Page 34 of That's Not a Thing

“And then?” he asks, his tone clipped.

“And then he walked me back to the front door of my building and I went home.”

He’s silent while he digests this. “And that’s it?” he asks after a moment, his dark eyes searching my face.

“And that’s it.” I obviously don’t mention the heated moment when I was pretty sure Wesley was thinking about kissing me. I certainly don’t mention that I maybe wanted it, too. Just for a second.

“Okay.” He shifts his gaze away from me, glances around the crowded room.

“Okay?” I ask. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m not mad,” he says, looking back at me, though his tone suggests otherwise. “You did what you felt you had to do in the situation, and I appreciate that you’re telling me. I guess there’s not much more to say.” He doesn’t ask about Wesley’s health or what he told me about his prognosis. I guess as a doctor, Aaron has a pretty solid understanding of where Wesley is heading. He probably figures that even if Wesley’s return to New York does present a genuine obstacle in our relationship, it’s a hindrance that won’t be present long, and there’s no point in causing a ruckus over this short-term blip.

“Want to play darts?” He looks over at the dartboard on the back wall near our table. Despite our many visits to this place, we’ve never used the dartboard before.

“Um, okay.” I search his face, which is closed off, less readable than I am accustomed to. As we stand and move toward the back of the bar, I decide to follow his lead and drop the Wesley conversation.

He pulls three red darts from the board and holds them out to me. “You first.”

I take one and do my best imitation of what I can remember from movies, chucking it toward the board with a flourish-y flick of my wrist. It hits the outer edge of the board and then sputters to the floor in disgrace.

“Try again,” Aaron encourages me. His shoulders are beginning to relax as he stands to the side, watching. His hands are deep in his jean pockets, and I get the sense that he’s talking himself out of being angry with me.

I throw another and it connects with the board. It’s on the outer rim of the bullseye, but I’m a little proud that I made purchase at all.

“You’re getting it,” he says, motioning with his head that I should throw the third dart.

I decide to put a little muscle behind this one. I begin to launch it forward, but I lose my grip milliseconds before I meant to let go, and that changes the dart’s trajectory entirely. It veers off course and nearly hits one of the waitresses on the side of her head. Thankfully, even my strongest throw isn’t that impressive, and it doesn’t quite connect with the young woman before it plummets to the floor.

I’m relieved that my notoriously poor aim hasn’t caused any damage, except that as the waitress flinches and looks to see what almost hit her, or perhaps who’s thrown it, she collides with another patron and her tray full of beer glasses topples, falling to the floor with a loud crash. Worse yet, the middle-aged man she has bumped into appears to be a total wackadoo, and he starts screaming at her as though she’d been gunning for him intentionally.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the man shouts as he looks down at his shirt and back at her. “Can’t you watch where the fuck you’re going, you stupid-ass bitch?” He pulls on the arm of his button-down shirt, emphasizing the beer that has spilled on him.

“It was all my fault. I’m so sorry,” I say, running over, bending to pick up some of the glasses. “I should have known I would be terrible at darts. Please,” I say, looking up at the skinny man, who is nearly snarling at the waitress, “it wasn’t her fault.” I put the glasses on a high-top table next to him and grab some napkins from the dispenser on it.

I hold them out to him, but the balding man regards the brown paper napkins as though I’m offering him rancid meat. He swats my hand away with significantly more force than is necessary, and I stumble a step to the side.

“What’s your problem, buddy?” the waitress yells at the guy just as I feel Aaron, who had been hanging back, appear behind me.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Aaron says. “There’s no call for any of this. No one meant for any of this to happen. It’s just a little beer, man. You’ve never gotten some beer on your shirt before?”

“It’s not just a little beer!” the man shouts back. “This bitch just ruined my shirt! And now she’s all smug, like it’s not her fault, because your little woman is trying to take the blame.” He’s gesticulating wildly toward the waitress, but then he stills, his eyes roving over Aaron, clearly cataloging his intimidating size. I can’t say whether it’s Aaron’s six feet and three inches of height, his 230 pounds of muscle, or even his enormous hands, which, I happen to know, measure more than nine inches, but suddenly this brittle guy seems to be reconsidering his behavior.

“Yeah,” he says, taking a step back and reaching for a camel coat on the wall hook, “I guess you’re right. I was just leaving anyway. This shit’s not worth this shit.”

My eyes dart away from the fuming man back to Aaron, and I see Aaron trying to contain his smirk at the guy’s flustered grammatical mess.

“Yeah, okay, that’s probably true,” Aaron says somberly.

As the guy makes his way out of the bar, Aaron turns back to the waitress and me, assessing us quickly with his eyes. “You guys okay?” he asks.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry I brought that down on you,” I say to the petite waitress, who nods back at me while her eyes are fixed on Aaron. If this were a cartoon, she would have little red hearts coming out of her eyes at the moment. I can’t say I blame her. That little bit of peaceful conflict resolution that he just did was definitely kind of dreamy.

“No problem,” she says lightly. “Let me get you guys a couple of drinks on the house.”

“For real? But I just sent a dart at your head and set all that craziness in motion. I should be buyingyoua drink.”

She pulls her eyes away from Aaron and smiles at me. I notice that she has a tongue ring as she starts talking again.