Page 3 of The Write Place

Jenny hums as her eyes shift from me to Evan, then extends her hand to him. “I’m Jenny,” she says, and I eye her warily.

“Evan,” he responds, shaking her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Evan,” she gives him a furtive smile, and I frown, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “My friend here,” she indicates me with her head, “was just texting me about you.” I glare at her, but she doesn’t notice me. I try to glare harder so she can feel the holes I’m boring into her skull, but she still doesn’t take her eyes off of Evan.

“Good things, I hope.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. I’m drawn to it enough that I pause my glaring to watch the way the skin around his eyes crinkle a little as he tries not to smile too broadly.

Jenny shrugs as the bartender deposits another glass of wine in front of her. She picks it up. “Maybe,” she chirps noncommittally. “I’m going to head back up there. Isn’t it nice to listen to live music on a Friday night?”

“Super nice.” I hope the sarcasm is oozing out of me, and it must be by the way Evan is trying harder not to smile.

My attitude leaves Jenny unfazed, though, and she leans in close to my ear, saying, “Live a little, Mac.” I can feel my cheeks turning crimson and I hope the lighting is bad enough in here that Evan doesn’t notice. As she pulls away from me, she waves her fingers at us and makes her way back toward the stage.

When I feel like the heat has receded from my face, I find Evan already looking at me. He cocks his head toward the door. “Do you want to get out of here?”

My eyes widen and I shake my head slightly. “I’m also not in the habit of leaving bars with strangers,” I say, as if that should be obvious. He raises his hands, palms out.

“I just mean let’s sit outside. I promise not to take you off the premises. I’d like to hear more of you and less of this.” He gestures, encompassing the entire space. I sense heat rise to my cheeks again at the compliment, but I agree. I also don’t know how much more of this music I can take. He stands and makes his way outside with me following closely behind.

Once we are outside, the humidity greets us, but the relative quiet is like a balm to my soul. I sigh with a deep relief, and Evan’s chuckle rumbles again next to me.

I can’t help myself; I giggle a little. “It was so bad.”

His expression is serious. “So, so bad.” There is an awkward silence as we take in the scene. All the chairs are taken, even despite the heat, which is a testament to how much the music is driving people outside. We glance at each other, and Evan shrugs. He takes a seat on the curb a few feet away, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and sets the remains of his drink on the ground. I send a quick text to Jenny that I’m sitting outside, then I join him, conscious of staying far enough away from him so as not to seem eager to get close.

More awkward silence. I fidget with the strap on my sandal. I’m debating downing the rest of my beer and calling it a night when he shifts toward me, using his whole body, his legs coming dangerously close to mine. He takes a breath as if he is going to say something, then lets it out, apparently deciding better of it. I raise my eyebrows in question.

“I’m trying to think of something to ask you that won’t require you to divulge any personal information, since you’ve not yet deemed me trustworthy.” There is no malice in his voice, only gentle teasing. Heat rises to my cheeks yet again, and I make a mental note to figure out what is wrong with my face. I press my palms into the dirty curb, nervously tapping my fingers against the gritty concrete.

“Do you read?” I try not to appear too hopeful, but I’m rewarded with a wide smile. I can see a dimple on his left cheek.

“I do. Do you?” He sounds eager. I nod. He sits upright a little, his eyes sparkling again. It is clear I have opened a treasure trove for him. “Let me guess your favorite book.”

I narrow my eyes skeptically. “Okay, sure. You can try.”

He rubs his palms together in mock excitement and then puts his fingertips to his lips, which I force myself not to study for too long. When I shift my gaze back to his eyes, I find him regarding me carefully, though I sense some amusement.

“I’m really good at this.” He squints at me as if he can see into my brain.

“I think you’re stalling,” I return, bemused. He just shakes his head, still studying me. He drops his hands and takes a deep breath, as if making a final decision.

“The Odyssey.” It’s a statement, not a question, and I burst out laughing. He holds back a smile.

“Homer?” I ask, incredulous. “Seriously? No. Whose favorite book is The Odyssey?”

“It’s a great text,” he exclaims in mock-defensiveness. “It has everything. Monsters, war, adventure, love…”

“A cheating husband. Pushy suitors. Death,” I continue his list. He waves away the words as if they are unimportant.

“Okay, sure. So, it’s not The Odyssey. King Lear, then, or something else by Shakespeare.” Again, not a question. I laugh and shake my head. “A Tale of Two Cities.” I’m still shaking my head. “Ah. Hemingway. Definitely. The Sun Also Rises.” I’m laughing so hard people are starting to look at us. I catch an annoyed glance from a woman playing bags a few feet away, but I can’t stop.

“Why are all of your guesses written by dead white men?” I choke out between laughter.

“Ahh, so we have a modernist here. And a feminist, apparently. That’s helpful. Sylvia Plath? Toni Morrison?” A man sitting at a nearby table gives us a sidelong glance. I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to breathe. He takes a second to study me further, and my laughter calms under his gaze. Then he snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it. Mary Shelley!” he exclaims. I burst into more laughter.

“What? No!”

He throws up his hands in mock defeat, slapping his thighs. “You mean to tell me you don’t like any of these I’ve mentioned?”