Page 17 of On the Line

“Now,” he says, looking slightly reproachful as if I need to listen to his instructionsverycarefully. “A perfectly shucked oyster will slide effortlessly into your mouth. Then, I want you to chew once or twice before swallowing. Got it?”

“Got it,” I repeat a little too studiously, before reaching over to grab the oyster.

Ozzy moves my hand away, lets out a small tsk and holds up a finger. “Let me.”

Realizing he intends to feed it to me, I drop my hand onto the bar, slightly stunned. My body heats up, having no control over any of its reactions. Good or bad.

Telling him that I have a boyfriend is on the tip of my tongue, but that would mean admitting that I see us as something more thanjustcoworkers. I press my lips inward instead, thinking about my next move.

To hell with it. This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just an oyster.

We have a silent stand-off, him holding the innocuous oyster, a small smirk fixed on his face while I’m busy questioning my morals. I finally cave, and give him the green light with the smallest of nods.

His grin grows mischievous as he leans his waist overthe bar while I meet him halfway. Our eyes are glued to each other, his face turning serious when the rough shell touches my lip. His fingers are so close to my opened mouth, that I can almost feel the heat of them on my skin. I watch his eyes darken as if he’s having similar thoughts to mine.

My heart is beating wildly, everything about this feels forbidden.

Still, I’m starving for more.

Carefully tilting the shell, he slides the oyster into my mouth. He mimics me, subconsciously, his mouth falling open ever so slightly, the thin scar on his bottom lip more defined now that I see it up close. I fight the urge to squirm in my seat when the flavors explode on my tongue seconds later. It tastes like the sea. Briny, and salty, the acidity of the red wine vinegar and lemon brightening the taste.

I lean back into my seat, chewing once, then twice, before swallowing the oyster like he carefully instructed. My eyes are still fixed on him, while his dip down to my lips when I give them a small lick. When he looks back up, his open smile is back, blue-green eyes twinkling.

“So?” he says, almost prideful.

“That was …” My smile grows as wide as his. “Amazing.”

Hours later,I’m still at Orso when Ozzy walks back into the dining room, shrugging a battered jean vest full of patches over his black faded t-shirt. “Coming?”

I almost blurt outwherebut I know what he’s asking. Michelle’s sitting beside me, having also finished her shift. She smiles wide and nods, coaxing me into saying yes.

Quinn is busy counting their cash behind the bar, blonde hair still carefully slicked back with gel, even after such a long shift. “Y’all go, I’ll meet you there,” they say, eyes still on the bills they’re counting. Leo, the busboy, who’s mopping the bar floor echoes Quinn’s response.

Ozzy looks at me expectantly, while I just sit there internally deliberating.

I should just go home.

I should just text Zachary and tell him I’ll meet him wherever he is.

Instead, I agree to one drink at Stanley’s and follow Michelle and Ozzy out the backdoor.

It’s a weekday, so the bar is less crowded than last time, mostly concentrated near the bar, but we still manage to find some free stools and sit.

I’m about to order a gin and tonic from the blue-haired bartender when I see Zachary walk out from the bathrooms. My stomach lurches into my throat and there are a few harrowing seconds where the cognitive dissonance is so intense that I convince myself I’m seeing things.

What the fuck is he doing here.

My first instinct is to hide, but somehow I end up on my feet instead. He spots me immediately. His steps stutter as if startled, his eyes darting to the left, looking past my shoulder for half a second before landing back on me. I brace for the worst, but shockingly Zachary smiles and heads my way.

“Zachary … I, uh—what are you doing here?”

The words coming out of my mouth feel strangely distant while I try to predict his reaction but he confuses me even further, by playfully kissing me.

“I came to meet you, of course,” he says, swiping his hand through his hair.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

Skirting my question, he steps around me and turns his attention to Michelle instead. “Hi, I’m Zachary Benjamin,” he says while offering his hand. He always introduces himself with his two first names, a small quirk I secretly hate. “Jamie’s boyfriend.”

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