Fifteen minutes after nine. Maybe he should text. Or call him. Phillip was fine, David knew, he was just fine, but it probably wouldn’t hurt just to text him.
He took a sip of his bourbon instead.
“I suppose,” David said. “I thought they looked like they were in love.”
Matteo shrugged. “Maybe he has a big heart. Room for more than one person.”
Well, David knew all about that, didn’t he?
“I like you,” Matteo said.
David blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I like you,” Matteo repeated. “You’re a nice guy.”
“You don’t even know me.” It wasn’t harsh, bu
t it was the truth.
“I get this… sense, about people. I can read them.”
“Because you’re a clairvoyant bartender?” David asked without meaning to, fingers sliding along the condensation on the glass.
Matteo squinted at him. “Because I’m a what?”
“Never mind. It’s just—nothing.”
“My nonna could do the same thing.”
“Who?”
Matteo smiled. “My grandmother. She could read people. Could always tell what they were about by only the shortest of meetings.”
“Oh.”
“Mom couldn’t do it. Must have skipped over her.”
“That’s… that’s great.”
“So it’s how I know you’re a nice guy. It’s why I like you.”
Only two people had liked David so quickly. One was only God knew where, and the other was now eighteen minutes late. He should probably text him. Maybe one of the Metro lines was down. Or running behind schedule. The trains were never on time. Everyone knew that.
“Thanks,” David said. “I’m not the—thanks.”
Eartha Kitt purred about her Santa baby.
Matteo laughed. “You’re something else, David. You should—”
“David?”
And David closed his eyes at the sound of the voice behind him.
He gripped the bar.
He took in a breath and let it out slow.
It’d been—Jesus, how long now? Last summer, right? At the dinner at the end of the charity benefit where David and Phillip had pretended like everything was reasonably okay (ok), where they’d spoken to other people who said they’d gone through the same thing, they’d cried on their shoulders, and Phillip had hugged them close and tight, David standing a little farther back, trying not to make things more awkward than they already were. Phillip had looked back at him, jerking his head toward a man who looked like he was on the verge of breaking down, a photo of an older woman in his hands. David had taken a step forward, and suddenly it was like a dam burst, and the man with the photo had started crying, saying, this is my sister, this is my sister and she—and she—it’s been two years, oh God, two years and I didn’t even have a chance to, but then David hugged him, he had hugged this man, and there had been more tears, but not from David. No, he didn’t cry about these things anymore.