Ghosted

I make it out to the kitchen just as there’s a knock on the door. Seven o’clock on the dot. I’m still barefoot.

“Here,” Meghan says, kicking her shoes off in my direction. “Nothing says fuck me quite like red stilettos.”

I slip them on, almost tripping as I scurry to the door. I pull it open when he again starts to knock, coming face-to-face with Drew, still in that black suit from earlier.

“Hey,” I say, “you’re right on time.”

“Always am,” he says, offering me the faintest hint of a smile before he glances over my shoulder into the apartment. “Hello, Meghan. Nice to see you.”

Her voice is curt as she responds, “Andrew.”

“You ready?” he asks, looking back at me. “I thought we could try that new Mexican place in Poughkeepsie.”

“Chipotle?” Meghan calls out. “That place isn’t new, but I totally wouldn’t mind if you brought me back a burrito bowl.”

His face flickers with annoyance. “I’m referring to the restaurant on Main.”

“Ah, the one with all the margaritas,” she says with a laugh. “You know what they say about tequila…”

I shove Drew further outside, joining him, shouting goodbye to Meghan before she can say anything about getting naked. Drew starts to walk away, glancing over his shoulder to make sure I’m following.

“You want me to drive?” I offer.

He laughs at that. Yeah, he laughs. “I think I can handle it.”

Drew drives a brand new Audi, shiny black with pristine leather. Quiet indie rock plays from the speakers as he fills the silence, talking about work. He finished up an internship somewhere and was hired to… do something.

I don’t know. I’m not really listening.

Something to do with politics and the law.

It’s not that long of a drive across the river. The restaurant is busy, but we’re able to get a table without having to wait. Drew pulls out my chair, pushing it back in when I sit down, being a chivalrous gentleman. I laugh when I think about that.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, sitting down across from me.

“Just remembering how much of a jerk you were when we first met.”

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

“You never spoke to me.”

The waiter approaches, and I ask for water, while Drew orders a beer.

Once the waiter walks away, Drew says, “Pretty sure you didn’t speak to me, either.”

“Because you were a jerk.”

He laughs.

Then he starts talking again.

I do my best to pay attention, chiming in at all the right places. I know the conversation like the back of my hand. Politics.

It makes things easy, though, but Drew’s already easy. Things feel simple around him. Familiar. He’s easy, and he’s kind, and I keep thinking that he’s handsome, but beyond that, nothing.

No tingles. No butterflies. No goofy grins.

He doesn’t make me feel like I’m in a tailspin.

We eat.

Drew drinks.

I stick to water.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he says after he pays the check, refusing my money when I offer to pay my share. Thank god, because I couldn’t afford it.

He takes my hand, and I let him. He leads me out to the parking lot, and I don’t put up a fight. But the moment he tries to get me in the car, I resist. I wouldn’t say he’s drunk, but he’s been drinking, and that’ll never be something I risk.

“It’s late,” I lie—it’s barely nine o’clock. “I can take a taxi home and save you the trip.”

He looks confused, not sure how to react. I know he was hoping for more out of this night, and I could go along with it, but…

“Go home,” I tell him, “but drive safe. I’ll never forgive you if you wrap your car around a tree.”

“You sure about this?” he asks, looking conflicted. “I can take you home.”

“Positive.” Leaning over, I kiss him, the tiniest peck. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Chapter 8

JONATHAN

“How does that make you feel?”

The million-dollar question, one I’ve heard countless times this past year. I get asked some infuriating shit, day after day, night after night, but nothing gets under my skin quite like that one. “How do you think it makes me feel?”

“Deflection helps no one, you know,” he says. “It’s a defense mechanism that keeps us from acknowledging our problems.”

“Don’t shrink me, Jack,” I say. “If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed, I’d be talking to my actual fucking shrink right now.”

“Yeah, okay, so you feel like shit,” he says. “Less than shit. You’re dog shit on the bottom of a shoe that’s being scraped off on a curb because nobody wants anything to do with shit on their shoe.”

“Pretty much.”

“That sucks.”

I laugh at the casual way he says that. “Remind me again why I called you?”

“Because you’d give your left nut for a drink right now and you need someone to call you on your bullshit.”

Sighing, I run my left hand down my face.