Page 32 of AJ’s Fire

“Hey, therapist, you ever have someone come out later in life?” I didn’t often directly ask Jamie for professional advice; he was my idiot brother, after all. I was a little surprised and a lot self-conscious when he yanked himself away from me to target me with laser-focused eyes.

“What did you say!”

“Sorry, man. Yeah, I guess you don’t want to be thinking about work right now. It’s just …”

“No, no, it’s not that, it’s just …”

“Holy shit,” Emily shouted, and I was impressed at how loudly the sound traveled over the table in the ear-splittingly noisy dance hall. “The feminist author Natalie Marchetti-Gordon just liked my photo. Holy crap! Is she? … Are you … ?”

Whatever Jamie was about to say, and whatever I thought I was going to ask or confess, it was lost as we both put on polite smiles and turned our chairs to the table.

“She’s our stepmom,” Jamie confirmed, and Emily started to praise one of Nat’s books to her two companions, peppering us with questions about Nat and our dad as we shouted back and forth at each other across the table.

Jamie was sitting next to Ruth, and as the conversion veered away from Nat and feminism, he took me in once more. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“We’ll talk later this week, alright? Go for a beer?”

“Yes, let's.” Jamie’s eyes locked with mine. I knew he was trying to confirm if I was really okay, so I gave him a smile and told him to stop ignoring his date. He stood and offered her his hand.

“Shall we dance?” he said formally. My brother could be such a dork sometimes, but Ruth simply gave him a soft smile as she took his hand and rose.

As they took off, I looked at the other two women sitting across from me; they had their heads together conspiratorially. I poured myself another glass of champagne and purposefully kept my eyes on the crowded dance floor below.

I was in my own little world, thinking about what I’d seen on Jax’s phone, what I knew of him, of our relationship, of myself. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that I didn’t know one fucking thing.

“It’s so close to midnight!” Emily’s voice really did carry. She looked knowingly at Casey and then at me. “AJ, you’re closer; go get your partner.”

“My partner?”

“Isn’t that what it’s called? I thought I heard Jackson describe you as his partner after that fire, when you had to go to the hospital. He was worried because he had taken off work that day for Thanksgiving, and you had to team with someone else.” Emily and Casey shared another look as Emily stood and came around the table. “I thought he called you his partner. Anyway, you should go get Mr. Moody over there. He shouldn’t be tapping on his phone when midnight hits. He should be with you, with us, I mean, his two best friends.”

“Casey doesn’t want to …”

“No, she does not,” Emily interrupted to state pointedly. “Go get ’em,” she said as if I was a little kid being called in to substitute on the soccer field, I half expected her to slap my ass as I turned around. I walked to the bar, where Jackson was nursing a drink, staring at it instead of the phone that rested on the counter. As I stood next to my sullen-looking best friend, I watched Casey and Emily run down the stairs hand in hand to join the dancing throngs.

“The girls are going to dance. Did you want to join them, Jax?”

“Nah, you go. Enjoy your date. I’m good.”

“I …” The bartender pointed at me, and I waved down to Jackson’s drink, then flashed him two fingers.

“I’ll stick with you.” I shoulder bumped him. “Ring in the New Year with my best friend.”

“Not with Emily?”

“You know, I don’t think Emily ever had any real intention of dating me. At least, she hasn’t shown much interest tonight. What about you and Casey?”

Jackson shook his head, still distracted. “Ems set that up. We’re just here as friends.”

I laughed. “I don’t think Jamie and Ruth are a thing either. He told Vera he’d be home early, so we’re oh for three tonight.”

Jackson finally let out a soft laugh. “Happy New Year.” The bartender set down two glasses and collected the one Jackson had been staring intently at.

Jackson handed one glass to me, our fingers brushing in a way I’m sure they must have done a thousand times before, in a thousand different situations. I had never noticed that the touch of his hand against mine, the brush of his mere finger against my skin, could elicit such a reaction. It was as if the countdown had already concluded. As if corks were popping, and cheers were rising, and people were … kissing.

I grabbed that drink from him and guzzled it down, slamming it on the counter as the countdown actually did begin in earnest. “Ten, nine, eight … “