Tasia gestures to some people on the dance floor. “Just visiting friends in town for a few days.”
The two of them start chatting about school, and Zach reaches out to brush his fingers over my arm.
“Hey.”
I move a little closer to him. “Hey.”
“You okay?”
He always seems to know when something is up with me, sometimes even before I do, but I don’t want tonight to get serious. For now, I just want to keep having fun. This feels like the real kind of fun—not just a distraction to fill empty moments. The fun I have with Zach is the kind that keeps me laughing even when we’re not together.
So I joke around instead of telling him the truth—that I’m scared and nervous and excited at the same time. I cover it up by rolling my eyes and tossing my hair over my shoulder. “I am fine, Zachy Zach. I have not had that much to drink.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He is taking none of my shit.
“I know what you meant.” I drop my eyes to the floor, and my fingers find my grandmother’s ring to start twisting it around. “I—”
Whatever pop punk song was just playing ends, and the whole club goes crazy when the beginning of ‘Sweetness’ by Jimmy Eat World starts up.
Hope grabs my hand. “Come on! We have to dance.”
I keep my feet where they are even as she pulls on my arm and look back at Zach. He’s watching me with his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth in a hard line.
“You’re gonna miss it!” Hope warns as she takes off with Tasia.
“Zach.” I step closer to him and put my hands on his shoulders. “I...”
He lays one of his palms on my back. “What is it?”
But I can’t say it. I don’t have the words.
“I really like this song.” I stare straight into his blue eyes. I can see the neon sign behind the bar reflected in them. I stare and stare, hoping he’ll read something in my eyes too. “Will you dance with me?”
“Always.”
Always.
I shiver a little as I take his hand and lead him to the dance floor. His palm slides to the dip in my lower back.
Everyone in the bar seems to be squeezing onto the floor now, and we give up on reaching Hope. Instead, we turn to face each other, the jostling bodies pushing us so close together our chests are touching. I start moving to the beat, shaking my head like I’m at a heavy metal concert every time the song does one of those little drum bashing things. I shout the same words everyone around me is yelling, and Zach calls out the response, shuffling around like the dorky dancer he is.
We’re screaming at the top of our lungs by the time the chorus starts for the second time. I throw my arms around his neck, mostly because someone is going to knock me over if I don’t, but also because I want to be closer to him.
I always want to be closer to him.
I’m on my tip toes, chin resting on his shoulder, and he starts cooing the ‘ooh-ooh-oh-oh’ part in my ear as we sway. I breathe in the scent of his flannel shirt. We don’t even make it to the end of the song before we’re kissing like our lives depend on it.
This is different. This is different than anything else. This is good.
I kiss him harder, searching and searching for a way to believe that.
Seventeen
Zach
CALL DRINK: any mixed drink comprised of a liquor and mixer, wherein the liquor is specified by its brand name as opposed to a generic order
I’m whistling the tune of ‘Sweetness’ as I grab my stuff off its hook at Taverne Toulouse and start heading for the exit. My Saturday afternoon shift crawled by, and I’m more than ready to get out of here, but a shout from Monroe’s office stops me in my tracks.
“Zach, is that you?”
I backtrack to her office door, which is already open a few inches, and let myself in.
“It is I.”
“I knew it. Your country boy whistling is a dead giveaway. It’s quite impressive. Was that Jimmy Eat World?”
She gestures to one of the spare chairs against the wall, and I pull it over to take a seat in front of her desk. The office is tiny, but not as tiny as the converted broom closet she used back before she bought the place. The room has bright white walls, modern lighting fixtures, and still has a trace of that fresh paint smell from the renovations. Framed copies of our old advertisements from Taverne Toulouse’s days as a grimy student bar are hung behind the desk, with puns like ‘What have you got Toulouse?’ advertising three for one deals on shots.
“It was,” I inform her, “and by the way, that’s small town boy whistling, not country.”
I wave a finger at her, still bobbing my head to the tune of ‘Sweetness.’ That song has been stuck in my head for almost a week now, and I’m the farthest thing from sick of it. I can feel her arms around my neck every time I whistle the melody, picture her perfect lips singing the lyrics every time I hum the chorus.
“Right. Small town. Not country.” Monroe rests her elbows on the desk and props her chin on her hands, grinning at me. “You seem...buoyant today. How are you?”
“Glorious,” I answer without hesitation. “I am glorious.”
She laughs. “Good word.”
I’ve managed to keep my mouth shut at the bar like DeeDee asked, but I wasn’t lying when I told her everyone would know something is up with me. I’m sure that with her sage-like powers of wisdom and intuition, Monroe knows exactly what’s going on. Somehow, the thought doesn’t embarrass me. I almost want her to know.
My life is finally on the trajectory I’ve been aiming at for years. It’s not just things with DeeDee that are different; my business is still showing signs of a major upswing. The results would be faster if I wasn’t spending so much time at Taverne Toulouse, but they’re still coming through. It feels like I’m building something, being something—something that’s taken a back seat for far too long.
“You’re all done for the day?” Monroe motions to my backpack, and I nod. “I wish I was too. This SEO stuff is killing me. I’ve thought about outsourcing, but that just feels like giving up. It can’t really be this hard.”
“SEO?” I sit up a little straighter in the chair. “SEO is my jam.”
Monroe tilts her head to the side. “Really? Nobody I’ve mentioned it to even knows what it is.”
“Monroe, I run ecommerce stores for a living. Search engine optimization is—” I pinch my fingers together and bring them to my lips, kissing the tips before raising my hand in the air like a French chef talking about the crème de la crème. “That and running targeted ads,” I continue. “If you ever want to run Facebook ads for Taverne Toulouse, I’m your guy.”
Monroe slouches back in her chair, nodding slowly. “Huh. So, um, I know you’re heading out, but do you have five minutes to look at this and tell me if I’m being a total idiot or not?”
She must see the hesitation register on my face. I’m supposed to get in a few hours of work tonight before seeing DeeDee—the prospect of nights wrapped up in the sheets with DeeDee Beausoleil has been excellent motivation for staying productive during my working hours—and I know how quickly five minutes at Taverne Toulouse can turn into forty-five.