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“No. I want you to stay…if you want to stay.”
He says that he does because of course he does. We take that shot, and he goes back to his corner. I do my best to get back to work and into my groove, but I can’t stop looking and making accidental eye contact, and this is still a high I haven’t gotten used to yet. I think that it’s always like this in the beginning, but is it? Has it ever really been quite like this for me? When I bring a drink to that cute guy at the end of the bar again, he looks visibly disappointed.
Soon, 2:00 AM rolls around, and I’m finally leaving with Jake. He tells me he’s not ready to go home yet, and he seems a little different, but not in a bad way. He seems impassioned, more alive than normal. He says that he wants to go do something and asks if I would go with him. Even though I’d be more than happy just to go home and climb into bed, I tell him yes, of course, but what does he expect to do at 2:00 AM other than roll into another bar that’s maybe on its last call as well? He tells me that he doesn’t really know, and that we should just walk for a while.
So that’s what we do. We stumble down dark and mostly abandoned sidewalks towards nothing in particular. I’m not worried—not because I’m with him, but because I’ve always felt safe here, in this city, wrapped in her endless fog and possibilities. I’ve always felt like somewhere here my highest and best self was waiting for me, and that all those perfect things that anyone wants from life would be there if ever I were ready, or worthy. Maybe he was one of those things.
And eventually, we stumble into a bar that isn’t quite on its last call.
It’s kind of like the one where we met—the kind we both said we didn’t like—where it’s too crowded and the air is thick with sweat and body heat, and even having the doors open in late November doesn’t make a difference. When we get up to the bar, Jake orders us Jell-O shots, of all things, and then we are dancing and kissing, like we’re some of these regular, carefree people we’re surrounded by. No one can tell that I’m not the kind of girl that would ever choose to do Jell-O shots or that I wasn’t the biggest fan of public displays like the one I was a part of right now. Together, we look the part enough that no one would ever be the wiser. I wonder who this guy is that I’m out with tonight. It's definitely Jake, but maybe it’s more of him. I’m not sure what triggered it, but I think I’m okay with it.
Eventually, I tell him I need to take a break. My legs are killing me. I feel like I’ve been doing squats for the last thirty minutes. We don’t find a seat, but we find a wall to lean against, and we decide that we need to be closer; it’s time for us to leave.
“Just a minute,” I tell him, kissing him hard. I notice there isn’t a line for the bathroom, and it’s going to be a long way back. The DJ announces last call, and I dart for the door before I miss my opportunity and end up filled with regret.
I’m washing my hands when I hear a knock on the door and a girl’s voice says, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Sorry guys, my girlfriend is having an emergency—period stuff, you know how it is. I just need to get in there real quick…” It’s Jake. I open the door and he pushes his way through. He closes it, locking it behind him.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, kissing me and pushing me up against the wall. “I just want you so badly. I missed you so much. You’re the only good thing about my life. You’re the only part that I like.” It’s intense, so I stick with my go-to no response, but I think it’s okay, because we’re both fully distracted. Jake unbuttons his pants and reaches under my skirt and pushes my panties to the side. He pulls one leg around his waist and I, on my tiptoes, guide his cock inside me. The banging on the door reminds us that our time is limited here. He fucks me hard and fast, and when he reaches down to rub my clit I explode, and so does he.
We stay like that for a minute, catching our breath and gathering ourselves. Now, a man’s voice at the door is yelling at us to open up.
“Jake,” I say, “We’d better get the fuck out of here pretty fast.”
We exit the bathroom and I practically make a run for the front door, while the security guy yells at us to stop, and Jake is saying something back to him and the people in line like, “Don’t worry guys, we’re fine! Thanks for checking on us.” We don’t stop running until we turn up another street a couple of blocks over.
“Jake,” I manage to say, completely out of breath, “what the fuck?”
“What?” he says. “It’s fine, we’re fine. And you liked it.” He kisses my forehead and laughs.
“I mean yeah, but—are you like manic or something?” I ask.
He laughs again. “You know, it’s funny, but a fair question. I don’t think so. But I hadn’t ever considered that before. I’ll have to ask my therapist.”
“Jesus Christ. Okay. Well. Okay. I think I need to go home and go to sleep.”
But that isn’t what we do. We end up inside a tattoo parlor that says it’s open 24 hours, and I’m laughing and shaking my head because no, there’s no way that Jake is going to get a tattoo, and he’s asking me if he should get my name or my face on his ass. He’s joking, but—
“I’m serious. Let’s get tattoos. Not really each other’s faces on our asses, but yes! Let’s do it.”
“I feel like you are going to be so mad at me if I let you do this, Jake.” I have my upper arms done and part of my back, but Jake has nothing. No piercings, no tattoos. It’s not him. Or rather, I didn’t think it was him.
“No, I won’t. Seriously, I want to do it. Are you going to do it with me?”
“You’ve lived 26 years without getting a tattoo and now you suddenly want to get one without even thinking about it? Won’t your parents freak out?” I ask. Fuck. Maybe this is a quarter-life crisis.
“See? Why would you even say that? Would you ask any of your other friends what their parents would think about a tattoo? I want to get one now, suddenly, without thinking about it, because every aspect of my life has been planned for me and orchestrated based on how it’s going to make my parents look. I’m a fucking adult, and I don’t feel like one half of the time. I’m not living like I want to. At all. I expect this kind of thing from them—from anyone else in my life, really—but not from you, Ruby.”
Well, shit. After all of that, I’m even more convinced that he isn’t in the best state to make this decision, but I’m also not going to tell him what to do.
“Alright,” I tell him. “Let’s get some fucking tattoos.” I shrug and stroll casually further into the studio, calling his bluff. “I know what I want, actually.”
“Really? Because I have no fucking idea.”
“I guess she’ll be going first, then,” the guy behind the counter, whom I assume is of the artists, says. Maybe Jake will even have time to change his mind.
