Hardwood - K.M. Neuhold Page 0,8

trying to get the first graders I teach ready for their fall concert next week while also preparing for parent teacher conferences only a few days away.

“Yeah, I’ll keep my plants, thanks,” my best friend, Jordy, says unsympathetically, taking a sip from his martini. Yes, he’s the kind of guy who orders a martini at a pub, because he’s just a bit extra like that, and also because he has type one diabetes and rarely drinks, so when he does, it’s always something fancy.

“Go get your drink and get your ass back here so I can tell you about the pretty girl I scored a date with for Friday night,” Mia says, making a shooing motion with her hands to hurry me along.

“Oh goodie, Jordy and I love hearing about all your dates when we’re both in a dry spell,” I deadpan.

“Well, up your game then, damn. You’re both hot. If you aren’t getting any action, you aren’t trying hard enough.”

I chuckle and roll my eyes at her. Leave it to Mia to make even dating a case of mind over matter, even if her advice is at odds with what she said this morning.

Maybe she thought that was just what I needed to hear in the moment, but it’s been on my mind all day. I do want my happily ever after to include the man of my dreams, but what if he never shows up? It’s always been my dream to adopt a couple of kids. Do I have to wait for Mr. Right to pursue that dream? I always thought I did, as silly and traditional as that sounds. But maybe I’ve been thinking of things all wrong.

I turn to head up to the bar and spot the guy from the parking lot. I guess he worked up the courage to come inside after all. Good for him. Before the hot and heavy couple came through the door, I was debating whether I should offer the man any kind of moral support or if this was the kind of thing he needed to work up to on his own. Even after I stepped inside, I wasn’t sure I made the right choice.

But, damn, he is good looking. I’ve always been a sucker for a guy in a backward baseball cap, probably a remnant from my high school years spent pining over all the jocks who didn’t know I existed. It was their loss. The band and theater kids threw much wilder parties anyway. Jock fetish aside, the man is wearing the hell out of a tight black t-shirt, the muscles of his arms straining the fabric…

Okay, yes, Mia is right that my happily ever after doesn’t have to include a man, but it totally could include a delicious specimen like him.

He sips from a glass, looking around the bar with an obvious nervous expression. Is he new in town and struggling with social anxiety? Or is this his first venture out to a gay bar? Maybe he’s more of the homebody type or just got out of a long-term relationship and isn’t quite sure he’s ready to date again. Or maybe he’s a late bloomer? So many possibilities, so many unanswered questions, and so not my business, not that that’s ever stopped me.

I reach the bar—covered in rings from drinks long past and sticky spots that are difficult to avoid— and lean over a little with my elbows on the shabby wood,.

“Van,” I call out to the bartender who’s in the middle of pouring a drink. His eyes flicker to me, and he gives a quick nod to let me know he saw me. Being on a first name basis with the bartender and having a regular order possibly suggests I’m here too often.

While I wait for my drink, I glance over at the man again, seated only a foot or so away from me now, his shoulders hunched, his hand clenched tight around his glass.

“Hi, I’m Watson,” I introduce myself, offering my hand.

He looks startled for a moment, his eyebrows going up as he stares at my hand as if he’s never seen one before. After a few seconds, he seems to shake off his surprise, giving me a shy smile and shaking my hand.

“Everett,” he says. His handshake is firm, the palm of his hand rough and calloused against mine. I wonder if he works with his hands for a living. I could see him as a carpenter or a mechanic, all sweaty and hard