Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(34)
“And you’re fine with all of this?” Nora asks, her eyes tracking my movements as I pace back and forth in front of the table.
I reach over and grab Jonathan’s wrist to check his watch. Seventeen minutes.
“I’m completely fine.”
I walk to the other side of the table and pick up Alex’s beer, knowingly breaking my “no drinks on a school night” rule. “You don’t mind, do you?”
I knock back the remainder of his drink, hand the empty bottle back to him, and resume pacing.
“You seem completely fine, which is great.” Meg passes me her drink without me asking.
“Thank you,” I tell her after I finish her tequila soda in two gulps. “I’ll get you another one.” I shove my hand into the empty cup and grab the remaining ice cubes, letting them melt in my hands.
Alex tugs at my arm. “How about you sit down for a se—”
“I don’t need to sit down,” I announce, and it comes out sharper than I intended. “This is nothing but a casual get-together and a perfect opportunity for me to hang out with Finn outside of work in a low-stakes environment.”
Sandy’s words bring me a small sense of comfort, despite my being frustrated with her right now.
With a deep crease between his brows, Jonathan asks, “Phoebe, why didn’t you tell us this was happening?” He grabs my hips and plants me down firmly next to him in the booth.
“Because it’s so not a big deal that it wasn’t even worth saying anything,” I say while grabbing his wrist again. Nine minutes. “We need to spread out.” I gesture to the empty booth right behind ours. “There’s not enough room at our table for two more. Jonathan, I need you over here with me.”
Nora shoots up from her seat in the corner of her booth, her shiny curls bouncing in unison with her boobs.
“I can come over there, too!” she says.
“Nora”—I look her dead in the eye and hold her gaze—“I need you to stay exactly where you are.” She huffs as she plops back down, and I guide Jonathan to his new spot in the empty booth. Alex wraps an arm around Nora’s shoulders in consolation.
“Phoebe, I’m not sure I’m the best wingman,” Jonathan says while picking at his cuticles. “Alex should take my spot. He’s good at this kind of stuff.”
“Jonathan…” I grab his hands and look up into his worried eyes. “I need you.”
He responds with a quick nod and takes his seat in our new booth. And we wait.
* * *
—
It’s seven o’clock, I’ve melted more than ten ice cubes in my palms, and Finn’s still not here. “Maybe he thought you meant next week, Pheebs,” Jonathan suggests with a sympathetic shrug.
“No,” I sigh. “It was clear we were talking about tonight. He’s not coming.”
I kick myself under the table for being disappointed over Finn not showing up, when less than an hour ago, it’s what I was secretly hoping for.
Jonathan drapes a reassuring arm across my shoulders, and the musky smell of his cologne gives me a brief respite from my anxious thoughts. I lean into him.
“I don’t like this,” he says while brushing his thumb up and down my shoulder, his eyes fixed on the door. “I don’t like him for you.”
I squint, angling my eyes up toward his. “You’re acting weird.”
It usually takes a few drinks and endless encouragement for Jonathan, the sweetest guy in the world, to say something negative about someone.
“I’m fine,” he answers too quickly. “I don’t like seeing you upset, that’s all.”
My dad once told me that if you want to keep someone talking, all you need to do is stare at them intensely while saying absolutely nothing. The idea is that it makes them uncomfortable enough to want to fill the silence. So I sit up, scooch back, and stare.
I stare straight into his green eyes and don’t blink until finally, right when my eyes start to water, he breaks. “It just makes me nervous how much you like him; it seems like you’re setting yourself up to be disappointed.”
“Why are you so sure I’ll be disappointed?” I ask.
“It’s not that I’m sure…” he starts.
“Well, then, what is it?”
Jonathan opens his mouth and looks around the room, probably trying to find the quickest route to escape this conversation.
He stands up suddenly. “I’ll go get us drinks,” he says, a poor attempt at trying to avoid confrontation.
“No, I will,” I say, slipping out of the booth. “I owe Meg and Alex one anyway.” I take a step toward the bar and immediately slam into a broad chest. I let out an “oof,” and solid hands reach out to steady me.
“Phoebe!” Finn’s hands wrap around my arms, holding me in place. He’s wearing a gray crewneck with a white T-shirt peeking out from underneath, and the hair falling over his eyes is slightly damp. He smells like apricot shampoo.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he says as he pushes the wet strands of hair out of his eyes. “Noah here was hogging the shower.” He steps aside, revealing someone who Meg would call a short king and Alex would categorize as a twunk (not to be confused with a twink). Either way, I know they’ll both want him. With dark skin and a stocky athletic build, Noah’s the perfect contrast to Finn’s golden complexion and long, toned legs.