Page 42 of Most Likely to Match
Today I walkinto a packed Moonbar, having recouped all the clients I lost since the last time I was here. And yet, I’m just as frazzled and unsteady as I was when I needed to take a moment to breathe in Jasmine’s office.
When I texted Dean to see if he was coming today, he said, “We’ll see.”
So, of course, I’m reading into that like we’re seventeen again.
Bernie and Nick are behind the bar, though Bernie does most of the bartending while Nick does what he calls community work, which mostly seems to entail chatting and predicting people’s drink orders based on “vibes.”
The bar isn’t as packed as it was for the last BIA networking event, but I still have to yell for Bernie to hear my order. “You want a what?” she asks for a third time.
“Sex on the beach,” I huff, exasperated. I wasn’t expecting this to be so embarrassing.
She nods, her mouth a thin, thinking line. “I’ve got to make sure we have all the ingredients.”
I stand tall at the bar while I wait, not quite looking around but making full use of my periphery, hoping to catch a glimpse of tattoos or midriff or dark hair that falls into darker eyes or pouty lips.
“Can I talk to you?” Jasmine appears next to me, her hand wrapped around my arm under the cap sleeve of my blouse.
“Um…” With her as a shield, I take a moment to do a proper survey of the bar. No Dean. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”
“Maybe let’s go to the office?” She gently tugs on my arm, but I keep my feet planted.
“I’m waiting for my drink,” I say. But then Bernie slides the tall glass of pinkish orange booze toward me.
“Turns out we do have peach schnapps,” she says cheerily.
“Okay, come on,” Jasmine prods.
“Let’s talk here,” I say, taking a sip, the cardboard straw beginning to disintegrate upon first contact with liquid. The burn from the alcohol is stronger than I expect, and I cough and wheeze as my eyes water. Maybe it’s the proof that’s causing the disintegration of organic material.
Jasmine pats my back. “What are you drinking?”
“Sex.” I gasp. “On the Beach.”
She mutters something likeaproposunder her breath.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask, my voice box still recovering.
She sighs but leans closer to whisper. “Why were you asking me about how to remove semen stains?”
That starts a new coughing fit, which seems to summon Nick. “Are you asking her about the jizz, Jazz?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer, just slides farther down the bar before Jasmine can pelt him with a handful of paper straws.
“You told him?” I’m mortified, even though I know it’s kind of unfair to expect couples to keep secrets from each other.
“I had to ask him if he thought it was a joke,” she says, defensive.
I sigh. “It’s fine. And I’m sure you can infer why I needed your stain-removal expertise,” I say pointedly.
Jasmine stares, equal parts excited and aghast. “Was it Dean’s?” she whispers.
Though apparently not quite whispered enough, because Dean fills the space on my other side. “Was what mine?”
Nick laughs, a booming, gleeful sound. “I fuckinglovethe BIA.” He slides a tall, chilled martini glass across the bar to Dean, pinkish-red sloshing over the edge of the overfilled cup.
Dean’s face is the definition of unamused, but he takes the drink anyway and takes a sip.
Dean is here as an attendee this time, instead of hired photographer, so when Bernie takes our photo, awkwardly toasting to “bougie cocktails,” it is with a smartphone. And I wanted him here, I wanted to be able to explain the panic that froze me at brunch, how I hadn’t seen or spoken to Lauren in years and how badly I wanted to call her out but knew I couldn’t if I didn’t also acknowledge a whole host of things that Dean won’t talk about. How it felt like no matter what I said, or didn’t say, I’d still end up hurting Dean, and that’s the last thing I want to do.
And now, here I am, with the opportunity to do it all over again, to make it right. And I can’t. Words die on my tongue. My lips are lead. Dean doesn’t want to talk about it, and maybe he’s right; maybe he knows exactly how bad I’ll be at this.
