Page 38 of Cool for the Summer

“You’re the boss,” he says, standing up from the table. “Stay here and try not to have a panic attack. It’s just a bar.”

On his way to the bar, he drops the menu on the table of the guy he borrowed it from. I don’t miss the way the guy’s eyes track Donovan. Donovan again somehow smoothly puts in the order with the bartender, and I’m a little annoyed at how together he is. On the other hand, he’s getting me food, so how can I complain about that? The bartender hands him a tall glass that presumably holds my root beer and Donovan heads back.

I’m not surprised when the guy from the table next to us gets up to intercept him. He’s tall and fit and wearing a slim-cut short-sleeved button-down and cutoff jean shorts. His blond hair hangs around his shoulders, and I wonder if Donovan goes for guys with long hair.

“Hey, haven’t seen you in here before,” the guy says to Donovan.

“First time,” Donovan says briefly, but not rudely. He looks the guy up and down subtly.

“I’m Ken,” the guy says.

“Van,” Donovan says. I always forget that’s the name most people know him by.

“I’d love to buy you a drink, Van,” Ken says.

I realize I probably shouldn’t be listening, but our table is right there, and it’s hard to pretend to be doing something else when they’re like three feet away. I happen to meet Donovan’s gaze when he looks my way, the hint of a smile on his face. I hold it for a second. Do I want him to let Ken buy him a drink? Not really, but I’d be an asshole for holding him back. The most I can do is shrug, as if I couldn’t care either way.

“Thanks, but I already have one. Two, actually. And I have to deliver this,” Donovan says, holding up my soda.

Ken looks over his shoulder at me, as if he’s just now noticing my existence. “Boyfriend?”

Donovan laughs a little, maybe at the guy’s transparency, maybe at the idea of me in a role he’s not looking to fill. “Friend.”

Friend is accurate, which both fills me with satisfaction and leaves a cold little pit in my stomach. But then he goes on, “Again, thanks for asking.”

He comes over to sit down and Ken watches us for a second, then turns away, apparently taking the hint.

“Here you go.” Donovan slides the drink my way. “They said the burger would take a few minutes.”

“No rush.” I take a sip of root beer and the sweet drink immediately washes away the sour taste of beer. Maybe the sour taste of jealousy, too. After all, Donovan’s sitting here with me, and he’s easily the hottest guy in the place.

While we wait for the burger, Donovan drinks and I tell him about Noelle’s sister’s Brooklyn bakery. It’s way too easy to forget my resolution to keep my eyes open for a guy of my own when Donovan’s attention is on me, but it’s hard to miss it when a cute chubby guy with round glasses and a nice smile asks me to dance.

I’ve just finished my meal and I’m feeling a little bad about talking Donovan’s ear off, even though he hasn’t seemed bored—if anything, he keeps asking questions and giving me good ideas for next steps. But when the guy, who says his name is Casey, comes up just as the DJ’s starting a set with a song I love, it’s hard to say no.

I glance at Donovan anyway, but he’s just got a bland smile on his face. I hesitate—he hadn’t bailed on me before with Ken. But then he’s looking across the room and I see him making eye contact with a muscular guy in a tank top. I guess the friends-hanging-out portion of the evening is over.

SIXTEEN

DONOVAN

The builtguy I’m talking to is telling me about his weight routine, which I’m honestly interested in since I get bored doing the same routines all the time. But my attention’s only partly on him. The rest is on Beck, who’s still on the dance floor. The burger he devoured seems to have given him a boost of confidence, because he no longer seems like he’s “bad at bars.” He’s shimmying and shaking to the beat while the guy who got him on the dance floor watches, clapping and hollering appreciatively. Beck’s flushed and smiling.

“I’m all in on pea protein right now,” the guy—he told me his name, but I forgot it already—says. “I add that shit to everything.”

“Hmm.” Beck’s dance partner seems to be introducing him to another man and they’re forming a little group.

“You wanna dance?” the pea-protein enthusiast asks.

“Huh?”

“You seem really interested in what’s happening over there,” he says, pointing to the dance floor. “I’m not much of a dancer, but I could give it a shot. Or we could go somewhere else to talk—somewhere quieter. I live a couple miles away.”

“Oh.” I look at him, giving him my full attention for the first time since we started talking. He’s attractive, in a gym-rat way, and he smells good, like clean laundry. I drank my beer and Beck’s, too, and I’m working on my third. It would be easy to go home with him and end my dry spell tonight.

But I’d have to leave Beck behind.

“Let’s dance,” I say, draining most of the rest of my beer before I can overthink my decision.

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