“He’s here,” I mutter.
Mike straightens his posture. “Showtime!”
The door swings open, and Julian walks in like he’s entering a foreign country. Even in jeans and a sweater, he radiates wealth and privilege. His eyes scan the room, and I see the subtle curl of his lip, the slight stiffening of his shoulders.
Every patron turns to look—Julian has that effect—before returning to their drinks. He spots me and walks over, navigating around sticky tables with obvious distaste.
“Elliot.” His voice carries that cultured tone that sounds jarring against the backdrop of classic rock playing from ancient speakers.
“Julian, these are my friends, Mike and Derek.”
They stand, extending hands. Julian shakes them after the briefest hesitation.
“Nice place,” he says, in a way that clearly means the opposite.
Something shifts in me. This bar has been our sanctuary for years. We celebrated promotions, mourned breakups, and watched countless games here.
“The beer’s cold and the company’s good,” I say, more firmly than I intended. “That’s what matters.”
Julian raises an eyebrow, surprised at my tone. I realize I’ve never pushed back against him before. It feels... good.
Julian slides into the seat next to me, his thigh pressing against mine. The contact sends a spark racing up my spine.
“So, Julian,” Mike leans forward, “what kind of establishment do you usually frequent?”
I wince. The way he emphasizesestablishmentis pure Mike—friendly but challenging.
Julian smirks. “Places where the glasses match.”
Derek snorts beer through his nose. “Fair enough, man.”
My shoulders tense as I wait for this interaction to go sideways. These are two completely different worlds colliding.
“We ordered nachos,” I say, just to fill the silence.
“Perfect,” Julian replies, though I can tell by the slight tightening around his eyes that bar nachos aren’t his idea of dining.
Mike launches into a story about the time I got so drunk I tried to convince everyone I could do a backflip. “So, Elliot here climbs onto the pool table?—”
“Mike, seriously?” I interrupt, mortified.
Julian’s hand finds my knee under the table and squeezes gently. “No, please continue. I’d love to know more about this side of Elliot.”
“He’s always been the cautious one,” Derek chimes in. “Except when tequila’s involved.”
“Is that so?” Julian’s eyes gleam with interest. “I haven’t seen him with tequila yet.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” I mutter, but I’m smiling now despite myself.
The server drops off a massive plate of nachos, and to my surprise, Julian reaches for one without hesitation.
“These are actually quite good,” he admits after a bite.
Mike raises his beer in triumph. “Told you. Best nachos in Ravenwood.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Julian says, but there’s humor in his voice.
I feel the knot in my chest loosening. My worlds aren’t collapsing. Julian is trying, and my friends are being their usual accepting selves.
