Page 3 of Changing the Playbook
“Sophie.” I take his hand. His palm is warm and solid against mine, and I hold on for maybe a beat too long.
I steel myself for the usual twenty questions, the standard bar pickup questionnaire that we both know is just marking time until someone suggests finding somewhere quieter and with less clothes. What do you do? Are you a student? What are you studying? Come here often?
Instead, he tilts his head, studying me. “That’s an interesting bracelet.”
I glance down at my wrist, startled. Most people politely ignore the chaotic disaster Hazel made at summer camp. Hot pink beads clash with purple stars and green hearts, while one random silver bead shaped like a dinosaur presides over the chaos because.
“My sister made it. She’s eight. It was a summer camp project.”
“The dinosaur really ties it all together.”
A surprised laugh escapes. “That’s what she said!”
“Smart kid.” He shifts back, and I definitely don’t notice how his henley stretches across his chest. “I actually took a jewelry-making class recently.”
I blink, shocked, because that’s not something I expectedthisguy toeversay. “Really?”
“Yeah, it was…” He shakes his head, grinning at some memory. “OK, so it’s part of this thing where I’m trying new stuff, and I figured, how hard could jewelry-making be? I usedto make friendship bracelets with my sister when we were kids, right?”
I lean forward, oddly charmed by the image of this guy—who looks like he probably played every sport in high school and now bench presses motorbikes for fun—sitting in a craft circle, discussing the merits of chiffon or voile as a fabric choice.
“So I show up,” he continues, “and it’s me and twelve women who are clearly preparing to launch Etsy empires. They’ve got professional tools, business cards already printed, a product lineup in mind, and they’re discussing things like ‘brand aesthetic’ and ‘market positioning.’”
I smirk. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. And there I am with my bag of plastic beads from the craft store, ready to make some friendship bracelets.”
Genuine laughter bubbles up from my chest. “What did you do?”
“Tried to play it cool. Acted like I was going for a ‘minimalist aesthetic.’ Even used the word ‘deconstructed’ at one point.” He takes a swig of beer. “Nobody bought it. Especially not when I spent twenty minutes trying to make a spoon ring and somehow ended up with a spoon… square?”
“Did you finish the class?”
“All six weeks. Even sold a bracelet at the end-of-class craft fair.”
My eyes widen, and I’m grinning. “Really? Someone bought it?”
“My mom’s a very supportive woman.”
Another laugh escapes. When’s the last time I laughed this much with a stranger? Usually bar conversations feel like hostage negotiations—figuring out how fast we can get through the pleasantries and move to the naked portion of the evening—but this feels different, like sinking into a warm bath after a long shift.
“What about you?” he asks. “Any hidden crafting talents besides rocking excellent dinosaur jewelry?”
“Unless you count color-coding study notes as a craft, no.” I pause. “Actually, my friend Maya would argue I’ve elevated it to an art form. I have a system.”
“How complex are we talking?”
“Different colors for different subjects, obviously. But also subcategories within each subject. And cross-references. And a separate color just for things that will definitely be on the exam versus things that might be on the exam versus things that I’ll skip if they’re on the exam…”
He looks genuinely impressed. “That’s...”
“Neurotic?”
“I was going to say thorough. But also kind of genius.” He shrugs. “I just write everything in whatever pen hasn’t dried out and hope for the best.”
“That gives me anxiety just thinking about it.”
The server comes around to take orders and delivers our drinks a minute later—another beer for him, another vodka soda for me—and for a moment I think I should probably slow down. But the warmth spreading through my chest has less to do with alcohol and more to do with the way Mike leans in slightly when I talk, like every word matters.
