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“You can drink. Don’t abstain on my account. I’m fine with it.”
Steven insists it’s not a big deal. I argue on his behalf some more. After which an uncomfortable silence descends on the table. Yep, this is loads of fun. Can this be over already?
My gaze moves to his hand, playing with the stem of his water glass. Is that nail polish he’s wearing? Or maybe they’re buffed to a really high shine? I debate with myself for the next ten minutes and the nail polish side wins.
My mind drifts again. I start to wonder what Hendricks is doing, if he went out to see honey. Or maybe she’s out of town and they Skype, which naturally leads me to question whether they have Skype sex. The hypothetical alone bothers me.
Seems weird to me that people do that, but who am I to judge. I once ate an entire stick of butter dipped in sugar while I watched the Oscars because I was hammered and had forgotten to buy snacks. You gotta own the shame if you want to get beyond it.
“…Ronan McCabe?”
“Excuse me?” I say, having missed all but the last part of the question.
“Sam’s father––how long were you two together?”
This is not a topic I like to discuss with strangers. Ronan is a very public figure and I guard his privacy with the same tenacity I guard Sam’s. “On and off, five years.” I take a sip of water, my mouth running dry, my back ramrod straight. “We were too young––in our early twenties.”
That’s all he’s getting. Absently, my eyes graze the packed bar and catch on a strangely familiar broad back and set of massive shoulders.
Huh? Nah, can’t be…
A pretty brunette bends over the guy, who’s sitting on a barstool, and whispers in his ear, the drape of her long hair obstructing my view of his head. Now I can think of nothing else. That cannot be Grant…can it?
“If you’ll excuse me. I need to visit the ladies’ room.”
Steven nods and I make a beeline for the bar. I slither by, peering out of the corner of my eye and get a big fat goose egg. Nothing. It’s too crowded to see anything. Turning, I do another furtive stroll-by and hit pay dirt when he glances over his shoulder. I have to literally remind myself to shut my hanging jaw.
“Grant?” I say, sounding both amused and shocked. Funny how much you can pack into one word when the occasion arises.
He turns on his barstool and meets my curious expression with a blank one. He’s not sucking me into a false sense of security with that innocent stare. I know for a fact that there’s a lot going on under that hood, blank stare or not.
“It is you. I almost didn’t recognize you with clothes on.” For this, I get a smirk. “And you left the house? Are you feeling okay?” I continue, stifling a shit-eating grin. “Should I be worried?”
When that’s met with a raised eyebrow by the two women hanging on him, one standing on either side, I realize what it must’ve sounded like. “Oh no,” I correct, head shaking, a hand automatically going up to halt their collective thought process. “We’re roommates.”
“I’d say we’re more than roommates,” he calmly retorts.
I take thorough inventory of his clothes. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, beige slacks, and driving loafer. All quality. Everything about his get-up looks expensive. Who is this creature and what did he do with the homeless beach bum living with me?
“You would?” I brilliantly reply. I’m still wrapped up in taking in the neatly styled hair that looks…well, styled and the fine clothes draped on his impressive build like they’re custom-made.
“I’d say we’re friends.”
This is news to me. News that draws a confused expression out of me. Good news, actually, but I’m still too surprised by his appearance to explore that yet.
The look on his face is bold honesty with a dash of amusement. There’s no doubt he believes it. His face is an open book to me, easy to read. I never have to wonder in which direction those gears are turning.
“Friends?” The two women standing on both sides of him are following this exchange closely. “I’d hate to see what you do to your enemies.”
He’s making a valiant effort to keep a straight face, his lips pressing together to impede the upward tug of his mouth. “That was before we were friends.”
“If we’re going to be friends, then I need to school you on the finer art of friendship,” I say, beating back a smile of my own.
“I look forward to it,” he adds drily. And then he unleashes a toothy grin that takes up half his face. It’s like witnessing a miracle. Even the two chicks hanging on him looked stunned. He just cured cancer with that smile, stopped the ice caps from melting, and reunited R.E.M.
