“Is that why you came in tonight?” I grouse. “Because I owe you some Plymouth?”
“I think it’s probably because you’re being fucking stupid,” my so-called friend says.
“Scully. Tell me how you really feel.”
“You let that perfectly great guy go, didn’t you? Because of some misplaced instinct to hurt him before he hurts you.”
“Ohh,” Kenji says heavily. “Is that what’s happening here?”
“No,” I say loudly at the same time that Scully says, “Exactly.”
Denny sips his beer. “I dunno, Forest. Never met any of your other guys, but he seemed like a keeper. And he’s super into you. Nice kid. Going places, too.”
“Exactly,” I say heavily. “That’s pretty much the problem.”
“You’d rather have a freeloading deadbeat?” Kenji asks. “Those exist. We could find you one.”
Scully, mixing a drink that I’m supposed to be mixing, snickers. “We’ll put up a flyer. ‘Wanted: emotionally unavailable man with no ambition and a mediocre dick. Must be okay with resentment and half-assed hand jobs.’”
That earns a laugh, even from me. I scrub a hand over my beard, suddenly exhausted.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I mutter. “He’s so damn young. And bright. And good. And I’m…” I gesture vaguely toward myself. “A broken-down bartender with trust issues.”
Kenji shrugs. “You’re also a great dad. Solid friend. Ridiculously hot. And according to Denny, you make a decent omelet.”
“Better than decent,” Denny confirms.
“You make him laugh,” Scully says, quieter now. “I saw it. You made him feel seen.”
“That’s a pretty low bar,” I point out. “He won’t have much trouble finding someone else to clear it.”
“Dammit, Forest.” Denny thumps his fist into his forehead. “I’d better stock up on more gin. This problem isn’t going to solve itself anytime soon, is it?”
“No,” I say, because at least he understands now.
“He means you,” Scully says, hip-checking me. “You’re the problem that needs solving.”
“Nothing new there.”
Thirty-Eight
Knew This Would Happen
Beck
April
“James!” Martinez calls out to me as I walk into the gym. “You’re up today on the music rotation.”
“Noooooo,” yells another hockey player from the squat rack. “God, I can’t take that techno crap today. I got goals to achieve, here.”
“Simmer down,” I grumble. “I’ll take it easy on you.”
Usually, taking my turn in the music rotation brings me great joy. Forcing my playlists on the masses is something I look forward to.
Today, though, I’m too depressed to explain the Cure or Depeche Mode to the undereducated, so I put on my Madonna playlist instead. It’s still 80s music, but more accessible than my usual picks. Then I stomp over to the leg press.
Nobody complains about the music, though. I spot at least two guys shaking their asses to “True Blue.”
