I’ve known Rob my whole life. Even dated him once in sixth grade, although it was the kind of “dating” that entailed telling a lot of people about it and never actually doing anything together outside of school. He’s a real ballbuster, and I’ve always wondered how his girlfriend puts up with him.
“Fine.” I look down at my closed laptop. Screw it. “I’ll meet you there.”
Rob never did say what he was doing on the second floor, I realize later as I pull my scarf more tightly around my neck and head toward the car. It’s less than a ten-minute drive to the bar, and when I pull in, there’s only a few cars. One of the perks of being a teacher is an empty bar for happy hour. By the time the rest of the world gets out of work in an hour or so, we’ll have filled the entire corner of the tasting room floor.
“There she is.”
Rob’s already here.
“Angel?” he asks.
If someone drives to a bar alone, there’s a presumption that they’ll be drinking some sort of Angel product. Funny, just a few weeks ago that name wouldn’t have conjured visions of Enzo’s naked body straddling me, the muscles of his arms straining as he—
“Chari?”
Who needs a jacket when you have memories like that one? Suddenly hot, I take off my scarf and put it, along with my coat, on the back of the bar seat.
“Sure. Angel Pale,” I tell the bartender waiting for my drink order.
Rob already has a lager started, but he pays for mine as well.
“Thanks.”
We clink glasses.
“Cheers to another week in paradise,” he says. We both drink. Then he adds, “So who were you wanting to murder when I walked by your room?”
I look at him like, Really? We both know who drives everyone in that building crazy.
“What did he do now?”
I tell him my tale of woe, and Rob counters with one of his own. I’ve been so out of touch with the goings-on at school that I had no idea construction had started on the gym. It was supposed to wait until the summer, but much to Rob’s chagrin, the principal had the bright idea of moving Rob’s classes to the back of the library and breaking ground now. At the end of winter.
“Jackasses,” I say. “So that’s why you were on the second floor?”
Rob nods to the bartender. Apparently he’s ready for another.
“Where’ve you been, Atwood? We haven’t seen you at happy hour for months.”
When I don’t answer right away, he whistles. “Ah, young love. I did hear about you and Enzo DeLuca.”
“I guess it’s making the rounds.”
That picture of Enzo and me at the airport has been widely circulated now, and it feels super weird whenever people mention it. No one much cared about my comings and goings before. Enzo says it will only get worse, though he’d help me navigate it all, as people realize we are serious.
His words, not mine.
But that was two days before he told me not to come to New York today as planned. Enzo apologized a hundred times, and I told him I understood. But I’m not so sure I do. It’s been gnawing at me for the past two days. Even if he’s working all weekend, why not have me come up anyway? Surely he could take a break one night to eat dinner? I even mentioned that last night, that maybe I could come and we could both get some work done together. Companionably.
Apparently I would be too distracting. Which seems like a compliment on the surface, but if the only time we’re together is when he’s totally free, we won’t be together very much.
“Trouble in paradise already?”
I swat him on the arm. “You’re incorrigible. No, there’s no trouble in paradise.”
The door opens, and I assume it’s one of our faculty members, but no one approaches the bar, so it must be someone leaving instead. Luckily, we’re far enough away that I don’t get blasted with cold air. But the others aren’t long behind us. Within fifteen minutes, our party of two turns into ten.
Two beers later, I’m feeling better about my jerk boss—sharing horror stories with my colleagues is a balm second to none—and even about my cancelled trip. I’m not even thinking about Enzo, much, when my phone buzzes with a text from him.
Enzo: Having fun?
For a second, I think he’s actually here. That he came to surprise me. But a quick scan of the bar proves otherwise.
Chari: Yes. You?
Thankfully, he’s a quick texter.
Enzo: Not so much
“Chari, want another drink?”
Rob points to my empty beer.
“Sure,” I say, “but this round is on me.”
Enzo is still typing.
I pay the bartender for two drinks and get two drink chips for my friends. Last call for me and then the Angel pill. It’s been a long day.
Enzo: So who’s the guy?
Four words took that long to type? I look around again. No Enzo.
Chari: ?
Enzo: Gian was there earlier, said he saw you
I would definitely have noticed if Enzo’s brother were here. He mustn’t have stayed for long. Or maybe he was in the restaurant. Either way, I’m annoyed enough not to text back.
First, he cancels.
Again.
And then he oh so casually turns the jealous boyfriend act up a notch.
I may be losing a bit of myself to him, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with being swallowed up whole.
Enzo: Call me
Chari: Aren’t you at the lab?
They have notoriously bad cell reception there.
Enzo: I’ll go outside
I waffle between jumping off the barstool—because honestly, the possibility of hearing his voice is the most excitement I’ve had all night—and telling him the truth. That I’m in the middle of a conversation with some friends, so no, I can’t talk right this second about his brother’s creepy stalking.
Not that Gian was stalking me. But still. This feels like pretty much the last thing I need to deal with right now. I’m pissy at the moment and self-aware enough to know it.
As I try to decide how to respond, a picture comes through. It’s my little glass frog sitting on a lab desk. What the hell?
Chari: Why do you have that with you? Is it sanitary?
Enzo: Reminds me of you. Yes.
So much for making him wait.
“Be right back,” I mutter, as if anyone notices. They’re all wrapped up in their own conversations, so I grab my beer and tell the fourth-grade special ed teacher she can sit in my chair. Heading toward the bathrooms, I find a semiprivate space and dial Enzo’s number.
He answers immediately.
“Hey.”
His voice melts my insides. Reminding myself I’m annoyed with him, I answer, “Hey,” my tone making it into more of a what the hell? than an invitation to chat.
“So you’re at happy hour, I take it?”
I’m about to mention his text when I decide to let it ride. For the moment.
“Yeah, decided last minute to come. Shitty day.”
He’s quiet, thinking about whatever Gian said, no doubt. While I could ease his fears with a few words, I don’t want to let him off that easily. So I wait him out.
“Who’s the guy?” he finally asks, his tone the opposite of casual. I can hear his annoyance over the phone.
“Maybe Gian should have asked me himself if he was so concerned?”