Page 2 of The Write Place

It’s a too-warm, Midwest September night. The humidity is not uncomfortable, but it is unwelcomed this late in the year. Luckily, the walk to Tony’s isn’t far, and we’re walking up to the door within ten minutes. I keep waiting for Jenny to start surreptitiously limping so I can gloat about my gloriously comfortable shoes, but her stride remains unbroken. We walk past some makeshift tables and folding chairs set up outside while people play lawn games in a section of the parking lot. I can hear the loud drums and bass even before we open the door. When we enter and I see it packed with people, I stifle a groan. We squeeze into an open space at the bar. Jenny orders our first round—wine for her and a beer for me—and hands mine back to me. Even though Tony’s only offers one kind of white wine, one kind of red wine, and about three domestic beers, we learned long ago not to order mixed drinks from this particular establishment. They either taste like water or like straight alcohol. There is no middle ground.

I lean against the bar, taking in the crowd. The singer—if you can call him that—is screaming incoherent phrases into the microphone while a drummer and a couple of guitarists make some kind of noise that could only be loosely defined as music. Jenny takes a sip of wine and leans in to shout in my ear.

“I’m going to go make myself seen. You good for a minute?” I nod and gulp my beer, and she starts weaving through the bodies toward the stage.

I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly, checking my watch, and doing some mental calculations to figure out when the earliest I can leave will be. I lean against the bar and set down my beer.

“If you’re planning on staying a while, that seat is open,” someone shouts from my left. I glance down at an empty chair and then up at the man sitting to the left of it. He looks to be in his early thirties, wearing a fitted dark shirt, ripped jeans, and black casual shoes that probably cost about half of my last paycheck. His dark brown hair is slightly wavy and expertly styled. His full lips are curved in a playful half-smile, and his silvery-blue eyes are twinkling with secret mischief. He is, in short, one of the most attractive and well-dressed men I have ever seen, and he seems as utterly out of place in this dive bar as I feel. I suddenly wish I had taken Jenny’s comments about my appearance more seriously, but I try to swallow my self-consciousness as I lower myself into the empty seat.

“Thanks,” I shout over the music. He nods once and turns back to his drink, which looks like whiskey. He swirls it a bit, and I take another sip from my beer. Suddenly, he swivels toward me again, bumping my leg with his knee under the bar. I start at the contact and raise my eyebrows at him. He extends his hand.

“I’m Evan,” he says. I study at his hand for a second, then shake it. His palm is warm and remarkably soft, as if he spends a fortune on hand creams or maybe even gets manicures every so often.

“Mac,” I say, letting go of his hand.

He gives me a quizzical look and leans closer, cupping a hand to his ear to hear me better. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘Mac’?” he asks doubtfully.

“Yeah.” I practically have to yell so he can hear me. “It’s a rather unfortunate nickname. But I guess all nicknames are unfortunate if you think about it.” I’m babbling, but if he thinks I’m being strange, he doesn’t show it. Or he can’t understand me over this loosely organized cacophony coming from the stage. When he smiles, I study him more closely. Now that I’m looking at him again, there is something very familiar about him, but I can’t put my finger on it.

He leans in closer still so he can talk to me better, and I can sense the heat of him along my left side. “What is Mac short for then?” His breath is warm on my cheek and smells vaguely of musky liquor.

I pull away a little and shake my head. “I’m not typically in the business of giving out personal information to strangers in dive bars.” I wince in apology. He chuckles, a deep sound that vibrates through me even over the music. I take a glance at my now half-empty beer and resolve to drink a little more slowly if this guy is having this kind of effect on me already.

“You can’t be too safe these days.” Evan nods with mock approval, taking a sip of his drink.

“You really can’t,” I agree a little overenthusiastically. I mean it to be a joke, but when he falls silent, I’m not sure he’s taking it that way. Just then, the singer lets out what can only be described as a primordial wail, and I swivel around on the stool to face the band. They’ve started to headbang, which is an interesting development. I spot Jenny close to the stage. She’s looking at me over her shoulder, and when she sees me notice her, she starts typing on her phone. Mine buzzes in my pocket a second later.

Who is that hottie?

I fire a message back. Cool your jets. He offered me a chair.

And who says chivalry is dead?

It was the polite thing to do, considering my best friend who dragged me here left me in the dust.

I can see her laughing as I take a drink of my beer, and after a few seconds, she sends: You should see where it goes. They say the only way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

I choke on my beer, coughing a little. Evan glances back at me, and I quickly put my phone back in my pocket before he can see any of that over my shoulder. Jenny gives me an over-exaggerated wink and turns back to the stage. The headbanging has mercifully stopped, and I can finally get a good view of the singer. He is surprisingly good looking if you’re into this sort of goth/emo/hair band hybrid thing going on here. And there’s not much Jenny isn’t into.

She makes a little gesture toward Evan sitting next to me as if to encourage me to start talking to him again. I roll my eyes exaggeratedly, but she shrugs and turns back to the stage.

I’m so painfully bad at small talk, and it’s definitely not easier with all this noise, but Evan is ridiculously attractive. I try to study him from the corner of my eye without being too obvious. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen him somewhere before. After a few minutes, he catches me studying him.

“What?” he asks, not unkindly.

“Oh nothing. Sorry.” I turn quickly back to the bar to avoid looking at him, but he leans in so I can hear him.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“Seriously, it’s nothing. You just look kind of familiar.”

At that, he smiles as if he knows exactly where I’ve seen him before, but he says, “I must have that kind of face.” Our eyes meet, so I take the opportunity to study him more closely and am again struck by how good looking he is. I am sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this man does not for one second believe that his face is ordinary enough to be often mistaken for someone else, but I decide to let it go, rotating back and forth on the barstool. I try to take a casual glance at my watch, but I must make a face at how little time has passed, because Evan chuckles again. I put my head in my hands and groan.

“My friend dragged me here so she could hit on the singer, and this is so not my scene.” At this, he outright laughs, and the sound is so surprising that I am a little proud of the fact that I caused it, even though he’s definitely laughing at me.

He leans in close again and says conspiratorially, “This music is truly awful. You must be the best friend in the world.” It’s my turn to laugh, and his eyes light up, his gaze drifting to my lips and quickly back to my eyes again.

I feel a light touch on my shoulder and see Jenny standing there, reaching between us to put her empty wine glass on the bar and signaling for another. “Speak of the devil,” I say over the music.