Page 171 of Burn Bright
His smile grows. “You wouldn’t sleep on the ground with me, Fisher?”
“I would do a lot of things with you that I normally wouldn’t do,” I say. “I just wish there was more time to do them, I guess.”
“I’m right here, right now.” He flings the towel at my face.
I toss it back with a smile battling its way out of me. “You want to go camping sometime, nature boy?”
“You asking me out?”
I shrug. “You saying yes?”
Ben skates a hand across his jaw. “You have time in your pre-med schedule to drive hours out of the city and camp overnight?”
No, is my first initial thought. I definitely do not have that kind of fucking time between classes, labs, volunteering, research, clubs, bartending, studying,tryingto snag a shadowing position. “Sure,” I lie. “I can make time. Just like I did for your brothers’ birthday.”
“Midterms are coming up.”
Oh my God, don’t remind me!
“Are you itching your arms?” Concern pushes him toward me.
“Am I breaking out in hives?” I ask.
He checks the reddened speckling on my arms, but it’s faint enough that I relax before he says, “I think you’re good.”
A weight sinks into my stomach as I replay our back and forth. “Did you just reject me?”
“No,” he says like the idea pains him. “If it doesn’t derail your goals, I’d do anything with you. But I’m honestly cool with staying in the city, hanging out in your apartment, helping you study. You don’t need to go far for me. I just like being around you.”
It means a lot to me—that my presence is simply good enough, that just being with me in any capacity is fulfilling. Still, I wonder, “Me plus you plus the woods doesn’t sound more appealing?”
His lips tic up but flatline. “No—” He’s cut off as the door blows open, and a rowdy stream of sports fans floods the bar. All in Yankees garb, all dropping f-bombs and gesticulating wildly. I’m guessing they just lost the postseason playoffs and came to drown their sorrows.
I’m no diehard baseball fanatic, but I have faint memories of attending a Pirates game with my mom and dad before the divorce. So by association to the decently happy memory in my brain, I am a Pirates fan. Ben roots for the Phillies. Both ourteams didn’t even make the playoffs. We have no skin in this year’s World Series.
Ben and I split apart to “divide and conquer” as he so often tells me at work. He helps the right side of the bar, and I take orders from the left.
Unfortunately for me, the left consists of pushy thirtysomethings outfitted in jerseys. They elbow their way to the front of the bar. “Hey, you!” the beefiest guy shouts at me, wobbling just a little to where I know he’s not sober.
I’m pouring lagers for a patient couple who wear Yankees ballcaps. “In a sec. They were first.” I must have serious RBF because he growls under his breath to his friend, “What’s this bitch’s problem? I’m just trying to order a fuckin’ drink, Jesus Christ.”
I peek over at Ben.
He’s bending over the bar to hear orders through the commotion. Ben is such a guy’s guy that the group of dudes all laugh at whatever he says. I’d say they recognize his fame status, but they’re not doing the usual “You’re Ben Cobalt! Bro, no way?!” shock-routine.
No one seems to register a Cobalt is behind the bar.
Ben and these dudes casually knuckle-bump like they’re fuckingfriends.They even bro-pat his shoulder before he goes to grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind me.
He checks on me with a brief glance, and concern twitches his brows.
I give him a waist-high thumbs-up, not wanting him to worry. Do I envy his impressive social skills? Yeah. Do I wish they’ve rubbed off on me? Also yes.
But I’m still a capable bitch-faced individual. I’ve got this.
“Open a tab or close?” I ask the couple after they hand me their credit card.
“Close.”
