who weren’t. That makes me sound like such a jerk—it’s not because I was so cool or awesome or anything. It’s just because it was weird being the only person there who everybody knew about. Once you can’t walk into a room and assume people don’t know who you are or what you do, it’s easier if everybody else is in the same position. I didn’t like being in rooms where somebody would ask eight people in a row what they do and then say, ‘Well, I know who you are.’ So the way it worked out, even though I’d rather have been, I don’t know, hanging out with friends and watching TV, I’d wind up at a vodka launch party. And at a vodka launch party, you meet a particular kind of a person.”
Evvie leaned forward. “A what party?”
“You know. ‘We’re debuting our new, whatever, peanut butter vodka, and we’re having a party at some club that’s going to be dark and loud as fuck, and everybody’s going to be screaming in each other’s ears, and it will take ten minutes to get a drink at the bar and you’ll be behind some walking wad of grease trying to sell a screenplay, but the good news is that all your booze is free as long as you drink our new vodka, which probably tastes like Mr. Peanut’s back sweat.’ ”
“Is there really peanut butter vodka?”
“If there isn’t, it’s not because it’s too stupid for somebody to launch with a party.”
“I think of parties as a good thing. That doesn’t seem to be your experience.”
“In, I think, 2014,” he said, “I went to a St. Patrick’s Day party in a warehouse that was so crowded that a woman poured an entire green beer down my back. I’ll bet whatever you were doing up here was a lot more fun than that.”
Evvie looked at the ceiling, trying to remember. “I think in March 2014, we were negotiating the bill for my dad’s back surgery so he could keep his house.”
It was quiet. Dean put down his glass. He put one hand on his chest. “I am an asshole. I’m sorry.”
“You are not,” she said, reaching over and resting her hand on his wrist. “That wasn’t fair.” She sat back up. “We’ve just lived differently. I mean, I’m not particularly glamorous, Dean. This is…” She looked down at herself. “This is about as good as I get.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of being into you?” Dean asked, fixing her with a stare. “Because it’s not going to work. I’m very into you right now. Very.”
Buuuuuuuh. “Good,” she managed to say.
“Speaking of which.” He produced from his pocket a key on a ring with a round brass tag. He laid it down on the table. “This is for Room 208, which is upstairs.”
Evvie leaned forward to look at the key but didn’t touch it. “Wow, a real key. I thought everybody used plastic cards now. Very classy.” She didn’t know if she was supposed to say more. “I bet it’s nice.”
“Well, that’s not for you,” Dean said. “I’m in 208.” He reached into his pocket again. He slid another key onto the table. “This is 204. Across the hall.”
Evvie raised her eyebrows. “You got separate rooms,” she said. “You’re serious. You seriously got separate rooms.”
His eyes flicked around the restaurant, and he fidgeted with his key. “I—I get that we’re not nineteen or anything,” he said. “But I figure I’ll hang out, and I’ll wait. And, you know. Consider yourself invited over.”
She looked at a strand of his hair that curled against his ear. “You got separate rooms,” she repeated.
“It seemed like it was going to be slick when I first thought of it,” he muttered toward the table, and then he looked back up at her. “Now I’m not sure. This feels like a weak move. Is this a weak move? This is a weak move, right?”
Evvie picked up her key and turned it over in her hand. “No, I think it’s hot.”
They looked directly at each other, and Evvie briefly considered grabbing both keys off the table, hooking her fingers through Dean’s belt loops, and dragging him upstairs so fast that he’d still be holding his wineglass when she ripped his shirt off. But just then, the waitress reappeared, and she realized that neither of them had given a moment of thought to what they were going to eat.
EVENTUALLY, THEY ORDERED, AND THEY ate, and the place got