Page 37 of Cool for the Summer

But if Donovan can do it, maybe I can, too. After all, if I’m going to start putting down roots in Rosedale, getting to know the queer scene is a good idea. Maybe I’ll hit it off with a local and start working on the Jack-and-Pete-style happily ever after I want for myself. Who knows, I could meet the love of my life tonight.

I push away the idea that the odds are slim I’ll meet anyone as interesting, nice, and hot as Donovan and instead try stay optimistic as we lock the car and walk to the entrance. A beefy, bored-looking guy sitting on a stool glances at us and says, “ID.”

I hold up mine and he gives me a nod, then he says, “You too, sir,” to Donovan, and I snort.

Donovan glares at me and fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, flipping it open to his license.

“Sir?” I mutter under my breath as we get ushered into the cool, dark interior of Sparkle. Despite the name, the inside is fairly restrained. There’s a disco ball over the dance floor on one side of the room, but it’s not like it’s all glitter and feathers. The heavy wooden bar looks old, and I wonder how long this place has been here. Maybe it used to be something else.

It’s also pretty busy. Almost every barstool taken—mostly by men, but there are a few women—and a healthy amount of the low tables on the bar side of the place are filled with patrons. The dance floor is emptier, but it’s still early, and there’s just generic pop music coming from the speakers. I see a DJ setting up, so I assume there’ll be more activity in a little while.

Meanwhile, I endure the social anxiety of not knowing the best place to claim. Should I go to the bar and squeeze in between the existing patrons, or look for an empty table?

Donovan solves the problem for me by striding confidently up to the bar, immediately catching the eye of one of the two bartenders, an attractive older guy with short silver hair and a black tee with Sparkle emblazoned on the front in metallic blue.

As if communicating by telepathy, the bartender seems to indicate to Donovan that it’ll be a minute, so Donovan looks over his shoulder at me. “What do you want? I’ll get the first round.”

“Uh.” What do I want? I should have figured this out earlier. “What are you having?”

Donovan’s looking over the draft beer menu. “A pilsner.”

“Okay. Me too.” I don’t love beer, but I can’t think of anything else, and the bartender is now looking at Donovan expectantly. He puts in the order and hands over a credit card, and a minute later we’re carrying our filled-to-the-brim pint glasses to a table that seems to appear magically under Donovan’s gaze.

“Cheers,” he says, tapping the rim of his glass against mine.

“Cheers.” I take a sip and purse my lips involuntarily. It’s kind of sour. Probably better with something greasy, like a burger and fries. My stomach rumbles. A single piece of leftover pizza was not enough for dinner.

“You hate it,” Donovan says.

“No—well, it’s not my favorite.”

“Then why did you order it?” He sounds confused rather than angry.

“Because I’m bad at bars!” I wail.

He cracks a grin, shakes his head. I laugh a little, knowing I’m being dramatic. I push my glass across the table at him. “You can have mine.”

“Oh, it won’t go to waste,” he says, “but let’s start over. What sounds good? Do you need a menu?”

“I am kind of hungry. And I don’t really feel like drinking. I have to drive later, anyway.”

“Okay.” Donovan looks around the room, then leans over and asks a guy sitting alone at the table nearest us if we can borrow his menu, which is sitting folded on the table. The guy smiles and nods and looks like he’s about to say something, but Donovan’s got the menu now and he opens it, no longer paying attention to the other guy.

“They have your standard bar food. Burgers. Pizza.”

“No pizza.”

“Right, we just had pizza. Sweet potato fries? Meatball sub?”

“Meatball sub?” I take the menu out of his hands and scan it. There it is. Meatball sub. Huh.

“You didn’t believe me?” He’s smiling again, and it’s distracting.

“Meatball sub at a gay bar just seems kind of on the nose,” I say with a wave of my hand. “I’ll have a burger. And fries. And a root beer.”

“We’re not at a baseball game,” he says mildly.

“I’m hungry. You asked what sounded good, and that sounds good.”

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