Page 4 of Business or Pleasure

In spite of everything, I burst out laughing. “I think that’s what you say at a wedding. Or at the beginning of a Prince song.”

“Ah shit, you’re right.” His mouth curves into a smile. “Good song, though.”

“Great song.”

In the most discreet way possible, I take a closer look at this stranger. I don’t think he was at the signing, but then again, the room was packed. He looks older than me, though probably not by much—auburn hair, shorter on the sides and floppy on top, graying a bit at the temples, which I discover in this moment is something I find very attractive. He’s in dark jeans and a casual black button-up, one sleeve unbuttoned at the wrist, as though he got distracted when he was putting it on, or maybe had a long day and the button simply gave up.

“I’m sorry, though,” he says. “About your work, and your relationship.”

I wave this off. “Thanks, but it’ll be okay. I think.” I hope.

I could easily turn away, tell him to have a nice evening. Down my drink in silence and stumble home to takeout, trashy TV, and wallowing. I’ve never chatted someone up at a bar before—I’m usually too busy avoiding eye contact with other humans—but something about him compels me to keep talking.

Because full honesty: maybe my ego needs a little boost tonight.

“What about you?” I say, picking up my bottle and gesturing toward his glass. “You’re drinking alone because...”

When I trail off, I watch his face, catching a split-second flinch. It’s so brief, I’m not sure he’s aware he’s doing it—maybe I even imagined it. But then he collects himself. Seems to relax.

“Same as you. Career-related existential dread.” He motions to the pair of bartenders, dropping the volume of his voice. “I was going to head out twenty minutes ago, but then I got too invested in their personal lives.”

He taps a finger to his lips, and I strain to hear what the bartenders are saying.

“Those guinea pigs are not my responsibility. If you’re going to insist on keeping them in our apartment, you need to clean up after them.”

“You could at least call them by their names.”

“I refuse to call those little beasts Ricardo and Judith.”

“Just like you refused to do the dishes after that party you threw last week? The one with a build-your-own-chili-dog bar?”

“I want to call you out for eavesdropping, but I can’t blame you,” I say. “This is quality entertainment.”

“Right? Now I can’t leave until I know how it ends.” Then he raises an eyebrow, squinting at the water bottle I stupidly placed on the bar next to me. “Is there a reason your water bottle says... ‘Live Laugh Girlboss’?” He holds up his hands. “Not judging, just curious.”

“Oh, this? I’m part of a hydration-based MLM. I’m in really deep. They’ll be running the docuseries any day now.”

Without missing a beat, he calmly places his glass back down. Flicks his eyes around the bar. When he speaks again, it’s in a whisper. “Do I need to call someone for you?”

“Afraid it’s too late.” I give the water bottle a shake. “But if I can sell you a thousand of these babies, I might be able to get off with minimal prison time.”

“The thing is,” he says, drumming a couple fingertips on the bar, “I could probably find a use for three hundred. Maybe four. But I don’t know what I’d do with the rest of them.”

“You’d just have to find other people to sell them to. I could hook you up, give you all the training you need to become your very own boss.”

“I’m not falling for that one.” He’s grinning at me, his teeth a brilliant white. The longer I study him, the cuter he is. It’s all in the details—a dusting of reddish facial hair, the warmth of his rich hazel eyes, the freckles spiraling across his knuckles, up onto his left wrist where his shirt is unbuttoned and bare skin peeks through. And the way he’s looking at me might feel better than I’ve felt all day. All week. All month since Wyatt.

“I’m Drew,” he says. “I completely understand if you can’t tell me your name, though. For legal reasons. What with the show and all.”

I try and fail to hold in another smile. God, he’s charming. “Chandler,” I say. “I was at the book signing over there.” I drag out the book, as though the introduction necessitates some additional shred of truth. “What do you do? When you’re not trying to rescue women from MLMs drinking at bookstore bars?”

“I mean, jeez, that’s practically a full-time job.” Then he takes another sip of his drink before tenting his fingers together. “I’m in sales. Not very interesting, unfortunately.”

“I disagree. That depends entirely on what you’re selling. For example, tiny rain boots for dogs? Fascinating, and I’ll need to see photos immediately.”

“Tech sales,” he elaborates with a little sigh that makes him seem eager to change the subject. Which, fair—tech sales doesn’t sound like the most edge-of-your-seat career. “What about you?”

If that isn’t the million-dollar question. “I’m a writer. A journalist, I guess, but I haven’t written anything I’m proud of in a while.” I take a sip of my cider, remember it’s too sweet, fight a grimace. “The whole capitalist machine really sold us lies about becoming an adult. I was under the impression that each of us was supposed to flourish into this perfectly well-adjusted, impressively accomplished person. That was what they told us all throughout school, right? That we could be anything we wanted. That we were special. But now I’m just...” Writing books without my name on them. Struggling to pay my reduced rent. Floundering. “Being a millennial in your thirties is a trip and a half,” I finish.

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