The guy came in, attitude blazing, laughing at the punchline to the joke he was telling his friends, and zeroed in on me immediately. I don’t really have a type, but this guy isnotsomeone I’d lean into. Not to mention, I’m working this shift at my cousin's bar as a favor. It’s also a way to make some extra cash before I finally sink every penny of my savings into my own business. Going home with one of these overachiever advertising executives or Columbia undergrads is not on the agenda.
“Yea, that,” the twenty-something gawks. He nudges his buddy’s arm and laughs. “Or if I tell you why the sky is blue?”
He is pretty. I’ll give him that. I bet he picks up his fair share of beautiful women and rarely gets turned down. Maybe if I were just drinking here, I would have considered it. But not tonight. Especially not when a muscled, grunting sex fantasy is breathing confidently at the other end of the bar. He’s trying not to, but I see him paying attention to this exchange.
If they made men likethatin this city, I’d be in a whole hell of a lot more trouble than I usually am. Nope, that beautiful man is not from here. Too much “I don’t give a fuck energy” mixed with something lonely or even lost. He’s easily the most intriguing person to walk in here or into the same room as me in a very long time.
“So, basically, your answer is no. No, I can’t have your number.”
I smile at him as I rinse and then dry the tumbler in my hand. “It’s a no. Unless you can answer one of those for me, Sparky.”
Instead of swearing at me or sulking off, he and his friends start laughing and buy a round of shots. After they each close out their tabs, my friendly drunk says, “Well, this sucks.”
A grunting laugh reverberates from the far end of the bar, where my sexy stranger leans over his drink.
“You’re still the hottest bartender I’ve ever seen. I’ll come back with those answers, gorgeous,” the drunk guy yells as I make my way back to the only man here who has my interest.
I pour myself a glass of water and drop a lemon wedge into it. “Drinking alone tonight?”
Ignoring my question, he asks, “Would you have given that guy your number if he knew your answers?” The timber of his voice gives me a jolt of energy. It’s low and slow. The kind of tone that can be commanding and firm. A man who takes his time with words, not like most of the people I know. In this city, we move fast. Everyone is quick to answer, fast-talking, and over-eager to hear the sound of their own voices.
“I could tell you why the sky is blue if you really don’t know,” he says.
“I already know the answer. It’s not why I asked. I love the idea of someone else knowing. For someone to be curious enough to care about something they see every day. To appreciate the beauty, and the science of chaos behind it.”
“So you’re a romantic, then? My sister is the same way.”
“You stop that right now, sir. Don’t say mean things like that. I am no such thing.” I lean forward on the bar, tossing my hair behind me. “I believe in the right now. That people say what they mean,” I tell him, part joking and part serious about his comment. I’m rough enough around the edges to never be considered a romantic.
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t a romantic.” He starts to smile at me as he speaks. It’s just a twinge, but wow, is it pretty. “It wasn’t an accusation, either. It was more of an observation. People don’t say things like that unless they have a romanticized outlook on life or at least parts of it. You believe in fate, too?”
He coughs out a small laugh at the frown I’m giving him. And I notice the white scar that cuts right above his lip.
“Do you?” I ask in response.
“I don’t think I can. It means all the shitty stuff that happens was meant to happen. And I can’t wrap my head around that. I don’t want to,” he says as he folds the corners of the cocktail napkin under his now empty glass again.
“Maybe fate is a thing, but not like it is in movies. Maybe there’s a whole outline for each of us, but tons of variations. Like a choose-your-own-adventure book. Do you remember those?”
He just stares at me like I’ve said something prolific, or maybe just plain silly, but really, it’s how my mind works, splitting off into tangents. Just like the concept behind those books.
“There are multiple choices. We choose what we want, but the different outlines are still there, already written out as guidelines or pathways.”
“Or anchors,” he adds thoughtfully.
I smile at the thought. “I like the idea of fate, so yes, I suppose I believe in it. But that doesn’t make me a romantic.”
He raises his eyebrow, challenging my last thought.
“Just open minded. Not a romantic, just a harbinger of possibility.” I laugh. “Another round?”
He nods. The tiniest curve of a smile still dances on his lips, but his mood has shifted. Something changed, and it has him thinking about something heavier.
As I pour him a new glass, I search his face for that flirtatious humor we had a few minutes ago. I cringe at the reality that I might be the world's worst bartender. I’m supposed to let people talk. Have them leave here feeling lighter or at least buzzed enough to erase something weighing them down. Right now, it looks like my sexy brute has hoisted that weight back onto his shoulders.
I grab my phone, scroll down and select something new to play over the sound system. A few seconds later, the sound of a keyboard and hi-hat rhythm in what feels like a lazy, half-time beat moves around the room. Then, Bob Marley’s singing that everything’s gonna be alright. It permeates the negative air that’s plagued the room. I even wish I were on a beach listening to this right now. With this stranger, especially.
He looks up at me, the corner of his sexy-ass mouth tipping up. I smile back. My valiant effort to reprise my role as a helpful and stereotypical bartender is a success. “Tell me something good, big guy.”