HERE’S WHERE IT GETS AWKWARD—AS IF THIS WHOLE THING ISN’T awkward enough. He’s sitting at a table, and I’m now standing behind him. Do I squeeze my way between his chair and his friends, then crouch down in an unattractive squat? Do I tap him on the shoulder and ask if I can take him up on a free hug, as his shirt offers? Do I just stand here and hope he notices me?
I really do suck at this.
I look over at Tess, who flicks her chin skyward, as if to say Do it now or earn my wrath.
I’m about to swerve and make my way to the ladies’ room to buy some time when Free Hugs Guy shoves his chair back to stand and the rail hits me square in the stomach. I let out a cry, double over, and instinctively wrap my arms around my center.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” He shoots up from the seat, places a hand on my lower back, and bends down to meet my eyes.
“It’s fine,” I groan, my voice a stiff baritone. He remains bent, his broad hand pressed firmly against my back, until I change position. Then, slowly, I straighten, and he does the same. My eyes meet his face, and I find a modest grin across his mouth, dimple marking his right cheek.
“It’s you,” he says, his eyelids constricting a bit.
“What?” I mutter, still reeling from the windless sensation in my gut.
“Nothing, no, I’m sorry,” he says, mouth contracting back to its neutral state. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to sit?” He extends an arm toward the chair that just attacked me.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Let me get you a drink. As an apology.” He holds his hands out in front of him, palms facing the ceiling. I try to think. And physically recover. But his presence is too distracting. Up close and upright, he’s taller than expected. His deep brown hair is almost black, the edges of it sticking out the sides of his cap. He’s got this universal tan that’s indistinguishable and could mean a variety of ethnicities, though his eyes, lightly shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, are a pale blue. The whole combination makes his face rather interesting, though not offensively pretty like the others.
He raises his charmingly mussy eyebrows in what I take as a doubling down of his offer.
“I’m ordering the most expensive tequila in this place,” I say, attempting to hide a grin. “Maybe it’ll heal the internal bleeding.”
“Great. I mean about the drink, not the internal bleeding.” He holds his arm out toward the bar as if to say After you.
As I lead him to the bar, I steal a glance at Tess in the corner, who is chatting with the guy she pointed out to me earlier, adorned with a man bun, sweater with elbow patches, and tight pants (the Tess trifecta). She’s momentarily distracted from her mission for me. Nonetheless, I’m in it now. I’ve got something to prove to myself. Zane doesn’t get to keep his hold over me anymore. And I am more than capable of taking this one, silly step toward finally being free of him.
Free Hugs Guy leans against the shiny mahogany bar as he orders our drinks, one stark white canvas sneaker propped on the footrest. It’s crowded, and we have pressed in between two barstools, stationed closer than I’d otherwise choose, practically touching. I position my face so the pimple on my right cheek is subdued in a shadow, surprised at the care I’m placing on putting my best foot forward. He says something, but his words are swallowed by the swirl of noise around us and I begin to panic. I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. I’m not ready to put myself out there again.
I glance over my shoulder and see Tess is still with Man Bun, though her attention is focused on me, probably because she can sense I’m potentially chickening out. She’s likely only a few seconds away from abandoning her own conversation and making her way toward me as fast as her little legs can manage.
Time’s up.
The bartender sets down two tequila sodas in front of us. Free Hugs Guy turns to hand me one. I can’t help but think I should be pulling a cocktail condom out of my purse to protect my drink from the stranger danger in front of me. But there’s no time. I won’t be drinking it anyway.
One song ends and another begins—the Uncle Kracker version of “Drift Away” sweeps between us and I take the softer song as a sign to press forward with this questionable plan.
“Can I . . . I mean, would you . . .” I fumble every potential whole sentence that might make its way out of my mouth. “I have a favor to ask.”
“What is it?” He takes a sip of his drink, so casually I almost feel bad that I’m about to ambush him.
“See, my friend Tess . . .” I glance over my shoulder at Tess, who has returned her attention to Man Bun, now twisting her body right to left in a flirty sway. If I weren’t in the midst of this current situation, I’d pull out my phone and record her acting decidedly un-Tess-like in her clear flirtation. “She has this plan for me tonight,” I continue, refocusing. “I’m supposed to kiss someone.” My maturity level at this moment feels like that of a preteen. Why did my breakup with Zane launch me so far backward?
He cocks his head to the right and it’s reminiscent of Finn when he’s trying to understand part of a conversation. “Kiss someone,” he repeats, crossing his arms in front of him in observation.
“Yes. It’s stupid, I know. It’s just . . . I need to do this or she’s not gonna let me leave and I need to get home and it’s—”
“Yeah, okay.”
I stare up at him. “Really?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Don’t you even want to know why?” I ask, surprised and somewhat skeptical of his willingness.
“Do you want to tell me why?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not particularly, no.”
“Okay then.”
Is it really this easy? He’s acting as though mine is a normal, perfectly sound request. Does this kind of thing happen to him a lot? I appraise his objectively handsome face for a moment and believe that perhaps it could be a common occurrence for him.
Then, before I can think better of it, I throw my hand to the back of his head and pull it toward me. Our faces ram into each other, the corner of the brim of his hat nearly catching me in the eye, and the shock causes a bit of a bounce before our mouths land together again. When we do, I suction to him with all the vigor I can muster.
At first, he is rigid. A stunned animal gone stiff in an attempt at self-preservation. Despite voicing his approval of my request, I don’t know that he expected me to act so suddenly.
But then . . .
Slowly, he melts, lips parting. I feel his tongue make its way to mine, soft and playful. My hand is still stationed behind his head, though it’s no longer pushing, and I run my fingers along the soft spike of his hair that juts out just beneath the bottom edge of his hat. We both tilt our heads to find a deeper, more gratifying angle.
He is kissing back. Definitely kissing back.
I gently tug at the front of his FREE HUGS T-shirt at chest level, my arm pressed between his torso and mine. His heart thrums against the side of my fist, fast and steady. It makes me feel powerful, the beat inside his chest drumming stronger because of me, because of what we’re doing. The kiss crescendos to a forceful press, though this time it’s his mouth leading the dance.
Kissing him is like being drawn into quicksand, though, and I’m getting sucked in fast. I pull back as abruptly as I leaned in.
It’s official, I’ve accosted a stranger.
He’s looking down at me with these half-closed eyes, all pupil, and it sends a pulse from the nape of my neck down to my center. I try to take it all in. Him and his flighty expression. His chest pulsing against his FREE HUGS T-shirt. His dark hair poking out the sides of his hat. Me and whatever dormant thing inside me now alive. For a split second, I contemplate leaning back in for more, but I’m terribly distracted. It’s too much, feeling these kinds of feels again.
Then, staring into his post-kiss face, it hits me fully. The familiarity that’s been nagging at me since he caught my eye moments ago across the bar. I do know him. Okay, I don’t know him, know him, but I do know who he is—
“You,” I say. He cocks his head again, seemingly hanging on what I might say next. That perhaps he understands the realization I’ve just come to. Before I can continue, Tess grabs my arm, shouts a “well done,” which I believe is meant mostly for him, then hauls me in the direction of the door. I think I hear him yell “wait”—a distant voice drowning in the sea of noise, though I can’t be sure. And I definitely can’t look back, too stupefied to do anything other than follow Tess.
As we spill onto the sidewalk, I picture him still standing there at the bar, next to our two expensive drinks, wondering what the hell just happened. I think to go back in, address the situation with him, but embarrassment takes over me. Thank goodness Tess chose a location I’m okay never returning to, because humiliation will keep me from ever revisiting this bar, or maybe even the whole damn street.
“You did it!” She slaps me on the butt in celebration as if I’ve just accomplished something particularly noteworthy. “Figured you needed some saving.”
I’m dazed and confused and can only wish it were a weed-induced state. “I’m going home now. Good night, Tess,” I say, starting in the direction of my apartment two blocks north. I don’t hear Tess’s footsteps behind me, and relief at this realization propels my steps. She knows I’m overwhelmed and need to be alone, that kiss having had a different effect than what she or I had hoped. There are too many competing emotions to reconcile. Humiliation and satisfaction. Thrill and self-loathing. Regret and whatever the opposite of regret is. And, there’s the idiocy of three cocktails the night before The Interview.
As I position my Mace in my right hand and take on a determined stride, I see Zane’s face in my mind. I imagine kissing him, holding him, laughing with him and wonder if I’ll ever experience a love like that again. Though the guy at the bar did stir a short charge in me tonight—helped me see signs of life—I’m fairly certain the answer is no.
The farther I walk, the more the nagging feeling in my belly grows as my thoughts shift from Zane back to what just happened at the bar.
How did I not recognize him sooner?