Page 25 of Catching Kyle
“Then you can just watch me. If not, that’s totally fine. But hell, I’m happy for myself. I think I deserve this.”
We pay our bills, and I chew over invitation in my mind. I don’t love going to the bars, but this is a special occasion. Amani is writing again for Christ’s sake. After she got that feedback from an editor, she never thought that she could make it as a black author again. But to see her excited—it makes me excited too.
Plus, maybe going out will get my mind off Kyle. And I don’t need to worry about hooking up with someone. I can just let loose and have fun.
I rise to my feet, Naruto watching me from the wall. “Then let’s go.”
“You’re serious?” She asks with wide eyes. “Really?”
I flash her a silly grin. “Really.”
Chapter 11
Michael Cunningham
Sinceit’saweeknight,I’m thinking the bar won’t be busy, but I’m dead wrong.
A group of younger guys, mostly twinks, line the dancefloor, checking their phones periodically. The dancefloor is filled with both men and women—probably just as many straight women as there are queers—and they jump and dance to the thumping music. Older men sit at the bar as the shirtless bartender races from one end to the next, obviously stretched thin but belying his stress with a smile.
As we make our way to the bar, I spot Greg—a friend of mine I used to film content with. I wave to him, and he holds his drink up to me. He’s got a receding hairline with a stocky build, and he’s a monster in bed. We hooked up a few years back when I was still into that sort of thing, and then we started making content shortly after. He’s a nice, down-to-earth guy, and I was immediately interested in dating him. But of course he was already married. Bill, his husband, is a wonderful man, but it always seems like I fall for the guys who are never available. Luckily, I don’t have feelings for him anymore, and it’s been a while since we’ve filmed anything.
“What can I do for you, baby?” The bartender asks Amani as she approaches the bar.
“One shot of fireball for me,” she says, and she turns to me.
I grimace. “Fireball?”
Amani shrugs.
“Just an Aperol spritz for me.”
He checks me out, then starts pouring our drinks. Three drag queens dressed to the nines with even larger personalities stroll onto the dance floor and make their way to the DJ’s stage. They wear clashing shades of yellow and green, and I swear I recognize these colors from somewhere else. But it’s not a good kind of familiarity. And looking around the room, nearly the entire crowd is dressed in the same colors. And I think I can even recognize some of the faces.
“What’s going on tonight?” I yell into Amani’s ear.
A guy leans over from the bar. “It’s the gay rugby team’s fundraiser,” he says. “They’re doing something every night all week.”
And that’s when my stomach sinks to the floor. It’s the rugby team that David played on.
“Rugby,” Amani says, pulling on my arm. “Does that mean David is here?”
My knees go weak. Memories of my ex flash through my mind. Sneaking away with one of the members from a visiting team and then lying about it. Him getting shitfaced, then angry at me for not keeping him in check. Promising he would stay sober and then caving in at the slightest provocation. Any and all rugby events were torture for me.
And I just walked right into one.
Though we broke up two years ago, the thought of us being in the same room makes me nauseous. He always knew how to push my buttons, how to make me anxious. He’s the whole reason I went into recovery.
But I doubt he’s here. I heard he moved a year ago.
“It should be fine,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “There weren’t enough guys to sleep with in Portland, so he moved to LA.”
She squeezes my arm, seeing right through my bravado. “Are you going to be okay?”
I look at her, wanting to give her a reassuring look, but it just comes out as a wince.
“I’ll take my shot, and then we can get out of here,” she says.
The bartender hands me our drinks, and I slap enough cash for us and our tip on the counter. I don’t want our cards holding us back when it’s time to leave.
