by Alexis Angel
Then again, maybe not. Derek hightails it down the block, walking fast around the next corner and disappearing.
The street is strangely quiet. It’s a warm night in the middle of a trendy neighborhood, yet there’s not another soul in sight. There’s just the low hum of traffic in the distance, and the sight of a plane far up in the sky, on its way to who knows where.
I feel paralyzed. Alone. I don’t know where to go—I don’t even know what to feel.
I don’t want to keep standing on this stupid street, and I certainly don’t want to go back to the wine bar...that fucking wine bar. Why does it even have to be there?
If it were anywhere else than right by my fucking apartment, my whole life would be much different right now. I could be having fun somewhere, blissfully ignorant of WineBar’s entire existence and everything else that’s happened because of it.
I start walking home again because it seems like the only option I have right now.
Drowsiness starts setting in as I make my way back up the block, probably from all the Cancun-related partying and traveling. And the pitcher of sangria, let’s not forget that.
Sleep, yes, sleep sounds like a decent idea. I want to just fall asleep and forget all the shit that’s happened.
Because then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so fucking badly.
Kirk
With the ever-evolving bar world of San Francisco, it’s never a bad idea to check out the competition. However, I don’t know if a Mission District dive bar that allows dogs and has a metal and punk rock–crammed jukebox qualifies as competition—it’s just where Tad insists on going sometimes.
I watch Tad take the first sip of his Saison. This place has a million fucking beers on tap. I’m waiting for him to give me his opinion of it, but instead he just shakes his head.
“Some fuckin’ life, huh?”
Tad’s getting philosophical, so I take a taste of my porter. It’s too dark and rich, but I don’t know what the hell else I feel like drinking tonight.
“Why don’t you expound on that?” I ask into my pint glass.
“Dude, you—more than anyone I know—can have any woman you want.”
“I get it, Tad.”
“But you’re ready to decide now, to commit yourself to someone, stress the fuck out over her, and then get into fights with your family over it?”
“Yeah, that’s fucking right. Anything else you’d like to say about it?”
The walls are lined with all kinds of crap —hockey jerseys, old photos, T-shirts, decals, posters—and it’s starting to grow on me. This is the type of thing certain big chain restaurants go for but end up failing fucking miserably since they lack authenticity. It would also never work at one of my bars, nor should it.
Tad holds his hands up. “Not a damn thing, man. I just think it’s awesome. That’s the endgame for all of us, isn’t it?”
Well, if nothing comes out of this shitstorm of uncertainty, at least I know Tad is an uncommonly good friend. I won’t tell him that, though, because he sure as fuck doesn’t need to hear it.
“I hope she calls soon, otherwise this really is the endgame.”
“There’ll be others too.”
Tad’s not even trying to be believable, but it might be time to face reality.
“Miranda’s still coming on to me.” I try taking another swig of the porter. It’s already getting warm.
Tad claps his hands down on the bar and swivels back and forth for some reason.
“You don’t say. How’s that been going?”
“The usual these days. Not great for either of us.”
Not great for her, sure. For me, I have no idea. I’m not used to just sitting back and accepting things as they happen. I’m a man of action. But right now, waiting things out may just be my best strategy.
“I hope that porter’s working out for you.” Tad’s barely finished speaking when he starts attacking his own beer again.
“I can’t say it’s working out at all...”
My phone starts going off in my pocket, and something about the room’s acoustics make it much too loud.
“Answer your phone, Kirk,” Tad hisses, jokingly angry.
I take out my phone and see that it’s Miranda calling. Jesus Christ. But I don’t have it in me to even get that annoyed, so I pick up.
“What is it, Miranda?”
“Kirk, it’s good to hear your voice!” Miranda’s own voice sounds syrupy and cloying. She’s really hamming it up. I roll my eyes.
“What do you want?”
“Hey...Kirk, uh, actually, I need to make this quick. Time is of the essence. First of all, I’m sorry about earlier, about being a bitch and everything.”
“Miranda, that’s not what—”
“No, no, I totally was. I need to make it up to you.”
“Please don’t.”
“Listen! I just saw Emily.”
I automatically stand up—like get right the fuck up out of my chair, knocking it over behind me in the process.
“Where?” I demand.
“At the wine bar. I know that she’s heading home right now. If you’re still looking for her, she should be there, at least for a little while.”
“Really. Okay, thanks. Yeah. Okay. I’ve gotta go.”
“Yeah, no problem. I would hurry, though, if I were you.”
Miranda hangs up first, which is a first.
I pat Tad on the back.
“Hey, Emily’s heading home from the bar now. I might be able catch her.”
I make a beeline for the door, hearing Tad’s pep speech on the way out.
“Oh, dude, you better run. That’s a long way.”
As I leap out onto Van Ness, I swear I hear Tad shouting “good luck” or something like that, but my mind is on getting a taxi.
I see one...shit, that one’s taken, but the one behind it has its light on.
I find myself waving both arms over my head like a goddamn maniac, and the cab mercifully pulls over.
I swing into the back seat and interrupt the driver trying to say hello by shouting Em’s address. He gets the message and we’re off—down to 20th, turning right—okay, no, goddammit, don’t go north on Capp, you fool!
“19th back to Van Ness!”
The driver gives me a wave of acknowledgment and takes my instructions. We speed back to Van Ness and rocket north toward Emily’s neighborhood. Good, making all the lights.
Fuck, now there’s traffic from the Bay Bridge off ramp. Jesus Christ, come on already. Fucking move it!
“No worries,” the cabbie lilts, sounding so peaceful but not helping.
I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin. I’m so anxious to just fucking get there already.
What does help is him lurching the taxi across several lanes and finding a pocket of faster-moving vehicles.
Fucking finally. Now we’re moving again, zooming north and picking up speed until the cabbie makes a sudden left turn toward Pacific Heights.
I’m pretty sure the entire right half of the vehicle is off the ground, but the taxi levels itself, and I almost hit the ceiling—then the cabbie has to slam on the breaks for a red light. I hear light classical music playing quietly on the radio.
“So is it a pretty busy night tonight? A lot of fares?”
“Yeah, pretty busy, but I can go home after one or two more.”
“Nice.”
I don’t even know how I’m making small talk right now.
The light turns green, and we burn rubber, not relenting until we get to Emily’s block. The taxi starts slowing down, and...wait, that’s her! Emily!
But wait…she’s not alone. My stomach drops.
Fuck, what am I doing?
The taxi comes to a stop just behind her and, yep, sure as fuck, that’s a guy.
“Just wait for me a minute. I have something to figure out,” I instruct.
“Meter’s running, boss,” the driver advises me as I step out, my eyes glued to Emily and
whoever that fucker is as they walk toward the entrance of her building.
I don’t know whether to even bother. She’s on a fucking date, and it’s not like she’s calling me all the time—or at all.
Like, what the fuck am I doing?
I’m pining after Emily, telling my family to fuck off because she’s the one I want to be with. And here she is with another guy? Going into her apartment no less.
Time to get back in the taxi...but I did come all the way up here, and maybe that’s a platonic friend or something. That could be possible...but no, that’s ridiculous.
I need to get the fuck out of here and rethink my whole fucking life at this point.
I spin around and yank open the door of the taxi. The sound causes Emily to stop and look over her shoulder. At me.
It’s hard to read her expression from where I am, but she does look at me for a long moment...and then looks nervously at the guy she’s with.
Fuck. I shouldn’t be here. But I also can’t make myself walk away.
Emily
No, WineBar’s not at his wine bar. It’s not like I expect him to be, anyway.
There’s a pitcher of sangria in front of us and an empty glass in front of me. I’m probably drinking more than my share, but I definitely need it more than Lana. I pour another full glass.
“Still recovering from all that amazing sun and cock?”
Lana doesn’t seem to realize the state I’m in tonight.
“Cancun is always good, yeah.” I swirl the bright-red drink around in my glass. So what the fuck am I going to do now?
“I figured you must’ve gotten laid that last night. Wasn’t it a Sunscreen guy or something you had a date with?”
This gets a tiny frown from me.
“No, that didn’t happen.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“I was too drunk to do anything.”
“So? Doesn’t that make things exciting? All-out-drunk sex, I mean.”
“Lana. Seriously?”
But that’s not what stopped me, and I don’t know that I want to get into all the WineBar inner turmoil bullshit with her just yet. She’s been telling me to forget about him the entire trip, and I’m not sure she’ll be happy hearing about me refusing sex from a hot guy because of WineBar.
I move from swirling my sangria to drinking it. I don’t think I can gulp it down fast enough.
“Hey, ladies!”
Lana and I both swing around, startled. Even after seeing her face dolled up in heavy eye makeup and purple lipstick, it takes a second for me to recognize her.
Oh. Woo fucking hoo.
“It’s been a few days, Miranda.” This should be fucking fantastic.
“Yeah! Fancy meeting you here.” Miranda’s acting especially bubbly.
Lana sends me a quick bemused look.
“Miranda, this is my best friend and writing partner, Lana.”
Lana looks just slightly less confused as she shakes Miranda’s hand.
“I met Miranda at Kirk’s barbecue.”
Lana gives a big, dramatic nod as it all comes together for her.
“I guess you know Kirk from this place,” Lana offers politely.
“Oh, yeah, we go way back. Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear, but were you guys taking about Cancun?”
Something’s off. I try to give Lana a side glance, but now she’s beaming happily at Miranda. Totally fucking oblivious.
“Yes! We just got back from there! Why don’t you join us?” Lana moves to the next stool and offers her the seat next to mine.
Miranda happily slinks in. I don’t quite know what’s going on, but whatever. I’ve got my drink.
I gulp down some more sangria.
“Are you a regular Cancun-goer, or what?” I’m trying to be nice to Miranda, but it’s coming out kinda snarky.
“Oh no, I’ve never been.”
Miranda’s eyes are fixed forward at the wall behind the bar. I don’t know what her deal is right now, but Lana seems happy that she’s here. She grabs Miranda’s arm and starts talking straight at her.
“Hey, Miranda, I haven’t told Emily over there this yet, but I want to be her wingwoman tonight. I need to get her to talk to some guys. You could help...”
“Lana, what the fuck—” I just sigh instead of finishing. What’s the point?
“Don’t worry about her, Miranda,” Lana chirps on as if Miranda’s an old friend. “She just needs to get back into the game. Whaddya say? We can help one another out. There are enough guys out tonight for all of us.”
“I’d love to help Emily, and I will. I have my own man, though, so I don’t need help in that department.”
At least Miranda’s found somebody. Maybe now she can stop hovering around WineBar all the damn time, whatever the fuck he’s doing these days.
“That’s good to hear. Who is it, Miranda?” I actually couldn’t care less, but I wouldn’t mind talking about something positive, at least to hear about someone else’s happiness. Or to get my mind off my lack of it.
Miranda turns to me. I recognize that vaguely wild look in her eyes.
“You know him!”
Okay, so you know those moments in the movies where everything comes to a screeching stop? Like a record needle scratch moment? Yeah, that’s how I feel right now.
Because…just…fuck. No, no, no, no.
“I do?” The words come out in a raspy whisper.
“It’s Kirk!”
God. Damn. It.
And how can she be so fucking insensitive? She looks so freaking thrilled with herself.
I want to throw up, but instead I feel my face form into the meanest scowl I have—that’s literally the nicest I can be about this, and that’s with giving it all my effort.
Miranda and Lana are both looking at me. Miranda has a smug smirk on her face, and Lana looks appropriately terrified. Lana almost jumps when she hears the sound of some dude’s voice nearby.
“Hey, Derek!” she calls, almost frantically.
I hear the voice go “Heyyyyyy” somewhere behind me, but I want nothing to do with it.
“Come on, Em. I want you to meet Derek.”
“Who the hell is Derek?” I don’t wait for an answer. I just drain the rest of my drink. I need another.
“I met him in Cancun. I knew he lived here, but...well, I kind of expected to run into him. Come on!”
Lana leaps from her stool, starts walking over to wherever that guy is, and grabs my arm on her way.
“Okay, fine, take it easy.” I stand up and try to keep up with Lana as she trots over to a table by the entrance. I’m almost in a daze.
I do want to get away from fucking Miranda, but I also want to get away from everyone else.
“I miss WineBar,” I murmur to myself, sort of hoping Lana will hear. How the fuck did I get to this point?
“Don’t even think about it anymore,” Lana utters out loud. I want to wallow in my misery, but she has no patience for it right now.
The black polo shirt, spiky-haired dude sitting at the table Lana’s pulling me to must be Derek. I see some other guy walking away quickly out of the corner of my eye.
Lana eagerly plants herself in an empty chair at the table. I take another chair reluctantly.
“Derek! You weren’t fuckin’ lying! Pacific Heights!”
I want to tell Lana that it’s okay to fucking calm down a little, but for whatever reason, I decide to play it cool instead.
Maybe it’s that Derek is actually pretty cute, and some part of me doesn’t want to scare him off yet.
“Pacific Heights, baby! You knew I’d be here!”
Derek’s yelling too, and he’s grinning kind of dumbly. But when he sees me, it seems to stop him in his tracks for a moment.
“I’m Emily,” I announce. Why did I do that? I catch Lana looking at me and nodding.
“Yeah, this is Emily. I told you about her. I just realized that I have to close out my tab over there.”
; Lana departs on that excuse, leaving me with Derek and his polo shirt.
“You live around here?” I feel lame, unmotivated. Before Derek answers, our server, Susan, appears out of nowhere to hover over the table. I forgot about her.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” Susan’s ready to take a drink order. Thank fuck.
“Pitcher of sangria.” I’m not ready to change horses midstream.
I want to ask about Kirk, but I know now is not the time.
“Okay, we’ll go with that,” she says with a smile.
Susan leaves, and Derek turns his focus on me.
“I’m over by Lafayette Park,” he informs me, his eyes slightly sparkling.
“Oh, my place is closer than that.” I’m not sure why I’m volunteering this information. Even Derek looks confused.
“I’m not that close, but I still like walking here. As you can tell, I get a lot of exercise.”
“I can tell,” I state robotically. I’ll just go on auto-flirt mode, I guess. Because I can’t find enough fucks to give to put in a real effort.
“Pitcher of sangria.” Susan appears out of nowhere again and plunks the pitcher full of red liquid with orange slices and cherries down on the table, followed by my empty glass from the bar. I think I love her.
“Just put it on my tab.” Derek’s eyes are on me while he talks to Susan, and she leaves wordlessly.
I look back at Derek, still in auto-flirt mode, while pouring myself a fresh drink.
“You do that very skillfully. You weren’t even watching.”
“Do you think I don’t know how to use my hands by now?”
Derek looks at the pitcher and makes the silent decision not to pour a sangria for himself.
“Most people need to see what they’re doing.”
I take a small sip of my drink, not knowing how long I’ll have to be here. Where the fuck did Lana go?
“My hands are capable enough on their own,” I add.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, I just said it.”
He grins.“I’d like to think I’m pretty coordinated myself.”
Something inside me is compelling me to keep going with this.
“I see no proof of that.”
Derek smiles and pours a sangria for himself.