Olive Juice

by T. J. Klune

  He heard Phillip sigh, but didn’t do anything to acknowledge it.

  He was lucky, then, because Melissa came back, a glass of wine carried artfully in her hand. She set it down next to Phillip, then stood beside the table, arms behind her like she was at parade rest. “Gentlemen,” she said, as if this was the happiest she’d ever been. David never understood how they could pretend to be so joyful all the time. David thought he’d go mad within a week. “Have we had a chance to look through the menu? Our special tonight is a grilled halibut with peach and pepper salsa. It’s a flaky white meat with a firm texture, and the sweet and spicy salsa pairs perfectly with the smoky flavor of the grill.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Phillip said. “But I think I’ll go with the swordfish steak if it’s fresh.”

  “Of course,” she said with a nod. “All our fish is same day.”

  “Good. Please go easy on the lemon if you could. And I will have the potatoes and the vegetables.”

  She smiled beatifically, taking Phillip’s proffered menu before looking at David.

  “The same,” he said because he couldn’t order the cod now. It’d be too much.

  Her smile never faltered.

  He could feel Phillip’s eyes on him.

  He handed her the menu.

  She said, “I’ll put the orders in. Please let me know if there is anything else you need,” and then she was gone.

  “The same,” Phillip said finally.

  David shrugged, fingering the receipt with the phone number written on it. “Felt like trying something different.”

  Phillip snorted. “Sure. You could call him.”

  David’s neck felt a little stiff. “No.”

  “No?”

  “You know I don’t do stuff like that.”

  Phillip looked a little sad when he said, “I know.”

  Silence again, after that. David didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t as if he had nothing to say. It was that he had too much. All these words about breathing and aching and living and the little deaths. He had so many things to say, but he couldn’t find a way to say them. It was dangerous, like the reminiscing, and he didn’t want to scare Phillip away, not while they were face to face for the first time in a long time.

  Phillip beat him to it. “How’s work going?”

  He could do that. Small talk was safe. “It’s good. I’m. Um. I’m working on a new project now. It’s updating a previous edition. Nothing too complicated.”

  Phillip’s smile was warm. “That’s good, David. That’s real good. I’m happy to hear it.”

  David reminded himself he was human, and humans were supposed to ask questions too. “And you?” he asked, strangely proud of himself. “How is everything going? With the store.”

  Phillip laughed, rough and quiet. “Good,” he said. “It’s good. Borders goes out of business, Barnes & Noble are closing down stores, Amazon opens brick-and-mortar in an effort to continue their plans for world domination, and my little-used bookstore somehow manages to thrive. It’s a conundrum that I cannot explain, but enjoy nonetheless.”

  “It’s the hipsters,” David said. “It’s retro. They need a place to convene and argue whether Holden Caulfield was deep or just a spoiled brat.”

  “They do seem to enjoy the irony.”

  “Yeah,” he said, sipping again on his bourbon. It tasted a little watered down now, but he supposed that was okay. He wasn’t buzzed, but he did feel a bit looser. He’d take it easy. Take it slow. “That’s good, though. I mean, about the store.”

  “Yeah,” Phillip said, sitting up a little in his seat. He put his hands on the tabletop, thin fingers stretching along the cloth. The candle in the middle of the table flickered, casting shadows along his skin. “It’s okay. I was worried for a little while. You remember Tiffany Ketchum?”

  David frowned, the name familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her.

  “She owned that little bookstore in Bethesda.”

  “Oh! Right. Yeah, her. How is she?”

  “Her store went out of business,” Phillip said. “And, you know. It worried me. Because she’d been around forever. And if she couldn’t make it work, then what chance did I have?”

  David wasn’t sure if he should be shocked or dismayed or whatever emotion was probably expected of him. He went with a little bit of everything. “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Didn’t she… wasn’t that the store that had all the cats?”

  Phillip chuckled. “Yeah, her store cats.”

  “Like, thirty of them.”

  “It wasn’t that many.”

  “It was more than five. Which is too many cats.”

  “It was her thing.”

  “Probably why she went out of business.”

  “Buddy,” Phillip admonished lightly even though he was still smiling.

  “I’m just saying. A lot of people are allergic to cats. You’re cutting out potential consumers. It always smelled like cat piss in there.”

  “So what you’re saying is that I’ve survived because I don’t have cats in the store.”

  David shrugged. “Nah. You would have survived even if you did. You’re just… different.”

  Phillip watched him.

  David tried not to squirm.

  Phillip had been a lawyer, working long hours for very little reward. He’d dreamed of doing public defense work, but his father had said there wasn’t money in it, and no son of his would be a public defender. “You’d be defending rapists,” Phillip had said, doing a full-throated impression of his father just under a year after he and David had met. “Do you understand that, Phillip? Rapists and murderers. Of children. Do you think you could sleep every night knowing you represented the scum of the earth?”

  His father had been an intimidating man. He was also footing the bill for Phillip’s college education. Those things combined course-corrected Phillip’s career path so that he could work at his father’s firm as a personal injury attorney, representing those people in minor fender benders who showed up in court with a neck collar on, shouting for anyone to hear that their neck was hurt, and it was permanent, and they needed compensation.

  He’d hated it.

  For such a long time, he’d hated it.

  One day, he’d had enough.

  He couldn’t do it anymore.

  It wasn’t something he wanted.

  His father had been pissed.

  But he’d died a year later, so in the end it hadn’t mattered.

  By then, Phillip had opened his bookstore. His father had never once stepped inside it.

  Phillip hadn’t minded. Sure, it’d hurt at first, but he was happier. Alice and David had seen it right away, had seen the weight lifted off his shoulders. It’d been scary, and uncertain, especially when the economy had tanked the next year, but somehow, Phillip’s store survived. Flourished, even. He’d added the little café three years after opening, nothing major, just coffee and pastries served on mismatched dishes, but it was something of his. Something his father hadn’t had a hand in. In the end, that was enough for Phillip.

  “Different,” Phillip said, taking a long, slow sip of wine. David didn’t watch as his throat bobbed, no matter how much he wanted to. That too was dangerous. “Thank you.”

  David shifted in his seat. “For?”

  Phillip shrugged, watching him over the wineglass. “Being here.”

  “Yeah,” David said, popping his neck. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I planted,” Phillip said.

  Conversational whiplash. “What?”

  “The bulbs. In the flowerbeds. I planted them. Had to get some help. I thought the guy at the nursery wanted to punch me in the face with all the questions I asked.”

  David… didn’t know what to do with that. So, he said, “You planted? You remembered when?”

  Phillip set down his glass, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table in front of him. “I remembered,” he said. “The bu
lbs go in the ground in the fall before it freezes in the winter.”

  “Right,” David said, nodding almost manically. “That’s right. Yeah, you gotta get them in there before—”

  “I did.”

  “Good.”

  “Crocuses. Lilacs. Lilies. Some catmint, though I don’t know how that’ll turn out.”

  He ignored the part about the lilies. He didn’t want to think about lilies. “They’re almost like little hedges. You have to shear them back after the blossoms fade.”

  “I think that’s what the nursery guy said. Maybe. He also was probably trying to convince me to not try and plant as many things as I had in the cart.”

  That didn’t make sense. Phillip hated gardening. Sure, he wouldn’t complain, but he’d frown at the dirt on his hands, and chances were he’d pull up flowers just as much as weeds, but it was never really about the act of gardening itself. It was something Alice and David had loved, and Phillip wanted to be with them, so he did it too. “I can handle this,” he’d said, ignoring the way they’d snickered at him as he pulled on white gloves with tiny little roses stitched into them. “Just you watch me, I’ll handle this yet.”

  David said, “That sounds nice. It’ll be pretty in the spring.”

  “Yeah,” Phillip said, watching him with an unreadable expression. “I’m sure it’ll be on the front of Better Homes & Gardens.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. They’re picky.”

  “Those bitches.”

  That shocked a laugh out of David. Phillip was good at that.

  Phillip cleared his throat. “So, I wanted to—”

  Melissa appeared at their table side, causing David to flinch slightly. “How are we doing?” she asked. “Does anyone need their drink refreshed?”

  Phillip smiled tightly at her. “I think we’re okay.”

  “Good,” she said. “Dinner will be ready shortly.” And then she was gone again.

  “Peppy little fucker, isn’t she?” Phillip muttered.

  “They all are,” David said.

  “Wasn’t always like that, buddy.”

  “Kids these days.” And then, before he could stop himself, “Remember that one waiter we had here?” He should have kept his mouth shut. That one was on him.

  Phillip stared at him blankly for a moment. Then David could see the moment the memory hit. It started with his lips, quirking just a little, the lines around his eyes deepening. There was a flash of teeth, the smallest of chuckles. “That’s right. That guy. Oh, what was his name? Wasn’t it something just ridiculous? Like… Ferdinand or—or—”

  “Forrest,” David said, because in for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Forrest,” Phillip said, clapping his hands in front of his chest. “That’s right. God, what a terrible name. He was so damn rude. The entire time.”

  “And then you kept calling him Woods.”

  Phillip cackled, putting a hand over his mouth. “He was so mad at that. Remember when I finally asked to speak to the manager?”

  “You told him that Trees wasn’t providing you with the level of service you expected here.”

  “And the guy had no idea what I was talking about. Meanwhile, Woods—”

  “Forrest.”

  “Whatever. Meanwhile, Terrible Name stood there, getting angrier and angrier. I thought he was going to stab me with a steak knife.”

  “Nah,” David said. “I wouldn’t have let him.”

  Phillip rolled his eyes. “That’s not what you said then.”

  “You were egging him on.”

  “He wasn’t happy having to serve a faggot,” Phillip said, waving David off with a little flourish of his hand, wrist slightly limp. “I am not to be trifled with.”

  That had been it, really. One moment, everything was fine on their little staycation, and the next, Phillip’s hand was on his on top of the table, fingers tracing on the back of David’s wrist, and Forrest had frozen, just a little, a frown on his face that quickly turned to the smallest of sneers. The manager had apologized profusely, given that he recognized them. They hadn’t come back for almost six months. They never saw Forrest working there again.

  “No,” David said. “No, you’re not.”

  Phillip’s face softened, and before he even spoke, David knew what his next words were going to be. He knew that look, the one that was almost pitying, but not quite. He’d seen it many times before. It was sweet, and kind, and David hated it.

  “How have you been?” Phillip asked. “Really, buddy. How have you really been?”

  He hated it, because there were only two people in this world, two people out of everyone in the entire world that could see right through his bullshit. Two people who could cut him to the quick, two people who wouldn’t let him get away with anything.

  One was gone.

  The other was sitting across from him.

  “Me?” he said, trying to keep all of this under control. “I’m good. Good. Um, you already know work is going well. I started going to the gym. Working out. It’s—it’s something I do. At night. Sometimes on the weekends. I figured since I’m not getting any younger, I need to make sure the heart keeps on ticking.”

  Phillip frowned at him. “Is there something wrong with—”

  “No!” he said quickly. “No, no. I’m fine. I had a checkup a few months ago and my blood pressure is a little high, but everything is fine. Healthy as a middle-aged horse. I even ran! On a treadmill!”

  “Really.” Phillip sounded dubious.

  “I did,” David insisted. “I can get up to three miles now.”

  “You’re too skinny.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  “I’ve always been skinny. You haven’t been. You were always a big guy. That was your thing.”

  “Well, I used to have all my hair, too, but you can see how well that’s going.”

  “You look nice.”

  He snorted. “Thanks.”

  “I mean it. I’m—I’m happy. That you’re okay.”

  David didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to go there right now. Maybe ever. It wasn’t healthy, sure, to ignore it for as long as he could. But to acknowledge it made it real, and this was already the realest conversation he’d had in years. He was doing okay so far, but he didn’t want to push it.

  “You don’t need to worry about me,” he said rather stiffly.

  “You know I do, anyway. I always do.”

  God, how he ached. How he wanted to tear into Phillip and say, Really? You really worry about me? Where have you been, then? Why haven’t you called me even though you knew I wouldn’t have picked up? Why haven’t you sent me a text message I could ignore? Why are we here? Why did I agree to this? Why aren’t you hurting as much as I am? Why didn’t you care as much as I did?

  It was that last one made him the most bitter.

  It’d been the one that he’d spat at Phillip on that last dark day.

  He’d been breathing heavily, unsure exactly of what he’d just said, but hearing his words echo around the room. He’d watched as they’d struck Phillip like a physical blow, his eyes widening, his breath hitching in his chest. And he couldn’t take them back, no matter how much he’d wanted to. He’d said what he’d been thinking, unfiltered and harsh, because even if he hadn’t believed it, he’d thought it, and wasn’t that close enough? Wasn’t that just enough to fucking crack Phillip right down the middle? In all the years that David had known Phillip Greengrass, from that awkward first meeting in an apartment hallway to the day they’d been admonished by Alice for being late to the wedding, to March 22, 2012, to that moment, that moment when he’d screamed at Phillip, “Why don’t you care as much as I do?”

  About her.

  It hadn’t been said, but it might as well have.

  Why don’t you care as much about her as I do?

  That’d been it.

  There’d been no coming back after that.

  Everything that had been held together by
tenuous hope and duct tape since that phone call on that March afternoon had fallen apart around them, leaving nothing but rubble at their feet, and that had been David’s fault. David had been to blame for that.

  He’d known it even then.

  He knew it even now.

  Melissa appeared at their table, two large plates in her hands. She set Phillip’s down before him first and then moved to the other side of the table. “Here we are,” she said. “My, do those look delicious. You know, I had this very same thing just the other week, and you gentlemen are in for a treat. The plates might be a little warm, so please be careful. Is there anything else I can get for you at the moment?”

  David thought, A do-over.

  Phillip said, “No, this all looks fine. Just fine.”

  “Wonderful!” she beamed. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  She left.

  The swordfish steak didn’t smell off. The broccoli looked a surreal green. The red potatoes were drizzled with oil. David sipped his bourbon.

  Phillip opened his cloth napkin, spreading it down on his lap. He’d eat the potatoes first, David knew. Then he’d pick at the broccoli for a bit before he’d move on to the swordfish. It was how these things went.

  He watched as Phillip speared the broccoli first, bringing it toward his mouth.

  “How’s Keith?” David asked.

  Phillip stopped, the broccoli in front of his face. His fingers tightened on the fork. He set it back down on the plate and took another sip of his wine. David could see the skin under his left eye twitching.

  “Why?” he asked as he set down the wineglass.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  David spread his own napkin on his lap. He wasn’t very hungry. Everything was fresh, but he couldn’t have wanted it any less than he did right at that moment. But he had bourbon in his stomach, and he needed something on top of it. He picked up his fork and just held it next to the plate. “Just a question,” he said with a shrug.

  Phillip narrowed his eyes. “Just a question.”

  “You asked about my job. I asked about yours. You told me about the garden. I wanted to know more about what else was going on with you. Just a question.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Like what?” David asked, not sure if he wanted to play this game.