Funny Feelings (23)

I turn to find Meyer glancing at me expectantly, clearly suppressing a laugh.

“You knew about this?!”

He nods, smiles. I start laughing uncontrollably and move the detritus of my food aside so I can stand and hop up and down. He stands with me.

“Hey! That was you wasn’t it?!” A woman behind us calls, pointing up to me. I nod through a smile, my eyes watering. It’s such a quick sequence of moments. A matter of seconds, really… but it confirms that these years of late nights, the neuroses, the doubt, the emotional rollercoaster of both pride and shame… that it’s all going to be worth it.

Meyer grabs me and wraps me in a hug, pushing my face into his hard chest. I squeeze him harder back, wanting to crush this moment into my soul, to press my gratitude for him into his very bones.

A few people around us snap some photos occasionally, but we end up getting to watch the movie uninterrupted, overall.

It’s a little over halfway through Grease, after I cackle at Danny’s dramatic “Oh Sandy, Sandy!” when I notice the goosebumps on Meyer’s arms. The sheer giddiness from earlier ignites some weightless bravery in me, so when I give him his henley back, I scoot over to him and sit on his lap, peeling up the corner of the quilt to cover us.

“This okay?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Yes. Yeah,” he laughs through his nose. “You’re surprisingly smooth with this,” he says, repeating my line from earlier, his voice tickling my ear from this close.

“It feels surprisingly good.”





NOW





“The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.” - George Carlin





MEYER


“You need some friends your own age. Or therapy.” Lance says tiredly as he massages his temples behind the bar.

“I’ve seen a therapist biweekly for eight years, Lance, and I have friends.”

“Then why aren’t you going to them with this Gossip Girl shit? I’m tired, Meyer. I’m 63. I can’t pretend to give a shit,” he groans.

“I thought you being older and wiser might offer some insight here.” Also I don’t know that I can admit this entire thing to my therapist yet. Dr. Dale would have a field day.

“I’ve been married to the same woman for forty years. And when I liked her, I asked her out. I kissed her on our first date and I snuck a base on each date after. I didn’t keep that shit a secret for years.”

I think back to almost a week ago now, to mine and Fee’s first date. Letting myself fall into the comfortable touches was one thing. A form of torture, to be sure, but a good one nonetheless. Like a deep tissue massage via a man built like the Terminator. But the moment the ad came on and I saw her face light up, my heart stuttered to a stop, then shot right back off like a rocket. I had to crush her to me to keep her from seeing my face, swallowing convulsively. I know we both felt the weight of that moment for her.

Then there was the lap sitting. I tucked her back against my chest while I worried I’d crush the arm of the chair that I gripped with my free hand, willing myself not to slide it along one of her thighs. I wouldn’t trust myself not to slide the pads of my fingers up and down her soft skin, to skate them in circles up to tease the hem of her dress. The comfort and sheer fucking goodness of having her there only intensified my physical reaction.

I walked her to her door that night, but before she could ask or even hint at asking about kissing, I kissed her god damn hand like some stuffy Victorian psycho, before promptly turning on my heel and practically speed-walking to my car.

Thank fucking God Hazel ended up wanting to trick-or-treat with friends the following night and saved me from having to see her too soon after that.

I groan, letting the embarrassment wash over me again. “God, you’re right. I need to back out of this. I can’t fucking do it.” My face falls to my palms before I take a drink and grimace. “Jesus, man, what is that?”

“Red Apple Pucker. Straight.”

“I figured you’d pour me a whiskey or a scotch like literally any other bartender on the planet would.”

“A sweet and sour drink for a sweet and sour man,” he says with a dead-eyed expression.

“Lance, we’re supposed to meet in an hour to go over the pre-tour schedule. I need to figure my shit out.”

Lance sighs, the sound coming out heavy and rattled. “I don’t know Meyer. You know I love Fee, but I don’t know that I think it’s good for you to put yourself through this. I get that it’s good for her and the tour, and Lord knows the kid has fought for this. But as much as I want it to be great for her too, there’s gotta be an end date, or some kind of limit on the threshold of pain that you can take.”

I nod and accidentally take another swig of the drink. “Shit. You’re right.”

I put my heart on the back burner and got through it once before… At least, I got myself to a place where it was more important to prioritize our working relationship and not risk anything further. It’s obvious that this forced proximity thing is going to flambé all that for me, but I think I could find a way to get through it again when this is done. I’ll have to find a way to get through it again. “I can’t take her away from Hazel, though. I won’t do that… but I think—I think I can do this if I know there’s an end date. If I know I won’t be her manager anymore after this, I think I can pull it off.” Like running a marathon. One mile at a time. If you know the finish line is there, you take it in bites, reminding yourself that relief is coming.