evan

        You decide to take a leap one night. It was all beginning to feel like too much, that pull in your chest. The pull towards him. It was like heartburn. Metaphorically and sometimes it literally felt like indigestion. He’s giving you a ride home when you pop the question. The car is freezing, or maybe not. You’re anxious, you feel like it’s freezing but you know he’s good at keeping his car at a normal temperature. You’re shaking like a dog. He looks over at you for a second, you see out of the corner of your eye. You feel like sinking into your seat. You cut him off before he even gets the chance to ask if you’re alright.

        “John,” it feels strange coming from your mouth. You never call him that. Now that you think of it, you have probably never called him that the entire time you’ve known each other. You muster up the courage to turn and look at him as he’s driving. He’s completely focused on the road, one hand on the wheel and the other hand—the one closest to you—resting on his thigh. He smiles. God, you love his smile. Oh, God, you don’t think you can do this. There’s that feeling again, burning in your chest and in your throat. You feel like you’re gonna hurl. His sweet smile, his eyes crinkle and he turns to you for a second, noticing your serious expression. 

        “Am I in trouble, miss?” Ugh. You can’t help but smile. Your face is burning, you feel like you’re smiling like an idiot. You have to look away. You can’t keep staring at him like this. Your smile falls and you look down at your hands. You feel him nudge your arm gently. “What is it? Something wrong?”

        You shake your head. “No, of course not. I just…” I love you. I need you. I want to be with you. Not a day goes by where I’m not thinking about what it would be like to wake up in your arms. “Do you wanna go for a drink?”

        He chuckles. You swallow so hard that you have to squeeze your eyes shut tightly. Like a child trying to get a pill down. Your face feels so hot, your chest feels hot, your fingertips are tingling. He takes a wrong turn, or… What you think is a wrong turn. But he pulls the car over. As it slows to a stop, you wonder what it would be like if he just took you right there in the backseat. You blink, remembering that this is reality. To your left is a bustling bar. Well, there’s a bustling club. Next to it, is a bar. Where twenty-somethings are being kicked out and tripping over their feet. Before you can realize what’s happening, your door opens. You think, God, I must be dreaming. But no, if it was a dream, he’d hold his hand out for you and oh God, he’s doing it. He holds his hand out, waiting for you to take it. You take too long. 

       “Fine then, have it your way.” He has that little smile painted on his stupid fucking face as he raises his arms in surrender. You huff, climbing out of the car. You feel like you can’t breathe, your body is so warm that you aren’t even phased by the brisk air of the night. He walks ahead of you, making a beeline to the bar. You look over at the club and think about how you should be there, with people your age. But you turn your attention to Price, who is being as gentlemanly as always and holding the door open for you. You can’t help but smile, you follow him into the bar. 

      The music that’s playing is quiet, you immediately recognize that it’s older music. Stuff your parents used to listen to. There’s a man with grey hair whose head is buried into the bar counter, he has a glass of whiskey in his hand, you swear you can hear him snoring. The bar is made up of different types of woods. If you asked someone to picture a bar, this is what it would look like. The way Price interacts with the environment—and the people in it—tells you he’s been here before. More than once. You both pull a seat up at the bar, he orders a beer for himself and an iced tea for you—he knows you don’t drink. Why does he know that? Have you ever told him that? You can’t even remember. You can feel something inside your chest tugging you towards him but you know you can’t get any closer. If you did, you’d be in his arms. God, you’d love to close the gap. You feel like crying. You’ve felt like crying this entire time. For months. His knee is touching yours, his fucking knee is touching yours. You watch him carefully as he takes a drink. Your eyes following his hands wrapped around the glass bottle, your mind wanders. You feel like you suddenly feel like you’ve got superhuman senses—a microscopic droplet of beer dribbles down his chin, through the hair there. He says something, you know that because you’re watching his mouth. You don’t know what he says. You feel something on your knee. His hand. Oh fuck. 

         “Is something bothering you?” Yes. Yes. Fucking yes! You shake your head. Think of something. Quick. Jesus fucking Christ! 

         “Been distracted lately.” You say, looking down. He’s already moved his hand away from your leg. 

          He chuckles again. “Might need something a little stronger than iced tea, hm?” 

          You nod. He says something to the bartender, you don’t bother paying attention. Part of you feels embarrassed. Embarrassed that you got yourself in this situation with your fucking coworker. You’re ashamed to be feeling this way, There’s no way it’d even work. He’s like, twenty years older than you. The bartender places a drink in front of you, you look at Price. 

       “You’ll like it, trust me.” He takes another drink. 

        You take a sip of your drink. He’s right. You were never much of a drinker, so you’re unsure of the customs when it comes to drinking at a bar. But by his reaction when you take a bigger sip, you know you’ve made the wrong move. He laughs, which makes you laugh. Suddenly, you’re at ease. He’s smiling at you. Before you know it, you’ve downed your first drink and you’re back to your simple iced tea—you have a nice buzz going and Price is on his… Well, you’re unsure of the number of beers he’s had because you’ve only been paying attention to his lips as he takes a swig.  

        “Ah… Fuckin’ love this song…” He says. If you were a dog, your ears would perk up as you listen to the song. You’ve heard it before—from your parents. You remember. You watch his reaction, his cheeks are flushed slightly, you know he’s a bit more inebriated than you are. His eyes are closed, he’s really into the song, his fist is clenched slightly as he moves his head. Suddenly, he nods, dropping his hand to the counter. He looks at you and leans in a bit closer. “Dance with me, yeah?” 

        “Okay.” You nod, allowing him to take your hand and drag you to the empty space near the jukebox. You can’t help but giggle as he takes you in his arms and starts to dance with you. Sloppily, but it’s sweet. He holds you delicately and the both of you are smiling brightly as he starts to sing to you. He pulls you closer to him and that tugging in your chest is slack. You let out a sigh of relief. This is what you needed. This is what you’ve been craving. Not just from anyone. Him. This is what you needed with him.