Funny Feelings (28)

Marissa presses a tequila drink into my hand because she knows what tonight is about, and because she is a good and supportive wingwoman.

She is a wingwoman who is being diverted over to a man at the end of the bar smiling her way.

She is a wingwoman who appears to be ditching me…

Marissa is a shit wingwoman, apparently.

I fold myself onto the stool and blow out a breath, wondering if I should just say fuck it already and unbutton these jeans. They look damn good but are the kind that require a back and forth process of jumping and using gravity and momentum to get them up in the first place, and then laying down and attempting to flatten myself to Gumby proportions in order to get them buttoned.

Lance ambles over as I slurp the last drop of my drink audibly. “Tequila soda?” he asks.

“Sure? I think so?”

DJ Jerald starts playing Lover and I make a cynical noise from the depths of my sinuses, as Lance slides me my second drink.

“Yikes. Not a Swiftie, I take it?”

I turn to my left just as the observer sits, and I can’t help the smile that bends my lips at his. He’s got the kind of cute, guileless look that I always go for. Warm brown eyes, and fluffy blonde hair with a slight curl to it. A labradoodle in human form.

“Of course I am. There’s a Swiftie song for everyone.”

“Oh, so it’s just this song, then,” he grins, dipping his head conspiratorially. “Care to let me take a crack at what yours is?”

I shrug. This isn’t the worst way I’ve been hit on before. I’m intrigued.

“It’s gotta be Me!, no?” he asks. He’s wearing one of those shirts that’s like six inches longer than a normal one—a style, apparently—one that I know Meyer hates. He’s also wearing a chain necklace. Another prejudice of My’s. And god damnit, I’m thinking about Meyer while this objectively attractive man is flirting with me.

“You nailed it,” I lie. He doesn’t need to know that I coincidentally do have a Swift-specific song of the moment, nor does he need to know what it actually is. The only reason one even surfaces in my mind is because I heard it play the other day at the beach, watching Meyer fly a kite with Hazel for the first time. It’s encapsulated into my memory now, imbibed into my core. Just a sweet melody made sweeter by the people and moments it played to. Run, I think it’s called.

This guy’s smile grows. Does he smile a lot, or am I just stuck on someone else’s frown?

“I’m Joe,” he says.

“Farley,” and I reach out my hand and smile back.





11





NOW





“My favorite kind of humor is basically, if it was happening to you, it wouldn't be funny, but to observe it, it's hilarious.” - Bill Burr





FARLEY


“Whatever happened to that Joe guy you dated for awhile?” is the way Meyer greets me when I open my door.

“Meyer, it’s our third date and you want to talk about exes?” I try for light and teasing, but it comes out annoyed and huffy, like this is really our third date and I am actually miffed that he’s putting a damper on it.

“I just saw a lady pushing some sort of poodle in a stroller and it reminded me of him, is all,” he snorts.

The truth is, Joe was a one night stand that just kind of… stuck. His expectations were low, he was easy, affable, and accepting. He gave great oral but didn’t let his ego get in the way of breaking out a vibrator. We’d go days without talking without either of us getting upset about it... at first, at least. It was light, fun, and nice.

He was the perfect brain break when things started picking up with my career. Once Meyer and I worked out a contract (complete with a benefits program, excellent medical insurance and even a retirement plan) his name made a huge difference in scoring me great gigs and better, consistent pay. I did a few short openers for bigger names, built a solid reputation quickly, and the gigs snowballed from there. Within four months, I quit my other jobs altogether. After a total of three paying gigs in the span of two years prior to that, I was booking that many a week, consistently.

The travel was a bit rough. Cheap flights, even up to San Francisco or Sacramento, were still full day affairs—with multiple plane changes and stops to keep them under budget. But the trajectory of my entire career was skyrocketing.

Joe fit into that.

Until he didn’t…

“Hey. Why don’t you want to tell me?” Meyer says, pulling me out of my wandering thoughts. He leans on the car door in front of me, legs crossed at the ankles, all casual ease. Today’s henley is a rusty brown, which makes the brunette parts of his hair and beard seem to stand out and nullify the gray. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I just realized I didn’t know.”

“I knew you didn’t like him. I didn’t think you’d want to know either way at the time.” A half-truth.

“He was a doofus. It’s not that he was unlikeable, I guess. He just wasn’t likable either.”

“You were a dick to him and you know it.”

“I was the same to him as I am to every little boy you’ve had hanging on your coattails that is undeserving, Fee,” he spits.

“He was the same age as me, Meyer.”