Kiss Her Once for Me (66)

“Alice,” Dylan grumbles. “And we broke up.”

“They weren’t good enough for you,” Jack says fiercely, a hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “And they were an idiot for ending things.”

“Alice wasn’t an idiot. They just weren’t interested in commitment. So, you know…” Dylan takes a drink of their beer and shoots Andrew a look over the rim of the cup. “My type.”

Jack, somehow completely oblivious to the Andrew-Dylan dynamics, continues. “Your type is serial monogamists who will carry your beets at the farmer’s market, and I have it on good authority that you meet those people on Hinge.”

I briefly contemplate the possibility that Jack is on Hinge, finding hot women to carry her beets, and frantically reach for my drink at the thought. Except it’s ginger ale, and taking a swig doesn’t have the same effect.

Dylan glares at Jack. “I hate dating apps.”

“Unfortunately, that’s how you meet people these days. You’re not going to have a meet-cute in Cathedral Park.”

Or in Powell’s Books. I take another swig of ginger ale.

“Being bisexual on the dating apps is hard enough, but add to that being overtly not white, nonbinary, and monogamous? In Portland? Do you know how white and poly the Portland queer dating scene is?”

“I hated being bisexual on the apps, too.” I attempt to commiserate.

Under the table, Jack presses her knee closer against mine, denim against denim. I’m not sure if this is accidental or on purpose, but I accidentally-on-purpose rub my knee against hers. Soberness is a weak shield, apparently, when Jack’s knees are involved.

“Hinge profile,” Jack orders. “Now.”

Dylan drops their head onto the sticky table in misery but nudges their phone toward Jack all the same.

“Fact about me that surprises people…” Jack says, reading the Hinge profile prompt.

“That despite the neck tattoo, I still have to sleep with a night-light,” Andrew fills in. Dylan keeps their head plastered to the table but raises their middle finger in response.

“I get along best with people who…”

“Punch me in the face when I deserve it?” I suggest.

“Who can tell my crusty shell is just an act,” Andrew answers effortlessly. At that, Dylan peels their head off the table just a smidge.

“I’m looking for…”

“Monogamy, marriage, mortgage, all that embarrassing crap,” Dylan says with a lazy wave of their hand.

“All that normcore stuff,” I say. Jack glances up from the phone, and her eyes lock onto mine. Under the table, my knee is still pressed into the indent of hers.

“I’m looking for someone to love me even when I’m being completely insufferable,” Andrew grumbles into his now third cup of Rainier. Dylan sits up halfway and stares at Andrew in the poor lighting of this bar. And even though I can’t see my own face, I imagine I look like that. I look at Jack the way Dylan looks at Andrew.

And I don’t think I can do this anymore.



* * *



“We have to tell them.”

“Tell them what?” Andrew asks as he leans over the bar to order another pitcher—a Breakside IPA this time, for Jack.

“Tell them everything!” I hiss. Over my shoulder, I see Dylan and Jack in our corner booth looking tense and uncomfortable. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to be a sex shield. I want to tell Dylan the truth.” Never mind the fact that I want to tell Jack the truth, too. That I want to know what came at the end of her sentence.

Do you think if—

“Why do you want to tell Dylan?”

“Because you’re in love with them!” I say at a volume not quite befitting the secrecy of this conversation. Andrew almost drops an entire pitcher of overpriced IPA. I modulate my whisper. “You’re in love with them, and they’re in love with you, and this whole thing is starting to feel ridiculous.”

“I’m not in love with Dylan,” he says calmly.

“Andrew.” I put a hand on his arm. “You are, though.”

“Dylan wants someone to carry their beets at a farmer’s market, and while I’m great at lifting things and looking hot, I don’t know the first thing about being in a long-term relationship.” Andrew looks sheepish, and I realize how damn tired I am. I’m tired of lying and pretending and not-talking about things. For a year, I pretended like I wasn’t hurt when I thought our day together meant nothing to Jack. For a year, I told myself it would be pathetic to hold onto any feelings for her.

But I was hurt, and I do still have feelings for her, and I can’t let Andrew repeat my same idiot mistakes. “Do you want one, though? A long-term relationship?”

He opens his perpetually open mouth a little bit wider in shock, then snaps it closed. “It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m not having this conversation with you in a dive bar. We’re getting married. You signed a napkin contract.”

A bartender with a lip ring and angel wings tattooed on her exposed décolletage raises both eyebrows at us. Andrew lowers his voice. “None of this is about love, Ellie. It’s a business arrangement. This is about the money. I need that money.”

“Why?” I demand. “Why do you need this money so badly? You drive a Tesla! You wear Tom Ford! Please explain to me why this inheritance is worth ignoring your own desires and deceiving your entire family.”