Page 19 of Pick One
“You are,” Fern confirmed, slapping my hand away. “You’re heading to BarZ.”
“Because your John isyourJohn,” Monica said firmly. “And he needs to know that you don’t want any others.”
“Oh.” When she put it like that, it suddenly made so much sense. “Yes, he hecking does! It is right and just! I should write him a poem. Or, like, an original song!”
“Maybe not a song, sweetie.” Monica wrinkled her nose.
Fern grimaced. “Definitely not a song.”
“Oooh, my granddaughter Nicki works at BarZ!” Mrs. Graziella exclaimed. “Hang on half a sec.”
Mrs. Graziella removed an enormous phone from her bra and tapped on it with bejeweled fingernails. “Nickiisworking tonight, and she confirms Johnisat the bar.”
“Ha! It’s a sign,” Monica crowed.
Mrs. Graziella pursed her lips. “She also says John’s flirting with a cute guy who’s been buying him gin and tonics.” She looked up at me. “She thinks he’s from out of town.”
“The fuck you say!” I exclaimed, a little too loudly. I pulled at my hair band, releasing it from its topknot.
“Easy, killer,” Fern began. “We don’t know for sure—”
“How dare he be flirting with some imported interloper on the night when I am to sing the song of my undying love to him!” I yelled. “This is outrageous. I am marching down there—”
I took a wobbly step away from the couch, and Mrs. Graziella grabbed my elbow to steady me. “Or maybe you’ll catch a taxi,” she suggested.
“—and I am taking what is mine.John is mine.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Fern sighed and rolled her eyes. “Maybe don’t lead with that line, m’kay?”
Monica grabbed my shoulders and drew me into an impulsive hug. “Don’t listen to a word she says,” she whispered. “You shoulddefinitelylead with that.”
* * *
It tookme a little longer than I would have liked to get to the bar, since Fern had pointed out that I was wearing boxer shorts and fuzzy socks, and this attire might be frowned upon, even at a casual spot like our local hangout. By the time they’d sent me on my way in a pair of tight jeans and my favorite blue crop top, I was already sober again.
Well, okay, more like sober-ish.
Way too sober for original love songs, that was for damn sure. Which meant I was gonna have to wing it.
I scanned the bar area when I first got inside and found the place waspacked. But John’s height and bulk made it pretty hard for him to hide, and he definitely wasn’t there.
“Nicki,” I called, lifting a hand in greeting to the small, dark-haired woman behind the bar.
She gave me a small return smile, then tilted her chin toward the dance floor with an unhappy look.
I turned my head and sure enough, John—myJohn—was part of the throng of people packing the small space. Under the flashing strobe lights, his dark hair shone, and he moved with a kind of unself-conscious grace he usually only had when he’d been drinking.
The guy he was with…ugh. Hewascute. He was tall—well, taller than me—and younger than either of us, with a smile I could tell from a distance was playful and sweet. His hair was golden brown and incredibly messy, like he—or maybemy John—had been running his fingers through it. They looked… really good together.
My throat went dry, and as I stood on the edge of the dance floor and watched them moving together in perfect rhythm, I had a moment of overwhelming self-doubt.
Maybe this guy was good for John. Maybe Mr. Cute-and-Playful was less of a drama queen than me, less inclined to turn to John when he was just trying to enjoy his Tuesday tacos and present him with annoying conundrums like, “Okay, pick one, Johnny, world peaceora cure for cancer…” Less likely to cry while watching Netflix or attach sentimental value to his sofa.
And, heck, John had never shown any romantic interest in me. Maybe Monica had been wrong. Maybe he wasn’t here because he’d misunderstood my intentions with Other-John. Maybe he’d come out to meet this guy and had stood me up on purpose.
He certainly didn’t seem to be thinking of me at the moment.
As I hesitated, a man came up and stood beside me. Like me, he didn’t seem eager to join the throng.
