Olive Juice

by TJ Klune

  How he loved her.

  “Fine,” David said again, not sure who he was trying to convince.

  “Okay,” Matteo said easily. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, eyes sparkling. Vince Guaraldi had turned into Judy Garland now, singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” David had always thought it was the saddest song. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure,” David said, not sounding very sure. He took another drink of his bourbon, a little shocked when he got nothing but ice.

  “Another?” Matteo asked, sounding amused.

  And he hesitated then. He’d driven for this very reason. It wasn’t like he’d been an alcoholic, no matter what other people had thought. He hadn’t gotten drunk almost nightly for that third year because he was addicted to the taste or even liked the feeling it gave him. Quite the opposite in fact. He liked the feelings it didn’t give him. He was numb, and he could sleep, and yeah, maybe the next day he’d feel like shit, but then it’d be five o’clock somewhere, and he’d start all over again.

  That had been the beginning of the end.

  She would be so disappointed when she found out.

  When she came back.

  But what was another drink? Phillip wasn’t here yet, and he could nurse the next one, maybe have it through dinner. Two wouldn’t be so bad. He wasn’t even feeling it yet. Not that he wanted to be feeling it, but the food here was usually heavy, and it’d soak up the alcohol. He’d be fine to drive.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay. Another.”

  Matteo took the glass from his hands, and he must have been really working for that tip because there was some unnecessary finger contact, wasn’t there? Enough to make David’s ears feel warm. It was… uncomfortable. Nice, but uncomfortable. Sure, he was a pretty young thing, and maybe he did have a kink for men in their fifties who looked like they’d just come from teaching an Introduction to Economics course at the local community college, but hey, David wasn’t one to judge. Nothing would come of it, but maybe David would leave him a twenty for his troubles. Matteo would probably blow it later on molly while at some club where the laser lights flashed and the bass pounded through the walls, a shirtless twink rubbing up against him, sucking his jaw, leaving bruises that Matteo would need to cover up for his next shift at the bar.

  Jesus.

  It was now six minutes after nine, and David picked up the phone again, sliding his finger across the screen, unlocking it. It was still on the message tree from before—ok ok ok ok—and he didn’t do himself any favors by scrolling up to the previous messages. The message before I want to see you was from six weeks previous, and it had been from Phillip to him. Like it always was. David never texted first. David never called. He’d lost that right. It’d been his fault.

  The previous message from Phillip said, Detective Harper called. Said you missed a Monday check-in. She tried to call you, but your phone is off. Nothing new. Just thought you wanted to know.

  He hadn’t responded.

  “Here you go,” Matteo said, putting down a new napkin, like the one before it had become so completely soiled that the mere thought of placing the fresh drink upon it hurt Matteo’s sweet bartender heart.

  “Thank you,” David said, setting his phone down (eight minutes after nine), and wrapping a hand around the glass. He didn’t lift it.

  “No Phillip?” Matteo asked, as if he couldn’t tell from the fact that David was still alone.

  “No Phillip,” David said.

  Matteo looked as if he were waiting for more.

  “He’s—uh. He’s late. Always. It’s one of his things.”

  “And let me guess,” Matteo said, that funny little smirk back on his face. “You’re the one that’s always a little early.”

  Yeah, that was pretty spot-on. David wondered how Matteo knew that (aside from the fact that he was obviously here early). Maybe it was the sweater. Or the tie. Or maybe Matteo was one of those bartenders like they showed on TV or in movies where they seemed almost clairvoyant and had hearts of gold and wiped down the bar top with a white rag while spouting little pearls of wisdom.

  But it was true, though. David was always early. That was his thing, and it had always exasperated him about Phillip that he couldn’t be on time for anything. They’d fought about it before, little back and forths that hadn’t amounted to anything. Neither of them changed, but it wasn’t something that needed to be changed. It was just one of those things.

  Like at the wedding. Everything had felt so goddamned surreal, and Phillip was running a little late as always, and David had been annoyed because of it.

  “You know she’s going to get upset with us,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice even.

  “I can’t find my socks,” Phillip had said, but he’d sounded so damn happy. “Where the fuck did I put the socks, buddy?”

  “Okay, so she’ll be upset with you for making her wait,” David had amended. “I’ll be just fine.”

  They’d found the socks. Eventually.

  She had been upset, but only a little bit. And then she’d smiled, and nothing else had mattered.

  “Yeah,” David said to Matteo. “I’m always the one that’s early.”

  He shifted on the stool and felt the ring in his pocket press against his thigh.

  “So how’s that work?” Matteo asked. “If he’s late, and you’re early.”

  David shrugged, clearing his throat. “It just… did. I guess.”

  Matteo leaned forward a little bit farther. He brought up two fingers, beckoning David a little closer. David wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He did it anyway.

  “See those two down at the end of the bar?” Matteo whispered in a low voice as Bing Crosby dreamed of a white Christmas somewhere overhead.

  David glanced down. The young couple. The man and woman. He looked back at Matteo and nodded.

  “They’re married,” Matteo whispered. “But not to each other.”

  David’s eyes widened. He didn’t care exactly, or at least he told himself he didn’t, but it was still slightly scandalous, wasn’t it? “How do you know that?”

  Matteo had a strange glint in his eyes. “He brings his wife here. One of those rich Foxhall Crescent yuppies. DC money, you know? He’s a broker or a lawyer or a junior senator. It doesn’t matter. They’re all the same. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I see here. What happens. What people try to get away with. I’m waiting for the day the wife comes in. That happens sometimes, you know. They’ll be here, sitting in a dark corner, whispering to each other with these little hearts in their eyes and the wife comes in, guns blazing. There’s shouting, and things are thrown, the wife is crying, the man is trying to calm her down, and the other, the side piece, is sitting there like she’s unsure if she should get up and leave, or if she shouldn’t move and draw attention to herself.” Matteo snorted and shook his head. “It’ll happen. One of these days.”

  “But until then, you don’t judge?” David asked, sitting back.

  “Oh bullshit. I judge the hell out of them,” Matteo said. “But I keep that to myself. I am a master of discretion, after all.”

  “Except you just told me.”

  “Well, yes,” Matteo said, eyes crinkling. “But you seem like you can be discreet yourself.”

  Yeah.

  Fifteen minutes after nine. Maybe he should text. Or call him. Phillip was fine, David knew, he was just fine, but it probably wouldn’t hurt just to text him.

  He took a sip of his bourbon instead.

  “I suppose,” David said. “I thought they looked like they were in love.”

  Matteo shrugged. “Maybe he has a big heart. Room for more than one person.”

  Well, David knew all about that, didn’t he?

  “I like you,” Matteo said.

  David blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “I like you,” Matteo repeated. “You’re a nice guy.”

  “You don’t even know me.” It wasn’t harsh, bu
t it was the truth.

  “I get this… sense, about people. I can read them.”

  “Because you’re a clairvoyant bartender?” David asked without meaning to, fingers sliding along the condensation on the glass.

  Matteo squinted at him. “Because I’m a what?”

  “Never mind. It’s just—nothing.”

  “My nonna could do the same thing.”

  “Who?”

  Matteo smiled. “My grandmother. She could read people. Could always tell what they were about by only the shortest of meetings.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mom couldn’t do it. Must have skipped over her.”

  “That’s… that’s great.”

  “So it’s how I know you’re a nice guy. It’s why I like you.”

  Only two people had liked David so quickly. One was only God knew where, and the other was now eighteen minutes late. He should probably text him. Maybe one of the Metro lines was down. Or running behind schedule. The trains were never on time. Everyone knew that.

  “Thanks,” David said. “I’m not the—thanks.”

  Eartha Kitt purred about her Santa baby.

  Matteo laughed. “You’re something else, David. You should—”

  “David?”

  And David closed his eyes at the sound of the voice behind him.

  He gripped the bar.

  He took in a breath and let it out slow.

  It’d been—Jesus, how long now? Last summer, right? At the dinner at the end of the charity benefit where David and Phillip had pretended like everything was reasonably okay (ok), where they’d spoken to other people who said they’d gone through the same thing, they’d cried on their shoulders, and Phillip had hugged them close and tight, David standing a little farther back, trying not to make things more awkward than they already were. Phillip had looked back at him, jerking his head toward a man who looked like he was on the verge of breaking down, a photo of an older woman in his hands. David had taken a step forward, and suddenly it was like a dam burst, and the man with the photo had started crying, saying, this is my sister, this is my sister and she—and she—it’s been two years, oh God, two years and I didn’t even have a chance to, but then David hugged him, he had hugged this man, and there had been more tears, but not from David. No, he didn’t cry about these things anymore.

  That had been the last night he’d seen Phillip until now. Sure, they’d texted or they’d talked on the phone, but it’d always been brief. It wasn’t like it was after March 2012, when there had been police and press and flyers and walking in a line with a hundred other people through the sparse woods at the park, shouting ALICE. ALICE. ALICE.

  And it certainly wasn’t like before, with their staycations, when they’d find time to leave their lives behind just for a few days, where there wouldn’t be phone calls or meetings with editors or anything that could distract them. It was dangerous, sure, and maybe it made them a little complacent, but they had this. It was theirs.

  Before last summer, it’d been stilted and awkward, both of them trying not to press against old wounds. David tried not to think back to the boozy third year, when it was beginning to end. The words that were said. The accusations made, hurled like grenades, not caring where they landed or who would be caught in the blast. Things that could never be taken back, no matter how much David had wanted to. He’d lashed out because he hadn’t known what else to do. The boozy third year came to an end and started the year of the false smiles that were so brittle, the smallest of things could crack them right down the middle. Phillip had seen through all of it.

  And now, here he was, standing behind David, and all he needed to do was turn around and see him. That’s all he needed to do.

  Matteo was still there, looking back and forth between them, brow slightly furrowed as if his powers as a clairvoyant bartender were consuming him, telling him all the secrets of the men before him.

  David forced a smile on his face, pushing everything else aside. It wasn’t as fragile as it used to be. It felt foreign, sure, but it came easier than it had in a long time. Then he swiveled on the stool to look at—

  And there he was. Phillip Greengrass, in the flesh.

  He looked… good. He looked really good, better than David, that was for sure, but that’d always been the case. He was tall and slight, a wisp of a man who looked like he’d be blown away by the faintest of breezes. His mop of short black hair stuck up every which way as if he’d been running his fingers through it nervously as he’d sat on the train. He was still in the Chevy Chase house, so it’d be a good long trip to the hotel to get himself all worked up like he usually did.

  He was wearing a scarf around his neck, a dreadfully bright green thing that looked like it was new. His coat was a little wet, and maybe his hair was too, but it wasn’t too bad. He probably hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, and it looked as if the rain had lessened. He wore a black sweater and jeans. A pair of beat-up Chucks, the same ones he’d had for years, purple with blue shoelaces.

  It clashed horribly.

  He looked wonderful.

  “Hi,” David said. “Hi. Hello.” He started to rise from the stool, thought better of it, and sat back down.

  “Hi, buddy,” Phillip said, glancing over David’s shoulder at Matteo. A strange look crossed over his face, but it was gone before David could make heads or tails of it. “Hey. You—you are….”

  “Yeah,” David said, not sure what he was agreeing to but suddenly not able to find a reason to care. “Yeah, I guess.” Phillip looked tired. He had bags under his blue eyes, and he was biting his bottom lip in that way he did when he was unsure of what to do in the very next second. David changed his mind and stood up again. Maybe they could shake hands? That’d be good, right? They could shake hands, a firm grip, a tight grip, and it’d say everything that he couldn’t.

  So he raised his hand out as he stood, and Phillip had looked at it, then back at him, then back at his hand. He frowned, shaking his head. Then he batted David’s hand aside and stepped in close, closer than he’d been since David had screamed at him that he didn’t fucking care about Alice the way David did, that he didn’t give two fucking shits about her, otherwise he’d be doing everything he could to bring her back. They’d been right up in each other’s faces then, eyes blazing, spittle hanging from their bottom lips, teeth bared and gnashing. The rage David had felt then had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, and it had consumed him, and there Phillip had been, the only other person who could possibly understand what David was going through, and David was so angry with him.

  But here he was now, stepping in close, close, close, and it was tentative at first, their knees knocking together, chests bumping. They were of the same height, a little under six feet, so their gazes met and crashed and skittered away, but then Phillip’s arms were around him, hands clasping behind his back, and David froze. For a moment, or two or three, he just froze, unsure of what was happening, unsure of what he should do. He hadn’t been… touched, like this since—a long time. That was it.

  He’d forgotten what a hug felt like.

  It was a funny thing, right?

  To forget that.

  He breathed.

  He ached.

  He lived.

  And this hug felt like death, another little death, only this time, the death was a good thing. It was a good death, and yes, everything still hurt and he could barely breathe, but he died a little death just the same.

  He hugged Phillip back. Arms around shoulders, cheeks brushing together accidentally, causing him to stiffen momentarily before he leaned into it.

  How strange that he’d forgotten what it felt like. To be held like this.

  It was short, because he didn’t know if he could stand for it not to be.

  He pulled away first.

  Phillip let him go and took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck, like he was embarrassed. “Hey,” he said again. “It’s nice—” He shook his head.
r />   “Hi,” David said. “It is nice.”

  Phillip looked back up at him, then over his shoulder again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” he said, sounding a little amused.

  David was confused. “Interrupt? It wasn’t—” He glanced back and saw Matteo still standing there, strong arms crossed over a strong chest, looking slightly annoyed. “You didn’t,” he finished, turning back toward Phillip. “I was early. I was just having… a drink.”

  Phillip’s eyes narrowed a little at that. “A drink?”

  “First one I’ve had in over a year,” David said. “It’s not… anything. I promise.”

  Phillip watched him for a moment before nodding slowly. “Okay. If you… okay. Do you want to sit here or…?”

  “We could get a table,” David said. “Just—a table would be fine. You know?”

  “Yeah, buddy. I know. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted to stay at the bar or not.”

  Yeah, buddy. Like it was nothing. Like they were both twentysomethings again, chips on their shoulders, not giving two shits about most anything if it didn’t directly affect them.

  “No,” David said quickly. “It’s not—we can sit wherever you want. I’m just here for you.” He winced at how that came out. It wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say, but he couldn’t take it back now.

  “For me, huh?” Phillip said, never one to let anything go. “How about that.” He wasn’t smiling, but David could hear it in his voice. He felt a little better because of it.

  “Just let me—” He turned back toward the bar, reaching for his phone. Matteo smiled at him. David gave a weak one in response. He picked up the phone. “I guess we’re getting a table,” he said to Matteo, unsure of why he sounded vaguely apologetic.

  “Sure,” Matteo said easily. “You want to tab out now, or do you think you’ll be staying after dinner?” And it was—well, weird, the inflections he put on certain words, like he was trying to say something without actually saying it.