Maybe I can ask if he has any other late-night hobbies? Oh wait, that might come across as sexual. Late-night hobbies, wink wink.
Just ask about hobbies, minus the late-night bit. Any hobbies other than playing guitar. I write it down. I could ask where he got his guitar, when he started playing guitar, how long he’s been playing guitar . . . I write those down and look over my list. He’s going to think I’m obsessed with guitars.
Okay, Jane, it’s not a big deal. You won’t be the only person there, he will be talking and asking questions too, right? I can’t be responsible for all aspects of interactions. I’ve had plenty of conversations with Alex, but we were also working together so there was always a fallback topic.
And that first night, he didn’t say anything either.
Maybe he was nervous too?
I chuckle. No way. Nervous? Why would he be nervous? It’s just me. Just plain ol’ Jane. And he’s Alex Chambers. The Alex Chambers.
Nervous crows turn into pterodactyls in my stomach and I have to focus on my breathing.
I can do this. I’m going to do this, every night, until I can have a normal conversation without panicking. No reason to fear. After all, there is literally no tomorrow.
I sit at the bar in the same spot as last time, sipping my drink, smiling at the music, and going over the list in my head.
When their set ends, he jumps off the stage, just like before. I avert my gaze from the leggy blondes.
A half a minute later, he’s next to my barstool. “Hey. You made it.”
“I did. Thank you for inviting me.” I smile through my nerves.
We go through the same motions from the night before as he orders our drinks.
When the bartender puts my drink down, I give a nod of thanks, take a long sip, and then force a few shaky breaths in and out. I can do this. I’m not running away. I am going to ask him questions. I am prepared. But as I’m opening my mouth, he speaks.
“I’m really glad you made it. I’m surprised you,” he glances around to confirm, “didn’t bring Mark with you? What did he think about you getting fired?”
“Mark?” I couldn’t be more shocked if he asked me why I didn’t bring a bright pink dancing flamingo with me.
My face heats. What does Alex know about Mark? What has he heard? Did Mark say something to him? I’m mortified at all the possibilities. The things Mark might have said. The things Alex might now believe.
Apprehension threatens to blast through my skin and paint us all in tension. I can’t let my anxiety tell me what it thinks. I need to find the truth, not my mind’s own terrible version of a false reality. Maybe a false reality. Please be a false reality.
Focus on the conversation, Jane.
“Oh. Him. Yeah. No. I didn’t bring him and he doesn’t know. He’s not—we’re not—we’re not together. We’re not even friends, really.”
His mouth pops open, brows lifting in surprise. “What?”
“Did he tell you something about me?” I don’t want to know but I have to know. Maybe the truth will be better than my imagination. I hold my breath, waiting for his response.
He shrugs. “Not really. He—” He considers me for a second, and I might run away now, before he can tell me something awful, but then he comes to some sort of internal decision. “I may have asked him about you, one night when the office went for drinks at Tunnel Top. He made it seem like there was something going on. Something between you two.”
Surprise pierces through the thick layer of fear cloaking me. “Wait. You were asking about me? Why?”
My mind can’t quite grasp it. Before Alex can answer and I can work it out, we’re interrupted.
“Alex!” His bandmate is there, slapping him on the back and grinning at me. “Introduce me to your friend.”
“Leon, this is Jane. Jane, Leon.”
Leon’s bright smile grows impossibly wider. “Oh, this is Jane? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You have?” I shake his hand and lift my brows at Alex. He’s talked about me?
Alex flushes slightly and looks away and my heart flips in my chest. What does this mean? What has he said? Did he tell him about the closet? Was he like, I had to invite this sad woman Jane to our show tonight because she’s lonely and pathetic and I’m the type to bring lost puppies home?
The music starts, the next act taking the stage, and conversation is forced to a halt.
“Let’s dance!” Leon yells. Without waiting for any kind of response, he struts out to the extremely tiny space for dancing and jumps around to the music, all by himself. It’s pretty awe-inspiring. And he’s actually quite good even though . . . is that the sprinkler?
“Can we talk, outside?” Alex leans into me, speaking into my ear.
I nod and follow him, weaving through people coming in to head outside onto the street.
We’re at the top of Telegraph Hill. Behind Alex, Coit Tower is lit up like a giant concrete beacon against the stark night sky. A guiding light or a warning?
“I have to tell you something, and I really hope you won’t hate me.”
I swallow. Nothing good could ever follow that statement. I don’t want to know, but at the same time, I have to ask. “What is it?”
He takes a breath, his eyes searching mine for a moment before he speaks. “It’s my fault they moved you from my team. I asked for you to be transferred.”
Harsh blow. I swallow. I knew this, or I guess I assumed. Having it verified is . . . Why is he telling me this?
Is this where he tells me how embarrassing it was when I thought he was going to kiss me? Also, he just likes me as a friend and please stay away from him now? He invited me out here to, what, point out my awkwardness? Hand
