Kiss Her Once for Me (10)

It’s six o’clock, which means my shift is over, and I can finally go cry in the privacy of my own shithole. Before I can make my escape, though, Ari comes around the counter. “Ellie, I’m so sorry about Greg. I didn’t know your financial situation was that bad. You can totally move in with me if you get evicted. We have an extra bedroom in my house. Well, an extra closet, really, but you could definitely fit a twin bed in there!”

“Thanks, Ari,” I say. “I appreciate the attempt to help, but if it’s okay with you, I’m just going to clock out, go home, and cry into whatever freezer-burned dessert I can find.”

Ari raises a single eyebrow. “I thought you said you had plans tonight.”

“Yes,” I say. “Plans to cry.”

I go into the back to grab my coat, and when I return, Andrew is still there, studying me like I’m a fascinating new exhibit at the Oregon Zoo. A poor person in her natural habitat.

“It’s raining,” Andrew says, pointing out the obvious. The half-assed snow has long since turned to full-assed rain. “Do you want a ride home?”

“Oh.” I zip up my coat and shoot Ari a look. Three guesses who told Andrew I don’t have a car. “That’s not necessary. I only live about twenty blocks from here, and I can take the bus.”

“She’d love a ride!” Ari bulldozes, using the power of her positivity to nudge me toward Andrew. Then she literally nudges me, with her elbow. I’m stronger than her, though, and firmly rooted in place. “In fact, you know what I think Ellie really needs after today? A drink.”

Andrew smiles and smolders. “I would love to buy you a drink.”

I sigh. I would not love that. I just want to curl up in bed and cry for an indeterminate length of time. I want to take off my hard pants and my bra, and I want to eat all the things. I want to sketch today out in panels until it all seems more comic than tragic, upload the fictionalized version of my life to Drawn2 so the reality feels less painfully real.

But I think about Ari’s elbow in my lower back and her voice asking is this serving you? I think about proving to Meredith that I am not still hung up on a girl who once twirled me in circles in the snow on Christmas Eve. I think about destroyed life plans and broken pieces and being paralyzed by my inability to put it all back together.

When Ari nudges me again, I let my feet move toward Andrew. “Actually, a drink sounds great.”

Andrew gives me a look I can’t quite parse before he breaks into a grin. “Perfect. Drinks it is.”

See, Meredith? I think as Andrew flashes me that charming smile. I’m totally over her.





Chapter Four


Andrew drives a Tesla, which seems unnecessary.

When we get to his car, he opens the passenger-side door for me, which also seems unnecessary, but kind of nice.

Once I’m nestled into the leather seat, the absurdity of the situation begins to dawn on me. I’ve agreed to a date (is this a date?) with Roastlandia’s landlord—Portland’s “Thirty Under Thirty” local celebrity, a man who is a total stranger to me outside of his coffee order. He navigates the Tesla away from the curb, and I can’t seem to figure out what to do with my hands, or where to put my shoulder bag, or what the hell I’m supposed to say.

Blessedly, Andrew breaks the silence first. “I’m sorry about the promotion. That sucks.”

That sucks is not the expression of condolence I expect from a Burberry coat. “Thanks. It’ll be okay. Probably. Somehow.”

“You know, I haven’t had the best day, either….”

My shoulder bag is still on my lap, and I give it a tight hug. “Yeah. I’m so sorry about your grandpa.” As soon as I get the words out, they feel empty and generic, a useless platitude.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Andrew says with a one-shoulder shrug. “He was actually a total bastard.”

Oh. Huh. I side-eye him across the center console. The Burberry coat is starting to look an awful lot like a snapback and a pair of Adidas sliders with socks.

“Like, he has floor seats to the Blazers,” Andrew starts, “but did he ever let anyone use his tickets when he was in Europe? Never. The seats would just sit there, empty. And he banned me from the vacation home in France because of one incident involving absinthe, even though what happened to the head on that fountain sculpture wasn’t even my fault. And nothing I did could ever live up to his impossible expectations.”

I try to recalibrate for this new frat-bro version of Andrew that has materialized in the seat next to me. “I know a thing or two about bastard family members,” I say.

I suppose if your primary method of communication is seductive arches of the eyebrow, this passes as emotional vulnerability, because Andrew’s face softens as he reaches over and puts a hand on my knee next to my backpack. “Thanks.”

I stare at his hand, hanging out on my knee uninvited. I’m not sure if this is an old-man-in-a-bathtub situation or simply how allosexual people express gratitude, but I cross my legs so his hand has to fall away. Out the window, I see the Burnside Bridge in the distance as we cross the Willamette. “So. Where are we going, exactly?”

It turns out our destination is a laughably upscale bar in the Pearl District packed with working professionals, blue mood lighting, and kitschy Christmas decorations. My Moscow mule costs fifteen dollars, but Andrew whips out his black AmEx like a knight in shining Tom Ford. While he charms the surly Portland bartender, I snap a discreet picture and send it to both Ari and Meredith.