He Must Like You

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  I hate going back into any kind of banter, and I’m taking a risk that this might piss him off, but on the other hand maybe we can all just have a chuckle and break the tension.

  Perry’s eyes narrow, and my heart thunders, but I hold his gaze.

  And then he laughs, big and loud and harsh, and his entourage bursts into relieved-sounding laughter a split second later.

  I exhale, grinning.

  I can do this. Maybe I can do it quickly and casually with a bit of self-deprecating humor thrown in, and make it not a big deal, not an all-out prostration, and survive it with some shred of dignity while still keeping my job and not making extra trouble for Dev and Maya.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I say, giving him a sheepish look. “About your clothes, I mean, and the, you know, cold shower.”

  “You thought I needed a cold shower, darlin’?” he booms, seeming to take up more space by the second.

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time . . .”

  Just like this conversational tactic.

  “After my hot, sticky dessert?”

  Gross. I’d assumed he’d be on his best behavior but instead it looks like he’s half wasted and doesn’t care. Like he’s daring anyone to stop him, and out to prove that no one can.

  Time for a pivot.

  “Seriously, Perry,” I say, “I’m really sorry. I should never have lost my temper with you. It was unprofessional.”

  “And you are normally such a professional,” he says, and lets his eyes slide like venomous snakes down my body.

  Dev takes a step forward, but Nita puts a hand on his arm to stop him, obviously hoping I’ll handle this without his help.

  “I try,” I say, pretending to take the comment at face value.

  “You sure do,” Perry says.

  “Anyway, I regret what I did, Perry. That’s the truth. I regret it and I’m sorry.”

  “How sorry?”

  “Sorry enough to stand here and say it in front of all these people,” I manage to say, cheeks on fire and humiliated, furious tears suddenly pooling in my eyes.

  “Hey, hey . . . I forgive you,” Perry says, now in a soothing voice as he gets out of his chair and comes toward me, arms open. “Let’s hug it out.”

  I knew the hugging would happen. I was planning to just let it happen—it’s just a stupid hug, after all. Except with Perry, it isn’t.

  As he gets closer and I catch the scent of him—sickly sweet cologne, body odor, and booze—something in me just . . . refuses. Everything in me refuses.

  I take a quick step backward and put out my hand.

  “How about we shake on it?” I suggest.

  Perry stops short, eyes narrowing, then says, “Aw, come on.”

  He takes another step toward me while I take another step back, smiling hard and keeping my proffered hand out in front of me.

  Out of the corner of my eye I can see Dev looking grim and pale. Perhaps he’s recalling how he said he wouldn’t “let those things happen” to me. Does he know the hugging is one of those things? Probably. But then again, there’s that can of paint in his office, and his family’s future, which I am potentially jeopardizing right this second. And yet I’m not doing anything wrong—just drawing a reasonable boundary for myself, offering a polite alternative, and that’s after giving a perfectly good apology in front of all these people. It shouldn’t damage Dev, or the Goat. I hope.

  “I’ll try not to be such a bad dog in the future. Okay?” Perry says.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Now gimme a hug.”

  “I really think we should shake on it,” I say. “Or how about a high five?”

  “What?” Perry says, his anger rising. “Are hugs against the law all of a sudden?”

  I turn in a full circle, wanting to know who’s seeing this, and the answer is . . . everyone. There’s Dev and Nita, Brianna, Kat, Kyle standing nearby with fists clenched, Emma, Yaz, and Noah, even Domenic and Maya have come out from the back. And then there are all the townspeople who’ve crowded the two entrances to the patio, a few of them with phones out. I spot a concerned-looking Jack at the back of that crowd. Plus there’s Mom’s group of coworkers, and tiny Lottie with her parents—all of them glued to the scene.

  Even Perry’s friends are looking at each other uneasily.

  “That’s okay, we don’t have to shake if you’d rather not,” I tell him. “How about we get you some food?”

  “Food?”

  “Come—all is well, we’re friends again, and you look hungry,” I say, taking him by the arm and turning him back toward his table.

  Perry humphs and stumbles a bit, but lets me lead him for a couple of steps before sliding an arm around my waist as if for support. I jam my elbow close to my side to block the side boob grope that’s probably coming, but I’m only fast enough to shove the hand away, not to prevent it from getting there in the first place.

  I hear a couple of gasps, but Perry actually laughs.

  This must finally be so far over the limit for Dev that he can’t help himself, because all of a sudden he’s leaping forward.

  “That is quite enough, Mr. Ackerman!” he says.

  “Whoa, whoa, what?” Perry says.

  “Hands off of the servers, and no more dirty jokes or foul language, please. We have families here.”

  “Oh, come on, didn’t you hear? Libby and I are friends. She doesn’t mind my little games. She likes them. Right, Libby?”

  I glance over at Dev, hoping for a clue about how he’d like me to respond after this big gesture of his, but get no indication.

  “Riiight, Libby?” Perry repeats. “Tell your boss you like it.”

  Two completely opposite retorts are hurtling toward my mouth, both of them wrong. One is a lie and the other is another metaphorical pitcher of sangria, complete with more of the foul language Dev doesn’t want.

  I swallow them both and say, very calmly but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Actually, Perry, I’m not really a fan.”

  “Well, then,” Dev says, a bit wild-eyed, “it’s settled. She’s not a fan. So let’s not.”

  “Let’s not?” Perry repeats, incredulous.

  “Exactly,” Dev says, and then it feels like the entire world is waiting, breathless, to see how Perry will respond.

  “Fine!” Perry snarls finally. “Get me another one, then.” He drops sulkily into his chair. “I’m tired of this one.”

  “Another . . . I’m sorry, another . . . what?” Dev says.

  “Another girl!” Perry shouts. “One with a better sense of humor than this cow.”

  “Oh. Um.” Dev seems to have spent all his confrontational mojo and is now looking around desperately for a solution. His eyes land on someone behind me. “Brianna! Please come serve Mr. Ackerman and his guests.”

  I am backing away slowly, expecting that to be it for now, when I hear Brianna saying “No, thank you.”

  “Pardon me?” Dev says.

  “No, thank you, I got too many other tables,” she says, and rolls her shoulders back and adds, “And I won’t serve him.”

  “You won’t . . . Fine! Where’s Kat?”

  Kat gives him a little wave.

  “You serve Mr. Ackerman, please,” Dev says. “Get a move on.”

  Another server, Tiffany, comes up beside Kat in silent solidarity, and Brianna crosses to join them.

  “I won’t serve him either,” Kat says.

  “And neither will I,” says Tiffany.

  “You, then,” Dev sputters, pointing at Kyle. “You’ve learned the computer system, yes? Put the PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF sign up at the front. You’re promoted.”

  Kyle looks from me, to Perry, to the girls, to Dev, stands up taller, and says, “Sorry, Dev, but no.”

  “You don’t know the system
?” Dev says, trying to hold onto some thread of hope.

  “I do, but I won’t,” Kyle says.

  Dev pauses, flustered, and it’s clear that he doesn’t know what to do. But then he notices Maya. She gives him a look that’s inscrutable to the rest of us but must read loud and clear to Dev, because he nods, gathers himself, then turns back to Perry.

  “Well, Mr. Ackerman,” he says, voice shaky but gaining strength as he goes, “I’m sorry, but it appears that we . . . cannot serve you today.”

  “Cannot serve me?” Perry says.

  “That’s correct,” Dev says.

  At this, Perry bursts out of his chair, swearing, then waves his cohort to follow him, and storms toward the front door via the bar, forcing everyone in his way to either scatter or be trampled.

  There’s a long, long silence, with only the “contemporary mix” playlist inserting itself bizarrely into the moment as we all wait to see what’s going to happen now. Regardless of what just happened, Dev might still decide to fire everyone who just defied him.

  But then my friends start to clap, and suddenly all of the customers and staff follow suit, and for the umpteenth time this week I’m about to burst into tears, happy ones this time, and then Dev is shouting over the hoopla, “Okay, okay, everyone back to work!”

  And that is how nobody gets fired, and the rest of the shift feels like a party, and I extract promises from every one of my customers to come back soon and support Dev and the Goat, and make a record amount of money in tips.

  Emma, Yaz, and Noah leave so I can turn the table. Meanwhile, Jack has found some old friends at the bar.

  In fact, Jack and his friends are still partying when I’m finished for the night, and this works out fine, because Noah is coming back to get me.

  Kyle finds me out front under the blinking pink neon, waiting for Noah’s truck.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say.

  There are a few moments of awkward silence, and then I say, “Hey, listen, I looked through that binder you put together for me over the weekend.”

  No need to tell him I also met with his mom—she wants me to keep everything confidential for now.

  “I almost forgot about that,” Kyle says. “Cool.”

  “You guys were very thorough. Thank you.”

  “Oh,” he says, “hey, no problem.”

  “And thank you also for what you did tonight, and for posting this week. All of those things are . . . I appreciate them.”

  “Just the basics of being decent.”

  “Well, thanks for being decent, then.”

  “It doesn’t make up for the other thing,” he says with a hangdog look.

  I inhale sharply.

  “I won’t keep bringing it up,” he says, noticing. “But I just wanted to tell you that I did more reading and research about that . . . subject . . . over the weekend—”

  “You’re really on a roll with the research.”

  “I guess. Seems I’ve hit a point in my life where I need information. I’m really, really sorry. I wish I could take it back,” he says, looking more at the ground than me. “Anyway, you did me a favor by telling me, and I will never, ever make the same mistake again. I’m planning to get really good at making sure people are enthusiastic about wanting to have sex with me. And there’s not going to be as much alcohol involved.”

  “That’s wise,” I say.

  “In the meantime, do you want me to ask Dev not to schedule us together? Or . . . I could quit. Do you want me to quit?”

  “No, don’t quit,” I say. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure,” he says, visibly relaxing. “But if there’s anything that you need me to do, or that I could do, to fix it or make any part of it better . . .”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “And if you ever want to . . . you know . . .”

  “If I ever want to what . . . ?”

  “You know,” he says, ducking his head, “not now obviously, but if you ever wanted, in the future, to give me another chance—like, for a do-over—”

  At this, even though maybe I should be mad, I burst out laughing.

  “Ouch,” he says. “That’s not promising.”

  “Kyle, seriously,” I say. “Did half your brain fall out your ear?”

  “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

  “I mean, I’m willing to move past it, but this isn’t a do-over situation.”

  “All right, all right,” he says. “I get it. How about being friends someday? Do you think we might aim for that?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Let’s aim for that.”

  “Want to shake on it?” he says, offering his hand.

  “Yeah,” I say, “that sounds perfect.”

  31

  PLANS

  When I arrive home from the Goat Monday night, Mom and Dad inform me that I can stay in the house for as long as I need to. Dad, prodded by Mom, even apologizes, and I manage to receive it without any snark whatsoever.

  They look exhausted and have obviously been arguing, and have some painful stuff to work out. But everything is out in the open now, so I’m cautiously optimistic.

  At the very least, we have a road map for talking about things.

  Tuesday night—Jack’s last night at home—he and I go back out to the swing.

  “Good job the last few days,” he says.

  “You too.”

  “What are you going to do about school?” he asks. “Don’t you have to send acceptances soon?”

  “I do. And I don’t know. It’s tight. Plus I’m rethinking. I mean, I’d like to do something . . . of more importance to humanity than what I was planning before. Or, more direct and immediate importance, anyway . . . if that doesn’t sound too cheesy.”

  “Who cares if it sounds cheesy?”

  “Or overly idealistic?”

  “I don’t think cynicism leads anyone to a satisfying career path,” he says. “Nothing wrong with having something you want to fight for.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, a year to think about that, not to mention save, and apply for more scholarships since now I really know I need them, might not be a bad thing.”

  “And you’d stay here in the meantime?”

  “Have to,” I say, and sigh.

  “Or . . .”

  “Or? There is no ‘or.’”

  “Well, listen,” he says, looking suddenly nervous. “I have a bit of money I can spare—”

  “No, Jack—”

  “But I can probably give you enough to make sure you can do school in September part time at least, if you change your mind. Or if you really are going to wait a year . . . it could buy you a ticket to Greece.”

  “Uh, a vacation isn’t exactly—”

  “Not for a vacation. To work. I’m sure I can get you hired.”

  “As what?”

  “A server,” he says. “Can’t promise there won’t be any Perry Ackerman types, but we run a pretty tight ship, and we’ve got bouncers on the weekends who’ll throw out anyone you ask them to. And I promise to back you up if you need it. You could save just as much money for school there as you can here because you can crash with me. I could even look for a bigger place—or you could just come and go—work, but also use my place as a launch pad, landing pad, whatever—and travel around a bit.”

  Travel around a bit . . .

  “That’s . . .” My heart is pounding all of a sudden, but I try to remain cool. “That’s a very interesting prospect.”

  “You could come as soon as you graduate,” he says. “Or whenever you’re ready.”

  “I need to stay here for the summer,” I say, trying to think this through logically, even while my mind has already leapt all the way to Noah and me on the crumbling steps of the Acropolis, eating gel
ato in Italy, swimming in the Aegean Sea . . . “To see the changes happen at the Goat, hang out with my friends before we all go in different directions . . .”

  “Sure.”

  “And I might be an annoying roommate.”

  “Fully expected.”

  “And cramp your style with the ladies.”

  “Oh, little sister,” he says, “nothing can do that.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “But this is sounding like a yes,” he says.

  “You know what it’s really sounding like?” I say, a grin spreading on my face. “It’s sounding like August might not suck after all.”

  32

  BUSTED

  Twenty-five people recorded Perry Ackerman’s Monday night visit to the Goat. Some of them post their recordings online, others take them straight to the police station, some do both.

  Also at the police station, in digital files, is a significant and growing collection of Perry’s unsolicited dick pics, including the one he sent Martina and three that he sent to underage girls.

  That, in spite of Ackerman Brewery and the rampant cronyism and the special golfing buddy relationship Perry has with the chief of police, finally gets Perry charged, and put in jail on Wednesday afternoon. No one expects him to be in there long, but Perry’s wife surprises everyone by refusing to post bail and announcing that she’ll run the brewery until further notice.

  I’m sure one of his friends will put up the money for him eventually, but Perry’s going to be mired in legal problems and court dates for the foreseeable future.

  For example, even if he were able to wriggle out of the current charges, there’s still the detailed statement I gave to Ms. Roth (my lawyer!) on Sunday afternoon, and my option to press charges, which I plan to. I’m also going to start quietly helping her connect with women all over town who’ve been harassed, or may have been harassed, by Perry. We have a lot to go on already, including the extensive list of names my dad was compiling in his exposé. Half of the list is comprised of names matched with incidences Dad witnessed or heard about firsthand, and the second half is of incidences posted anonymously, and Dad’s guesses about who they are. Ms. Roth is going to work quietly and carefully, and we’re not going to out anybody against their will, but when the case is fully built, Perry will have even more problems than he does now.