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I don’t have any expectations about the bar I picked out earlier. Boston has a few to choose from, so I basically closed my eyes and tapped a finger against one of the dots on the map my phone laid out for me.
It’s one long room. Low ceiling. Lots of dark wood. Two rainbow flags taped above the shelves of booze. A bar counter stretches along one whole side of the room. There are a few tables scattered around here and there, but most people seem to prefer to stand and dance their way around, moving seamlessly from one group to the next.
And there are a lot of people here tonight. The room’s packed with bodies.
Nobody pays any attention to me, which… It’s nice. More than nice. Brighton is small enough that, like it or not, some days I feel like there are eyes on me everywhere outside of the walls of my own home.
Here? I’m anonymous.
And I feel calmer.
Yeah, I want to figure my shit out, but I also want to do it privately. No curious eyes on me. No questions. No gossip.
I make my way to the bar. Turns out it’s pretty fucking difficult to purposefully try and not look out of place while you’re not a hundred percent sure whether you are out of place or not.
I order a beer just to have something to do with my hands. Holding a glass seems like a good idea, because it helps me hide the fact that my arms are so very long. I wasn’t aware they were before, but fucking hell, it feels like my fingertips would graze the floor if I let them just dangle by my sides.
The bartender winks at me as he slides the drink over.
Yeah, it’s nice.
But is it nice because appreciation is generally nice, or is it his appreciation that I, in turn, appreciate?
How the fuck am I supposed to tell? How the fuck is anybody supposed to tell?
“Thanks,” I yell over the noise and the music.
He smiles before he moves to the next person.
It’s a good smile.
I think.
I take a sip while I look around. I’m trying to see if anybody stands out for me. If anybody piques my interest.
A movement to my left makes me turn my head.
There’s a guy, body angled toward me, one elbow leaning on the bar. His gaze moves up and down me in a slow, thorough sweep. There’s also a slow, thorough smile on his face. And clear, blatant interest in his gaze.
My stomach jolts. Nerves? Or something else?
Jesus fuck! I’m so out of my depth it’s not even funny.
His smile stretches wider.
“To think I was about to call it a night,” he says.
It takes me a moment to catch on to what’s happening. Flirting, is the answer to that. I can do that. In theory.
“What made you reconsider?” I ask.
He takes a sip of his drink and sends me another slow look before he waggles his brows and reaches out his hand.
“Jasper,” he says.
Instead of taking the offered hand, I stand there, gaping at him like an idiot. What do I do? What do I say?
Your name, asshole, a helpful part of my brain whispers.
