes, slapping one hand down against the bar. “Oh, come on. I can’t believe you would shit on my boy LaCroix like this.”
“LaCroix? Are you a thirty-five-year-old mommy blogger?”
“Don’t knock Pamplemousse.”
“I will knock Pamplemousse. You know the ‘natural flavoring’ all these brands crow about comes from like…beaver anal gland expression or whatever.” Which is actually true. I didn’t think it was when Chaya told me, but then I looked it up—much to my regret.
His smirk tugs a little tighter, a crooked smile I want to kiss right off his face. “I personally consider myself a connoisseur of beaver butt juice. A delicacy in some parts of Brooklyn.”
“Sorry, my Sanpellegrino-trained palate must not be discerning enough.”
“Cultural differences,” he says with a sage nod. “They must not have a wide enough variety of anal flavorings where you come from. Where is this fabled land of milk and overpriced seltzer, by the way?”
He assumes I’m not from New York. Which I guess is fair; maybe I’ve fully assimilated into LA culture at this point by necessity, if not by intention. Not that I ever felt like I really fit in.
“Crown Heights,” I say.
“No way. I thought for sure you were gonna say some Chicago suburb I’ve never heard of.”
I make a face at him. “Please. With that accent, it’s not like you grew up on the hard streets of the Upper West Side.”
“North Carolina,” he admits, “but I’ve been here for thirteen years. Plenty of time to drink every flavor of LaCroix from every bodega in the tristate area.”
He’s standing closer to me now, somehow, even though I don’t remember either of us moving. I bend my knee slightly, and itbrushes his leg; our hips are near enough I’m hyperaware of it, our proximity like a heat that only intensifies in the space between us.
“I’ll keep spending half my paycheck on overpriced seltzer. Better than spending my whole paycheck on bourbon.”
“Valid,” he says. “Do you want to dance?”
I can tell I’m blushing from the way my cheeks suddenly feel sunburnt. It’s dark enough in this place, though, that he probably doesn’t notice. “Yes,” I say. “But…”
One of his brows goes up. “But?I’m bracing myself.”
I’m not entirely sure how to put this.
“But…aren’t you gay?” I say at last, and punctuate it with a sip of my lemon seltzer. It’s a fair question. I mean, he’s in here. A gay club. “I mean, not that I won’t dance with you if you are. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page here.”
