Passion in Portland 2016 Anthology

by Anthology

  Sean reappears at my side. “Hey, I’ve got a brilliant idea.”

  I don’t look up from my scribbling just yet, preferring to keep my hands busy rather than stare at him. “Since when does that happen?”

  “All the time. You know that—“

  Like a nanosecond frozen in time I remember all those brilliant ideas Sean had and see them in a different light. Has he always had a way with managing my emotions like he’s trying to do tonight?

  My mind flickers to my birthday last year and how he caught me crying in the back of the bar after it became too late in the night for my parents to call. They had forgotten my birthday and I didn’t have any idea I’d care so much. He didn’t ask for an explanation. He just grabbed my hand, told me we were going to play hooky and called us in sick. Another brilliant idea laced with some idiocy. Always my favorite. He told me that Jeff, our boss, would have to forgive us, and luckily he did. Sean drove us far away to Cannon Beach just to witness the crashing waves and low hanging mist in the darkness. Sean told me to scream into the night air, to let it all out. He said I’d feel better, and I did. It was so much more than a scream; it was a release that I was thankful for. I was thankful for him. At the time, it just seemed like something my best friend would do, but I wonder if it’s possible he could care more about me than I thought.

  “—How about we forget that last night ever happened?

  I blink a little too rapidly, attempting to refocus, slamming the cash register drawer shut. I scrunch up my nose. Sean’s chuckle finally convinces me to look at him, his bright blue eyes alight with humor.

  “I’m not very good at forgetting,” I reply.

  He snorts. “Don’t I fucking know it? Remember that time I puked into your Doc Martens?”

  I squeak. I’ve never squeaked before. It only happens because in my attempt not to laugh, the rush of natural joyous air still manages to squeeze its way through my lips. These are the stupid things I’ll miss.

  “You still owe me a new pair. I should’ve made you sleep on my doorstep after that.”

  “But you pitied me,” he jokes, giving me his round eyed look, closing the few feet between us to grab two shot glasses, placing them on the counter.

  “Pity?” I repeat, fighting more laughter. “I always pity you.”

  He grabs for a bottle of the house whiskey, a bottle our boss would never notice or care that we’ve tapped into.

  “I remember that night, ya know?” he says.

  He grabs for the two newly filled shot glasses, handing one off to me. This isn’t out of the ordinary behavior for us. Drinks while serving drinks is part of the job and helps deal with crowds.

  “You do?” I chide. “That’s pretty shocking because if I remember correctly you drank yourself stupid after Theresa’s ex-boyfriend kicked your ass. I figured a concussion and booze were going to send you into a coma.”

  “To be young and stupid,” he cheers, lifting his glass to the air. “Let’s forget last night and drink the awkwardness away. This seems like a master plan you can support, right?”

  I roll my eyes, following suit, clinking glasses. “To awkwardness and idiotic ideas,” I reply haughtily, clinking our glasses once more, needing the shot more by the second.

  “You don’t want a chaser for that shot?” he asks.

  I shake my head probably a little too violently. He laughs, and our stares lock onto each other like mini tractor beams, alight with a myriad of emotions: happiness, sadness, and maybe even longing. This is when I clench my eyes shut, wondering why my gut is bottoming out before I’ve even taken the shot.

  We swing the glasses back, downing the shot in one stinging gulp.

  I gasp out the noxious fumes, handing the empty glass to him. I scratch over my thin white tank top at my bubbling stomach underneath.

  In hindsight, the memory he mentioned stings now that I’m seeing everything in a new light, not that it mattered then. I can’t help but be jealous of every hookup I’ve helped him achieve. Maybe I would have done it all differently if I realized how awesome Sean is. I’m overwhelmed with memories, the good and the bad.

  I shake off the thought. “What is it with guys and their lack of morality when it comes to sex?” slips through my lips.

  He diligently pours another shot even though I’m shaking my head.

  He huffs out a laugh. “Says the girl who, after the falling out with her best friend, slept with the girl’s brother twice just to piss her off. Now who’s guilty of a good revenge fuck?”

  I cringe. “Not my finest hour. Can we not run through our list of bad decisions? I don’t think that’s how I want to remember our friendship.”

  Nor be reminded of what a hypocrite I am. I was Sean’s wingman as much as he was mine. The lines and memories skew further. It only reminds me of the mistakes I’ve made –err, been making.

  We don’t cheers. I just take the shot. He manages to follow my move, but this time we watch each other closely as we drink, savoring the burn.

  I try to understand what’s happening. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hyperaware of having Sean’s full attention before. It’s kind of magical, but also nauseating.

  Made bold by whiskey, or by this dopey feeling that makes me want to puke I say, “Although, I like our bad decisions. It’s the only thing we’re both good at.”

  He nods, swiftly closing the distance between us with a single step, and suddenly the atmosphere becomes a vacuum, and I wonder where all the oxygen has gone.

  “There’s still time to make more bad decisions, ya know?” he says.

  No I don’t know. I’m too distracted by the fact it’d be so easy for me to lean into him. To return the contact. To press our bodies together. I know it’d make me feel alive, too, but for the first time in a long time, I’m actually afraid I might get hurt, and this is a realization that is more terrifying than falling for Sean in the first place.

  I’m holding my breath, torn between right and wrong, which is not a moral dilemma I know too well.

  Sean, being my best friend, and now having this newly formed grip on my heart, gives him the super power of being able to annihilate me, whether he knows it or not.

  Panic sets in good and hard, and I wish I could latch onto the smile that’s slipping away.

  I’m not willing to give Sean this power over me, because it’s not worth the risk. It only confirms my dread that Sean is, in fact, leaving. Bad decisions or not, he’d be my worst one yet. No matter how good he smells, or how lean his muscles might look in his black and white baseball tee, I need to break away.

  I step to the right, grabbing our used shot glasses from earlier and the house bottle from his grip, trying to act like my hands aren’t shaking as I move to walk away to the other side of the bar.

  “So, it’s gonna be like that tonight, Paige? You’re just going to continue running away from me every time I say something that makes you uncomfortable?” he quips, chasing after me in this small space. “We were almost having a moment. What happened to drinking away the awkwardness?”

  I think I laugh, but it only seems to sound more like a croak. I’m angrier with myself than with the situation, and I wish I could explain it to him, but instead, I let the anger become whatever it wants. “Yep. It’s gonna be like that,” I confirm. “We don’t have moments, ‘kay? The only solution I can seem to manage tonight is to drink more, awkwardness or not,” I finish curtly.

  I slam the two shot glasses on the bar, filling them quickly. I don’t clink my glass with his. Instead, I swing it back before he can catch up, and he’s laughing, almost cruelly as he downs the other.

  “Uh oh, have I made She-Hulk mad? You gonna tear up the whole bar with your rage again?”

  “I don’t have rage.”

  His smile falters slightly, but it’s enough for me to notice. “You do, but tonight’s rage is different. I’ve never had you mad at me like this before.”

  His eyes pin me to the spot, as if what he’s said is a te
st, and he’s waiting for my reaction.

  “Stop it, Sean.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop psychoanalyzing me. There’s nothing there for you to figure out. We’re fine. I’m not mad at you.” I’m mad at me.

  Sean’s loud burst of unrestrained laughter is annoying as much as it is invigorating to hear.

  “Excuse me! Can I get a beer please?” sounds from the other side of the counter.

  “Stop laughing at me,” I scold, hating that he sees through me. I wonder what I’m making so visible so I can at least try to hide it. He’s toying with me. Testing me. Mocking me, even.

  Who else sees my angst for what it really is? I turn back to the bar. It’s the same bearded guy from earlier. “What was that?” I ask.

  His smile is evident even among all that dark, hipster scruff. “I was hoping I’d get your attention.”

  “That so?” I smirk. “What can I get you?”

  His brooding frame leans onto the bar with his elbow. “How about a Moscow Mule, please?”

  I pull in a deep breath, choosing to focus on this, and lean back toward him over the dark wood, finding my fluid fake smile easy to plaster on. “Not another IPA, Scruff McGee?”

  A burly chuckle erupts from him as he leans in even further to return my advance. “I was just thinking I should get something a bit stronger so I can keep up with you.”

  “Good call,” I retort with a naturally sly smile and affirming nod. How can I deny his approach when he’s probably witnessed me take three shots in a row like a lunatic?

  I pull back to grab a copper mug and start on making the new concoction, soaking in the strangers gaze, finding an odd comfort in something so insignificant and wonderfully distracting from the heavy blue stare I can feel just down the bar.

  There’s no pressure with this smile and flirty air because this guy will eventually leave and probably tell his buddy’s that he had a good night filled with strong drinks and a pretty bartender, or at least that’s what I hope.

  I turn around to grab the vodka, and Sean’s hand meets the neck of the bottle before mine does. Our fingers graze each other and there’s no hiding my flinch as if he just burned me.

  He shoots me a patronizing look that’s all sorts of accusatory.

  “What?” I shrug, hoping he doesn’t ask why I just acted like he might have leprosy.

  “Glad to know it’s easy for you to treat strangers with some normality.”

  I roll my eyes. If only he knew that shallow interactions are so much easier to muster. I hate that he might think this is my normal. “Ya know Sean, I think I’m actually going to be glad when you’re gone.” It’s a total lie, and his reflexive huff tells me he knows it.

  “Who else would be your moral compass if I wasn’t here?”

  Pulling the bottle from his grip, I continue making the drink as I return my line of vision to the bearded wonder, but continue talking to Sean. “I don’t need a moral compass, and you’re terrible at giving good advice. Remember, I thought we were good at the whole bad decisions thing.” I shoot Sean a smirk before turning back to the customer. “Here you go.” I place the Moscow Mule in front of the guy. “Add to the tab?”

  “You know it.” He grins. “By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Paige.”

  “Noted. I’m Brock. I’m sure I’ll be back.” He winks before walking off.

  The chuff I hear from my left makes me laugh. “It’s your last day, Sean. Don’t get jealous on me.”

  “Jealous? I don’t get jealous.”

  I wave a mocking, but reprimanding index finger at him before scurrying away, drawn to the shouting customers who want their alcohol fix, and who am I to deny them. They need the social lubricant as much as I do.

  The reverberating bass drum and clinging symbols twist around the hum of the packed bar as I shimmy and spring from one drink order to the next. I bask in how this is the type of distraction I need.

  From vodka, to beer, and from whiskey and rum, to gin and tonic and back again, I find a hypnotic rhythm in the chaos, getting lost in it.

  I pull in a deep breath, soaking in the stale smoke and Sean’s cologne a few feet away.

  How I’ll miss that smell.

  … Wait, I’m supposed be distracted, aren’t I?

  My head spins from the shots I’ve previously had, the buzz giving the illusion of warmth that starts in my cheeks and resonates all the way to my fingertips.

  I can tell by the delightful fumbling of my hands as I grab for a couple shot glasses between some giggling that the tension I felt when I started this shift is finally fading. I try not to put all my faith in this illusion and keep my mission to stay functional at work.

  “How many was that?” I shout over the music.

  “Two lemon drops, please,” a blonde requests from the other side. “It’s my BFF’s birthday.”

  Of course it is. “Awesome. Ya know what makes these even better?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lighting them on fire and tossing them into a hurricane. Best birthday drink ever.” My sentence trails with a girly pitch that I know any sorority girl can relate to. She doesn’t need to know it’s also twice the amount.

  Her eyes widen excitedly. “Oh my god! Yes, please! She’ll love it!”

  “For sure!” I grin.

  I make the drink and watch two girls in matching tight pink crop tops go giddy over the drinks as if I just invented fire itself.

  I giggle maniacally as I watch them gargle down the overly sweet concoction, and it’s enough to lift my evil spirits in a weirdly appreciative glee. I get a show, and they get wasted. It’s a win-win for everyone.

  “Way to upsell. Is this where me as your moral compass chimes in again?”

  The girls frolic back to the stage, wiping bright blue hurricane from their chins as they rally their troops with whoops and hollers.

  “I gotta pay the bills somehow, Sean. Plus …” I pucker my face up like a girl on spring break in Palm Beach, raising my free hand to the air, adjusting my voice to a higher octave to say, “… They’ll have the best night everrrr.” I swing my hips to the right, tapping into Sean’s narrow ones.

  “I think I’m going to miss your natural optimism and conniving,” he retorts, not amused.

  “Miss me? Are we talking emotions now, Sean? Stop that before you get one of us in trouble.”

  The right side of his mouth twists disapprovingly.

  Maybe I’m being rude, even for my standards. Although, it’s hard to tell because I’ve always been a naturally pessimistic person, whose sarcasm can easily teeter on offensive. Can’t he see that I’m doing both of us a favor by avoiding these silly feelings?

  I absorb his sour expression, hating that it rattles my insides.

  Sean doesn’t waste a response on me, and it bothers me even more. It’s a form of rejection, the exact feeling I’m trying to avoid. It’s this less than perfect feeling I know more than I’d like to admit that causes my insides to tie into a knot, and for the first time, Sean’s the cause of it … or am I doing this to myself?

  He turns back to the bar, serving a gaggle of girls patiently waiting for him to personally make their drinks. I note him leaning over more than necessary, and the girls return the favor on either side of him, surrounding him in a predatory stance fueled by hormones.

  Moral compass, my ass.

  I roll my eyes to soothe the pain, trying not to hate myself, getting lost in thought as I watch him shift back to fill glasses with soda and rum. He leans toward the girls again, giving them their drinks. The blonde gifts him a large wad of cash, while the brunette places a bright red kiss on his cheek. As if sensing my staring, he throws a glance over my shoulder, but he’s sure to make it brief before he turns back to flash the girls a heart stopping smile that I’ve seen him deliver thousands of times.

  It’s technically nothing out of the norm, but regardless, I see red, and it’s utterly irrational.

 
I try to focus on something else, but instead my eyes get lost again in the broad movements of his back, the rippling of his shirt over his sculpted shoulders, and the way his jeans hang effortlessly on his hips. Why haven’t I ever noticed what a nice ass he has?

  “A little help around here please! The bearded show pony keeps asking for you.”

  I snap out of it, the rhythmic indie beats of the band finally breaking through my inappropriate thoughts, and there’s something in Sean’s tone that has me getting instantly defensive. I keep thinking riding this anger is easier than acknowledging my feelings, and I can’t tell what we are fighting about now. Is it the girls who (always) dote on him, his tone, or what? We’re moving so erratically from one emotion to the next, that this has got to be the most exhausting shift of my life.

  “You mean, Brock,” I retort with a little too much spite, and I can’t help but sigh. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be calm? I don’t even want to be like this. Where’s my normal cool?

  The truth is, deep down, I know it’s never been something I’ve been good at. From a teenager to a twenty-something year old, I’ve always been reflexively irrational and angry. I guess for the first time in my life I understand why my parents always found me so difficult. I barely take direction well, yet I have the tendencies to be a natural born leader, but I’m also very rarely a good team player.

  Sean is my only teammate and I’m literally driving him away.

  Good Lord, note to self: sign yourself up for some therapy and call your mother once Sean leaves town.

  “Good to know the yeti has a name,” Sean sneers, refusing eye contact, and like a four-year-old, because apparently my maturity is doing a Benjamin Button on me, and I’m going from twenty-four to toddler in record time, I try to play him at his own game.

  “Hey Handsome, what can I get for you?”

  Brock’s bright smile is not as crisp as it once was which I’m sure is the result of his drinks. “Can I get a shot of tequila?”

  “Are you sure?” I smile, trying not to laugh.

  “Yeah, but I want to do a body shot … from you”

  My laughter gets choked off by a gasp of surprise. I shrug. “Sure.” I don’t give myself a moment to think. It’s an empty, sexually charged interaction that is exactly what my irrational mind finds acceptable. Having this good looking stranger pull a lime from my mouth after a shot of tequila is not entirely out of the norm, and lucky for him, I’m feeling particular giving at the moment.