Page 6 of Nine-Tenths

I didn't realize I was frowning. The train trip must have worn me out more than I thought. I blow out the candle, and Mau and Dike pound me on the back like I've scored a winning touchdown. Our tasting flights come with an extra shot of Jaeger for the birthday boy, courtesy of the table of girls, and I tell Dike to go thank them for me. I even brush the dust bunny away first.

"You're not going with him?" Hadi asks as I down the shot.

"Nah, too bagged. Long day."

I'm not…

I'm not going to do it.

I'm not.

Somehow my phone is in my hand already, though, and from a distance I hear myself saying: "Rebekah usually has Mondays off. I could—"

"No!" Hadi shouts, so quick it's actually kinda insulting.

Mau pulls the phone outta my hands. They're tipsy enough that they fumble it. If they drop it into one of their glasses, I'm going to eat their soul. But they shove it down the front of their skirt instead, right into the boxers below it.

"Don't think I won't go in there after it," I say, pointing at their nose. "You know the saying about a bi person sticking their hands in someone's pants and being happy with whatever they find."

"Buy me dinner first," Mau says, sticking out their tongue. I make a swipe for it and miss.

"What do you call this?" I Vanna White the cauliflower.

"Didn't buy it. No Gs, No Os."

"I can get my own Os!"

Hadi snorts, and I realize what I just said.

"I can dothat, too," I say, leering cartoonishly. "Masturbation is a normal and healthy part of—" She shoves me. "Abuse! Abuse! This is homophobia!"

Hadi finally breaks out a real smile, instead of that tight, sardonic thing she likes to call one. Score.

"If you can get your own, go get one from them." Mau leans across the table and flicks their eyes at someone at the bar. Their back is to us, but they're still moving enough to make it clear that they were turning away quickly. Like they didn't want to be caught. "They've been staring at you since we got in."

I turn to glance over my shoulder and—

It’s him.

My heart jumps into the back of my throat, and I’m halfway off my stool before my brain catches up with what I’m actually seeing. In the light of the overhead lamps, the guy at the bar’s hair onlylooksginger, their dirty blond hair reflecting the reddish light of the barback.

Not him.

"Snacky," I stage-whisper all the same, committed now that I’m on my feet. Mau drops my befouled phone into my hand.

"Colin," Hadi says, grabbing my sleeve before I can head over. "Hey, be smart, okay?"

"The Rules?" I tap my temple.

"The Rules," she agrees, and lets me go.

As I work my way through the crowd, I try to shove away the weird flutter that even thinking I had spottedhimcaused. It's a stupid thought. There's no way someone like him—upright, posh,snobby—would sit and shoot the shit with the bartender for funsies.

So why had I beenexcitedwhen I thought it was him?

People like him don’t date people like me.

Do they?

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