He laughs, the sound both flirtatious and frustrating.
“Come on, baby, don’t be like that.”
I frown. “I’m not your baby.”
Hands held up in surrender, he blinks in apology. “Didn’t mean to overstep. You’re cute as fuck, can’t blame a guy for trying.”
He’s genuine in his words, and I sigh. “I don’t mean to be rude. It comes naturally. I’m just not interested in starting anything right now.”
The corners of his lips pull up, and if I wasn’t hell-bent on rejecting him, maybe I could appreciate the handsomeness in his face.
“Why’re you buggin’? I wasn’t promising marriage. Just wanted to talk to you.”
He elongates the A in talk, the L dropped away in replace of a W. He’s born and bred in the city that never sleeps.
Just wanted to talk to you.
That’s why I joined that stupid app. To put myself out there. I may have had zero intention of actually following through, but a gorgeous stranger has landed in my lap. More, my bar.
He’s cute. Long blond hair lying messily over his shoulders, eyes somewhere between a green and brown. Not quite hazel, but not definitive in their coloring. He has a nice smile, one that stretches the expanse of his face, thick and healthy smile lines carved into his clean-shaven jawline.
“What’s your name?”
“Harry.”
Twisting the lime in my hand, I watch him, his full grin moving into an awkward laugh. “Gonna tell me your name?”
“Henley.”
“Different.”
I shrug. “Harry, I’m gonna buy you a drink, and by buy you a drink, I’m gonna give you one on the house. Your reaction will determine if I give you another.”
A raise of his eyebrow challenges me, and I mirror the gesture, squeezing the lime into the glass I’d been mulling over before sliding it his way.
“What if I hate it?”
I shrug easily. “You’ll obviously have to find another bar to drink at.”
A loud bark of laughter echoes along the empty bar. I watch eagerly as he picks up the glass, lifting it silently in cheers before taking a generous sip.
His eyes shine with pleasant shock. “Holy fuck, Henley. This might be the best sours I’ve ever had, and I’m not just blowing smoke to try to get you to fuck me.”
“Thanks.” I laugh. “I think. People sub ingredients on the cheap, or they use college marketed mixers. It’s blasphemy. Cocktails are an art.”
“Well.” He takes another hefty swallow. “You should be revered.”
“They should also be sipped,” I tell him, my brows pinching together. “Not slung like a shot.”
Tipping the last mouthful of my hour's work down his throat, he places the empty glass in front of me gently.
“You said you’d buy me another . . .” The side of his mouth quirks upward.
“We’ll share a simple beverage, and if we decide our conversation hasn’t yet finished, maybe I’ll let you buy me one.”
As he leans back on the barstool he’s perched upon, his entire face lights up in amusement. “Has anyone ever told you you’re quirky as fuck?”
Brooks's smile flashes across my eyelids as I blink, and I distract myself by pouring two shots of tequila. “It’s a curse.”
He takes the salt on offer, dusting a small line across his hand as I move his shot toward him. “I’d say more of a gift.”
Licking the salt off my skin, I tip the shot back, grimacing as I grab a slice of lime to suck on. “If you say so.”
I watch the line of his throat swallow as the tequila rushes down it, an almost indecipherable scowl at the taste before he sucks leisurely on a wedge of lime.
“Lick, shoot, suck.” I pour another, tapping my shot glass against his before swallowing the potent liquid.
“You’re a native New Yorker,” I say on a grimace.
“What gave me away?” he whispers, sliding the second empty shot glass across the bar.
“Buggin’,” I tell him. “And the accent. Tawwk,” I attempt to replicate the cadence in his voice, and his head tips back with a loud laugh aimed toward the ceiling.
“Where are you from?”
“Nowhere,” I tell him honestly. “Everywhere.”
“You’re American,” he pushes, and I nod and shrug, the answer noncommittal.
“I live like a gypsy. I belong nowhere.”
He frowns. “You have to belong somewhere. A place in the world you can be unequivocally you.”
How do I tell him the place in the world I feel unequivocally me isn’t a location. It’s not anywhere you can pinpoint on a map.
It's someone.
A person.
A heart of another that brings me peace. That also brings me turmoil.
“Nowhere,” I lie.
“Family?” he prods.
“None.”
“Fuck,” he spits, leaning over the bar. “That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Unease crawls up my spine, settling in my gut and spreading through my chest uncomfortably.
He meant his words without pretense and without judgment, but I can’t stop myself from feeling attacked. His statement slices open a scarcely healed wound, and my body stutters at the pain.
“I meant no offense,” he backtracks. “You’re not sad. Just that you’re alone in this big, bad fucking world.”
“I don’t need your pity,” I argue quietly. “Ever thought that some people choose to be alone? That it’s preferable to being disappointed by people who claim to love them.”
I hate how candidly he watches me. Digging into my psyche with his knowing eyes.
“Stop it.” I turn away. “Stop attempting to see into me. I don’t know you, so stop trying to read me.”
Hands held up in surrender, he blinks in apology. “Whoa. Chill, Henley. You’re spazzing out on me for no reason right now.”
My fists clench, and I take a purposeful breath. “This is why I prefer to be alone. People put me on edge.”
“Apology accepted,” he offers, and hands to my face, I grunt out a laugh.
“What time do you get off?”
“I finished half an hour ago.”
Hands lifted in victory, he cheers. “Let me buy you a drink. I promise only mind-numbing surface conversation. No deep dives.”
“Why?” I ask him. “I’m clearly a headcase.”
“You’re sweet to look at, and you’re the most interesting person in this bar.”
Anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?
More people should
