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Instead of enjoying the inevitable pissed-off-expression this probably earned, I turn my back on him and stride off. When he calls out to me, voice laced with irritation, I smile.
“Drive safe, Anthony.”
Nico
When the Uber drops me off, I’m twenty minutes early. I snag a table along the east wall, where the lighting is a little better, and settle in to wait. The dimmer lights of the bar are both a relief and a hindrance; on one hand, it’s easier on my eyes than the glaring fluorescents of the practice rink; on the other hand, if I want to be able to see my date, I’ll have to sit where it’s brighter. The door opens, and I squint. The guy, Brad, scans the bar for a few moments before his gaze snags on me. I raise a hand off the table and he beams at me, circling the other patrons and walking over.
“Nico?” He asks, as he steps up beside the table. His eyes are skating rapidly over my face, and I press all ten fingertips to the tabletop in an effort not to cover up my scars.
“Hi. You must be Brad.”
He slides into the seat across from me, and I struggle not to be disappointed. After spending the day with Anthony Lawson’s rugged good-looks slapping me in the face every time I turned around, Brad is a bit of a letdown. He looks like he needs to be put back in the oven to cook some more. Not that I should judge anyone by their appearance, when I look like I went ten rounds with a pair of scissors.
“This place is great,” he notes, looking around, “I had no idea this was here.”
The Tailored Hem is a hidden gem in the gay community here. Small and nondescript, they aren’t overt in the way they advertised themselves to the queer community. The walls are decorated with antique photographs of men wearing suits, and there are a handful of mannequins scattered about that receiveregular changes of clothes. Tonight, the mannequin closest to our table is sporting a rainbow bowtie.
“Well, you won’t be disappointed. The food here is phenomenal,” I confide, just as a server walks up to take our drink orders.
“I’m surprised you showed,” Brad says the moment our server leaves. I stare at him, confused, and he shrugs. “Dating apps are the worst.”
“They are,” I agree. I’m struggling to come up with conversational avenues to pursue. Already, I’m wishing I’d cancelled.
Suddenly, I feel exhausted. It’s only my second week on the job and I’m still feeling it out. The addition of Anthony didn’t help, and, in fact, only gave me something else to worry about during practice. For some reason, the thought of him finding out about my disability makes me feel ill. Brad’s eyes keep skating over my face, like he wants to stare at my scars but understands this would be rude. By comparison, I can’t help but remember the way Anthonydidn’tstare, earlier. It was like he didn’t see them at all.
“What do you do for work?” I ask, reaching for the most inane of first date questions I can think of. Brad lights up.
“Oh, I have the best job.” He launches into an in-depth description of work as an insurance fraud investigator, something that sounds promising but quickly becomes less so the more he talks about it. I think longingly of the cool, dark, silence of home. Mostly, I just want to close my eyes and rest.
Somehow, I manage to make it through dinner. Brad, thankfully, likes to hear himself talk, so I’ve had little to do conversation-wise beyond a few mumbled words. Surreptitiously, I check my watch and glance around for our server. I am desperate for our check to come so I can pay it and order an Uber to pick me up.
“Of all the burger joints in South Carolina, you had to come to mine.”
That low, raspy voice has me wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. I feel like ice water has been injected into my veins as I turn and find myself looking into the dark, friendly eyes of Anthony Lawson. He’s wearing that same loose grin he had on all day, completely at ease in what has now become my own personal hell.
“Holy shit! You’re Anthony Lawson! I’m Brad, huge fan.”
Anthony reaches a hand out to him to shake. “Glad to meet you. I don’t want to interrupt, just wanted to say hi to my friend.”
He places a large hand on my shoulder, and I stiffen. I want to shake it off but can’t, with Brad ogling the pair of us. My heart is pounding, and I can feel sweat prickling my scalp. The hand on my shoulder feels friendly, but my imagination wastes no time in turning it hostile. It’s a relief when he finally lets go. Both of them are staring at me, waiting for me to acknowledge my “friend”.
“Hi,” I choke out, because it’s the best I can do.Jesus fuck, what are the odds that I’d run into him here, of all places?I really shouldn’t be surprised. My life has become one giant shit heap these last couple of years—what’s a little bit more shoveled on top?
“Alright, well, have a good rest of the night,” Anthony says, in a tone that indicates exactly what he thinks therest of the nightwill entail. Brad watches him walk off, looking as though he cannot believe his good fortune.
“You know him?” He asks me, excitedly, once Anthony is out of earshot. “That’s wild. What a cool guy.”
“Yes.” I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to, exactly, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not any more interested in me than I am in him.
I try taking several fortifying breaths to control the pounding of my heart; my chest is beginning to ache. Flagging down a server, I mime the universal sign forplease bring me my check and save me from this hell. The young man smiles in a conciliatory manner, sidling up to the table.
“Your bill has been paid,” he tells me.
“Thank you,” Brad says to me, and I shoot him a glance before looking back at the server.
“No—I didn’t pay it yet.” I start to slide my wallet out of my pocket, but the younger man stops me with a firm shake of the head and a wide smile. He looks unfairly happy compared to the inner turmoil taking place inside me. I’m about thirty seconds away from puking on his shoes.
“Your friend did. Mr. Lawson.” He nods his head in a backward motion.
