Maybe don’t be that guy, okay?
Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.
I read all of this as shame pools in my gut. I don’t want to be “low-key cruel” to Beck. I’ve been honest this whole time. Beck knows I’m not just keeping my options open so I can date other guys. He knows I care about him.
Doesn’t he?
Forest
I respect what you’re doing here. Although you don’t have all the information. And I will think about what you said.
I’ll probably think of nothing else.
Thirty-Three
Best Seat in the House
Forest
The dregs of winter bring a snowstorm, and I plow the parking lot of the bar with the help of my new truck. Then we’re treated to a preview of spring with a thaw that turns the snowbanks into ugly piles of sludge.
The Stickhandlers make it to the beer league playoffs, where we lose in the first round. But so does the Plague, so I’m mostly okay with it.
Charlie’s hockey season also ends, which means he has more free time for video games and sass. Not necessarily in that order.
I, on the other hand, have no free time at all. Another bartender quits, so I’m stuck on a work treadmill that just won’t quit. Either I’m picking up extra shifts or interviewing prospective hires.
Beck and I manage a couple of sleepovers. Once at his place, where I avoid looking Rigsy in the eye on my way out. And once at my place, where I make Beck a fantastic brunch the next morning on his day off.
He seems happy—as sunny as ever when we’re together—but Rigsy’s message still stings a little.
Then, in the middle of another busy week, I’m training a new server one Thursday at the bar, when my phone starts dancing a jig in my pocket.
Beck
Hola
This text was scheduled to pop up on your phone just after the puck drops on the Cougars.
I need you to watch the bench.
Where I have the best seat in the house tonight.
Also, would it jinx me if you took a pic of the screen?
I’ve forgotten how to breathe, and when I remember again, all I can say is “Holy. Shit.”
Ignoring the customer who just sat down with an expectant look on his face, I grab the TV remote. Aiming it at a nearby screen, I switch the channel away from the basketball game in a big fat hurry.
“I was watching that!” yelps Fregular, but I couldn’t care less.
The Cougars are only three minutes into their game, but I’m glued to the action, waiting for the camera to pan the bench.
“Buddy?” Scully says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Something wrong? Or are you just in the mood to ignore all our customers?”
“Watch the bench,” I bark. “I think Beck is the backup tonight.”
“No shit?” Scully says, his eyes zipping up to the screen.
