Page 71 of Go Back to December

“It ain’t barbecue,” Dooley argues.

“Oh, that’s cute.” I nod at the sign behind the bar. “For the food and the game.”

“Q for barbie, Q for pool, and Q for queer,” Sam confirms.

“My favorite of the Q’s,” Dooley quips.

“Really?”

He leans back on his stool and appraises me. “Surprised?”

“Nope.” I’ve seen Dooley’s work profile page, and the bisexual flag icon next to his name. I lean over to him. “What surprises me is that you devoured all that red meat and refined sugar. I can’t believe the attention you lavished on that sandwich.”

Dooley laughs into his beer. “Okay, Baz, she can stay.”

Color rises on Baz’s cheeks, and he’s suddenly, weirdly quiet.

“Do you want to keep the tab open and play a few rounds?” Sam saves us.

“Only if we get the fireplace table,” Dooley says.

Sam glances at the reservation software on his phone. “You can have it until seven.”

“Eight.”

“You’ll have to pay the fine.”

“Deal.” Dooley hands Sam his credit card.

“What’s the fine?” I ask.

Sam punches at the computer register. “Dooley posts a photo and tags us on his feed.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Exactly how many followers do you have?”

“Enough to get the fireside tables at desirable billiard and barbecue saloons.”

“Saloon.” I accidentally snort, and all four of us laugh. Before I can ask myself if the beer’s hitting me too hard, or if this sudden lightness I’m feeling is real, Dooley yanks me in between him and Baz and extends the phone.

I attempt to squirm away, but Baz’s arm snakes around my waist. “You’ve got to pay the fine too. You owe Sam for all that free advice.”

“Smile, children.” Dooley curls his other arm over my shoulder. “On three, say jackfruit.”

The phone clicks. With the delicious weight of Baz’s arm lingering on my hips, my thoughts spiral and eventually land on the fact that I don’t want either of us to move.

What’s happened today is too good to be true. We figured out how to save the café without destroying Baz, which is a relief. Because Baz is turning out to be a pretty wonderful human. I’m not sure how much longer I can fight off this intense desire for his proximity. It’s beyond attraction now. I want the banter, and the bickering over breakfast, and his long hands smoothing away the tension in my shoulders.

The problem is that none of it is real. Tomorrow, this game of make-believe that Baz and I have been playing will end, and I need time and space to prepare myself for it.

As Dooley heads toward the fireplace, I thank Sam, grab my coat, and inch toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Baz leans his elbows on his crutches so he can cross his arms.

“I was going to head back,” I say casually.

“What, on your own?”

“I should read up on these grants. But you stay, enjoy a man-date with Dooley.”