“Sorry,” Jake said.
“It’s okay. I didn’t care when you did it, and nothing important was broken.” A tiny lie, really. It was just a mug. A souvenir from the best week of her time as Dre-and-Petra, but not the only one.
She left the mess for later. When they were both dressed and reasonably put back together, she opened the door and Jake followed her out—and stopped short a step after she did, bumping into her.
Dre stood ten feet away, leaning against a wall with their arms crossed over their chest. Their Army-Navy surplus combat boots were crossed as well, at the ankles, like they’d tried to effect an air of nonchalance, but their tense arms, and the violent sneer across their face, quashed any hope of success for that.
Ignoring Petra completely, Dre pushed off the wall, dropped their arms as their hands coiled into fists, and stalked directly at Jake. Without a word, Jake stepped forward, putting himself in front of Petra like he meant to be a shield. His shoulders seemed to broaden, a cobra prepared to strike.
“I don’t know what you think you accomplished here,” Dre snarled at Jake as they neared. “I don’t care what you think you got of her, you’re wrong. You are a piece of shit and all you did was smear shit all over her.”
Dre was only an inch or two away from Jake, face to face, when they finished that nasty speech. Jake let them come without a move of his own. But at those last words, he stepped forward, pushing Dre back with his chest, glaring straight into their dark eyes.
Dre resisted, pushing too, and suddenly Petra was witness to a bizarre reenactment of the inciting event of probably every redneck barfight in the history of Oklahoma. Two roosters posturing.
With that thought, a recollection flashed through her mind, of that weird thing Dre had said, and Katie had agreed with. That she had a type, which was Dre, and that Jake fit that type. As she moved to put herself between them and settle shit down, she took a beat to see if she saw what they meant.
Not really. Jake and Dre were about the same height, around six feet. They were about the same size overall, and similar levels of fitness. But she had intimate knowledge of them both, and Jake had more muscle. The differences went on—Dre had short, dark hair, usually styled in a James Dean pompadour—in fact, ‘James Dean with ink’ was their whole aesthetic. Jake had longish, sandy hair and didn’t seem to have much of an intentional aesthetic at all. She supposed they were both cocky and scrappy—obviously—but Dre carried that into the bedroom, too. They were a sex talker, from dirty talk to plain old running commentary, and liked things on the rough side. Clearly, Jake was not, and did not.
Dre and Jake were of similar size. They shared a few very common personality traits. Any similarities stopped there.
The push-and-glare standoff continued. Petra put a hand on each thumping chest and wedged herself between them. “Stop. Both of you. This is ridiculous.”
Jake stepped back. Dre did not. So Petra turned and faced her friend, putting both hands on their chest.
“Dre. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m sorry I caused it. But you need to back off now.”
Dre turned their attention to her. The muscles of their face quivered as their expression shifted from malice to pain. “Don’t do this, Pet. Please don’t do this.”
Did it make her a bad friend to reject such a plea? Did it make her a bad person? Maybe. But as much guilt as she felt, she couldn’t give Dre control over her love life. Relationship, random encounter, short-term fling, true love, whatever it was, whether it was with Jake or anybody else, she could not let somebody else dictate whomshewas with.
“It’s not your call, Dre, and it’s not your business.” When Dre flinched, Petra added, “I love you, you know I do. I’m sorry you’re hurting. But we are not a couple anymore, and we won’t be again. Who I’m with is for me to decide.”
Again, Dre’s face moved like tectonic plates shifting. Then they stood ramrod straight and sneered, “Thenfuckyou.” Their arms shot out, and they slammed their hands at Petra’s chest, shoving her back so hard she lost her footing and would have fallen if Jake hadn’t been mere inches behind her.
“Hey!” he yelled as he caught her. “The fuck?”
Dre spun and stomped off toward the hallway and the door that led to the back stairs and their apartment above the bar. When Jake made to chase after them, Petra grabbed his arm. “Don’t. Let them go.”
“You’re just gonna let ‘em do that?”
It hadn’t missed her notice that Jake had used Dre’s correct pronouns from the moment she’d corrected him. He was Gen Z, and younger people tended to roll with cultural progress more seamlessly than older generations, but still, he was a Bull. She wouldn’t have expected an outlaw biker to be culturally sensitive or politically correct, no matter his age.
“I’m not hurt, but they are. Let it go.” It wasn’t the first time Dre had lashed out physically—another reason they’d broken up—but when it had happened it had almost always been like this: a shove, or maybe something thrown, aimed to just miss her. Dre acted out when they hurt. Petra understood, to every extent she could, because she knew Dre’s past. A lot of trauma lurked back there.
Jake resisted her pull for a few seconds, looking in the direction Dre had stormed away. But he relented when the door upstairs slammed energetically.
He turned back to her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” And she was, actually. What she and Jake had just shared was potent enough to hold back her worry for her father and her guilt about Dre. Right now, she was still pretty fine. However, who was tending bar right now? “I need to get back up front, because Dre and I are the only bartenders, and ...”
“Yeah, right.” He took her hand and laced their fingers. “Let’s go.”
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~oOo~
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