Longing hits me so intensely in the chest that I almost can’t breathe. They don’t even notice me as they stumble past, barely breaking their kiss as they move across the parking lot.
“I can’t decide if I’m rooting for them to make it to their car or to just give in and start going at it on a random hood so we can enjoy the show,” a voice from behind me says with unrestrained amusement. I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone out here. How long has he been behind me? Did he see my hesitation to open the door?
Before I can decide if I should turn around and make a quippy comment about the couple as well or if I should just get my ass inside the bar already, the man slips past me, shooting me a reassuring smile over his shoulder as he enters the bar, leaving me alone in the night once again.
I blink in surprise, getting my courage up one more time and reaching for the door handle again. This time I manage to open the door without any other horny couples barging out, and I step into the bar.
It’s not all that different from Wooley’s, our usual haunt. It’s a little quiet, which isn’t surprising considering it’s Monday. It’s dimly lit, the decor clearly left over from the seventies. The only thing that gives it away as a gay bar is the rainbow flag in the window and its reputation around town. For the most part, all the men look like they’re in their thirties. It’s the same over at Wooley’s. I asked Ollie about it once, and he said there are harder partying bars in the city, and that’s where most of the younger crowd goes to hookup and have fun. It’s a relief, because if I thought I was stepping into a bar full of twenty-one-year-old kids, I would never have had the courage to drag my middle-aged ass here. Not that forty-four is ancient, but I know enough to know that youth is at a premium in the gay community…hell, any dating community.
I make my way up to the bar and grab a stool. When the bartender makes his way over, I order a Jack and Coke, and then I do what I came here to do: I quietly observe. I spot the guy who slipped in past me and possibly caught my moment of panic in the parking lot. I didn’t get a good look at him before, too caught up in my own head.
He’s standing next to a tall table with another man and a woman. It seems like they know each other well, comfortably laughing and chatting. He reminds me of the man I spotted in the parking lot last month, tall and broad with a soft, alluring body. I wonder if it is him. But what are the odds? The rest of him isn’t bad either—dark brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard. And that’s saying nothing about what he’s wearing, a pair of black slacks and a white button up shirt, complete with a mint green bowtie. Fucking adorable. He smiles at something the woman he’s with says and, yup, the smile is cute as hell too.
My heart beats a little faster as I watch him. He seems to be telling a story, gesturing wildly as his friends crack up. He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, nearly knocking the man’s drink off the table. But it seems his friend is used to it, because he manages to sweep his glass out of the danger zone at the very last second.
“Here you go,” the bartender says, setting my drink in front of me, pulling my attention away from the guy. He winks at me, and my first instinct is to pretend I didn’t just get caught ogling the man, but fuck it, I don’t have to.
“He’s cute,” I say, tilting my head toward the guy.
The bartender grins. “He’s a flirt, everyone around here loves him.”
I look back over my shoulder, shamelessly checking out his ass.
Watson
“And that, my friends, is why I am in desperate need of a drink,” I conclude, finishing my story about trying to get the first graders I teach ready for their fall concert next week while also preparing for parent teacher conferences only a few days away.
“Yeah, I’ll keep my plants, thanks,” my best friend, Jordy, says unsympathetically, taking a sip from his martini. Yes, he’s the kind of guy who orders a martini at a pub, because he’s just a bit extra like that, and also because he has type one diabetes and rarely drinks, so when he does, it’s always something fancy.
“Go get your drink and get your ass back here so I can tell you about the pretty girl I scored a date with for Friday night,” Mia says, making a shooing motion with her hands to hurry me along.
“Oh goodie, Jordy and I love hearing about all your dates when we’re both in a dry spell,” I deadpan.
“Well, up your game then, damn. You’re both hot. If you aren’t getting any action, you aren’t trying hard enough.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes at her. Leave it to Mia to make even dating a case of mind over matter, even if her advice is at odds with what she said this morning.
Maybe she thought that was just what I needed to hear in the moment, but it’s been on my mind all day. I do want my happily ever after to include the man of my dreams, but what if he never shows up? It’s always been my dream to adopt a couple of kids. Do I have to wait for Mr. Right to pursue that dream? I always thought I did, as silly and traditional as that sounds. But maybe I’ve been thinking of things all wrong.
I turn to head up to the bar and spot the guy from the parking lot. I guess he worked up the courage to come inside after all. Good for him. Before the hot and heavy couple came through the door, I was debating whether I should offer the man any kind of moral support or if this was the kind of thing he needed to work up to on his own. Even after I stepped inside, I wasn’t sure I made the right choice.
But, damn, he is good looking. I’ve always been a sucker for a guy in a backward baseball cap, probably a remnant from my high school years spent pining over all the jocks who didn’t know I existed. It was their loss. The band and theater kids threw much wilder parties anyway. Jock fetish aside, the man is wearing the hell out of a tight black t-shirt, the muscles of his arms straining the fabric…
Okay, yes, Mia is right that my happily ever after doesn’t have to include a man, but it totally could include a delicious specimen like him.
He sips from a glass, looking around the bar with an obvious nervous expression. Is he new in town and struggling with social anxiety? Or is this his first venture out to a gay bar? Maybe he’s more of the homebody type or just got out of a long-term relationship and isn’t quite sure he’s ready to date again. Or maybe he’s a late bloomer? So many possibilities, so many unanswered questions, and so not my business, not that that’s ever stopped me.
I reach the bar—covered in rings from drinks long past and sticky spots that are difficult to avoid— and lean over a little with my elbows on the shabby wood,.
“Van,” I call out to the bartender who’s in the middle of pouring a drink. His eyes flicker to me, and he gives a quick nod to let me know he saw me. Being on a first name basis with the bartender and having a regular order possibly suggests I’m here too often.
While I wait for my drink, I glance over at the man again, seated only a foot or so away from me now, his shoulders hunched, his hand clenched tight around his glass.
“Hi, I’m Watson,” I introduce myself, offering my hand.
He looks startled for a moment, his eyebrows going up as he stares at my hand as if he’s never seen one before. After a few seconds, he seems to shake off his surprise, giving me a shy smile and shaking my hand.
“Everett,” he says. His handshake is firm, the palm of his hand rough and calloused against mine. I wonder if he works with his hands for a living. I could see him as a carpenter or a mechanic, all sweaty and hard at work. I bite my bottom lip and pull my hand back before I can do something stupid like see what his sandpapery hands feel like against my tongue.