Page 38 of Confessions of a High School Guidance Counselor

He nodded. “One of my favorite places to eat. They don’t have bad craft beers either.”

My eyes widened with delight. “I want one of those.”

“That can be arranged.” He passed me the drink menu, then his face disappeared behind his own menu. I felt a twinge of sadness that his eyes were obscured. The blue green color seemed to change each time I met him. Today, in the evening light, they looked a lighter green compared to the darker teal I’d seen earlier in the week.

I decided on a drink, then turned my gaze toward my own menu and found a crab cake sandwich that looked good. Once the waiter had taken our orders, I felt strangely vulnerable. Like all the distractions that had existed before were suddenly gone. Now there was only us and this beautiful view.

“Tell me about yourself, friend to friend.” Cohen winked. “Did you always want to be a guidance counselor?”

We were getting right into it then. I looked toward my hands in my lap, then back to him. “Actually, I wanted to be a fashion designer.”

His eyebrows rose. “That would have been my last guess.”

“Because I dress badly?”

He nearly choked on his water. “No-I-I just-I. You seem to be—”

I laughed, holding up my hand. “I’m picking on you.”

His nerves quickly melted into a smile, which I returned.

“I was a different person in high school,” I said shortly.

“How so?”

I looked over the view, wondering how much to tell him. How much of the past I really wanted to dig up and remember today. Finally, I let out a quiet breath and said, “High school was such a hard time for me; I figured it probably was for other people too.”

He nodded. “High school was the worst.”

Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Seriously? With that jawline? I bet you cruised through the halls on a white horse.”

He chuckled. “Hardly. I barely passed any of my classes, and everyone thought I was stupid and headed toward jail time as soon as I graduated.”

“What?” I asked. That wasn’t the vibe I was getting from him at all. Had I really misread him that badly? And if I had, did that mean I had bad taste in men that went beyond just Dax?

“I didn’t have the best role models, and I was angry,” he continued. “Angry people do stupid things.”

“That’s the truth,” I agreed, feeling like I understood him on a whole new level.

The waiter came back with our drinks, and I took in the dark fizzing beer in front of me.

Cohen held up his glass and said, “To friendship.”

“And nothing more,” I added, to remind both him and me, then moved to clink my glass with his.

Or tried to, before he said, “Hey!” and pulled his glass back.

“What did I do?” I asked, looking around. “Is there a bee?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I went on a trip to Germany last year—sourcing some new drafts for the bar—and my German friend told me if you don’t look each other in the eyes when you say cheers, it’s seven years of bad sex.”

My cheeks flushed at the places my mind went. “We can’t have that, now can we?”

His eyes held mine, turning my stomach into a puddle in their heat. “Cheers,” he said again, his voice low and smooth.

“Cheers,” I repeated, my hand barely steady on the glass as I clinked my cup to his.

I was in trouble.

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