Page 53 of Brooklyn Cupid

Some girl buts in, “And knocked the two jerks out like ninjas.”

“What?” I frown in confusion, drinks still in my hands. I missed what happened, but Jace is definitely not the fighting type. Roey, maybe.

Becky still protests. Tito still stares at me like I missed the biggest show ever.

Jace takes the drinks out of my hands and sets them down then nods toward the exit. “It’s just a misunderstanding. Let’s leave.”

I hear, “Solar plexus,” and “Navy Seals,” and “Two strike-outs,” as we walk out. Being escorted out by the bouncer is slightly embarrassing. This isourplace, and being kicked out is a first.

“I’m never coming here again. Jerks,” Becky hisses.

Outside, Roey lights a cigarette as we try to figure out where to go next. Becky is still fuming.

A tipsy guy walks out of the bar and studies us with a vague smile.

“Are they, like, professionals?” he asks me and nods toward Roey and Jace.

“What are you talking about?”

“Cause that was”—the guy widens his eyes and nods drunkenly—“an A-class five-second knockout.”

The guy is drunk, obviously. He stumbles toward Roey, and I’m about to ask him to leave us alone when he points to Roey’s chest. “Hey, man, thank you for your service.”

My gaze drops to the dog tag over Roey’s T-shirt, and he nods and tucks the tag underneath.

I think I’m more confused than ever.

21

JACE

Barhoppingthe other night was the most fun I’ve had in a while.

Except for the first bar when Roey caused a scene, dragging me into it, though the homophobic assholes deserved it, and it felt good to not hold back for once.

I can’t stand bullies, hate seeing people shriveling into themselves like Tito did after the insult for a fleeting moment. That used to be me as a teenager.

Thank God Lu and Becky didn’t see how things went down. Tito might spill, and I couldn’t help but notice his admiring looks at me for the rest of the night. I wish Lu looked at me like that.

Lu at home is a total cutie-pie—sweatpants and a white tank top.

Today, we are cleaning our condo.

Pushkin is splayed on the parquet floor in his purple bib-overalls and an eye patch with a yellow smiley face. He refuses to move even when I push him with a steam mop.

I’m not wearing glasses anymore—fuck them—and catch Lu often casting puzzled glances at me.

“How do you say shithead in Russian?” I ask her, mopping around Pushkin. I like when she talks, so I make her talk all the time.

She laughs. “????????1.”

I gently push Pushkin’s body across the floor of the wide space between the living room and the kitchen island as I repeat, “Du-ra-tshí-na,” and Lu burst out in laughter.

“Unbelievable.” I shake my head at Pushkin, who thinks I’m playing with him and, in his turn, plays dead or really enjoys the steam mop action.

“I can teach you Russian, if you want,” Lu offers.

“What about Belarusian?”

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