I don’t know much about the KSEA sports hierarchy. “Instead of pro?” I ask, and he nods. It makes sense that a happier Seth might lead to a promotion for Russell, too. “Torrance scheduled me to work every night of Hanukkah last year because she didn’t realize it isn’t on the same days every year and didn’t think to ask.”
“One time, Seth cut a story of mine after a fight with Torrance because his favorite team had lost.”
“Torrance only cares about my opinion when she’s using me as a pawn to get me to take sides.”
“Seth never cares about my opinion.”
It’s like we’re trying to prove who has the worse boss, and it’s a game that, much like white elephant, no one wins.
“It’s a real shame they divorced,” I say. “They deserve each other.”
“It’s hard to imagine them being more miserable than they are now.” He nods toward my empty glass. “Need another?”
I’m already flagging down the bartender.
* * *
? ? ?
“I SWEAR, ONE of these days my hand is going to slip and I’ll dump dish soap into Seth’s coffee,” Russell is saying, waving his arm for emphasis, as though to illustrate how easy this would be.
A half dozen empty glasses cover the bar in front of us, and we are a mess. Russell’s burgundy jacket is draped across the stool on his other side, the sleeves of his black shirt unbuttoned at the wrists and rolled up. He keeps jostling his glasses when he gestures too wildly with his hands, the way he’s doing right now. Every time, I have to fight the urge to reach over and stop him from flinging his glasses off his face.
I tied my hair into a topknot with an elastic I found in my purse, and I’m too far gone to care that it’s probably sticking out in every direction. Holding myself upright on the stool: another skill I can’t quite master.
“Don’t tell me that!” I say, but I’m laughing. “I don’t want to be an accomplice. I don’t need this on my conscience.”
“Listen. I have to tell you, so you can be my alibi.”
It’s kind of great to complain about work with someone who’s gotten just as shitty a hand as I have. Garrison’s analyst job was so stressful that I tried to stay quiet about work around him, except on rare occasions I couldn’t keep it in anymore. Still, I’d always worry when I let something slip that he’d react by pushing me away.
I feel like I don’t even know who you are anymore, Garrison told me during our last fight, which was also one of our first fights. Halloween. You’ve never been real with me, have you?
It was the worst kind of insult because I didn’t know how to make myself more real, more authentically Ari Abrams. I felt pretty human; I wasn’t some otherworldly monster parading around in a human costume. But Garrison thought I never took off the sunshine mask I wear on camera, the one that helps me smile even when things are falling apart.
The only things I kept from him were for his own good. Although lately, I’ve been wondering how happy I really was with him if I hid that much of myself.
“Have you thought of quitting?” I ask Russell, trying to smooth out my topknot in a way I hope looks casual.
“Sometimes?” he says, phrasing it as a question. “I got pretty far in the interview process at a station in Tacoma a couple years ago, but ultimately I didn’t get the gig. And any of the smaller stations don’t pay nearly as well, even if the pay here isn’t that incredible to begin with. I need the stability.”
“Ah. Student loans?”
“Something like that.” His cheeks glow bright pink. Drunk looks cute on him.
I lift my eyebrows at him, but he just reaches for his glass. Secret agent mode activated. He could tell me he’s financially supporting a family of woodland elves that have taken up residence in his basement and subsist on glitter and marshmallows, and I’d believe him.
“For me it’s that this was supposed to be my dream job,” I say. “Going from Yakima to Seattle, getting to work where I grew up . . . that was a huge. And I mean, I finally got a billboard.”
“We finally got a billboard,” he says.
“That was your first one, too?”
“Up on Aurora, near the donut place?” Then, clearly realizing what happened to the billboard, his grin slips into a grimace.
“Oh no. The bird shit’s still there, isn’t it?”
Russell holds a solemn hand to his heart, like he’s vowing to avenge me. “How dare that bird deface an image of one of KSEA’s finest.”
My face heats up again. I should stop. I should have stopped a couple drinks ago, if only because my meager salary cannot support drinks in hotel bars, no matter how desperately they’re needed.
“God, I can’t remember the last time I drank this much.” I bring my hands to my cheeks, wanting to signal to him that this is why I’m so flushed, not for any other reason. Definitely not because with the two of us sitting this close, I can tell that beneath his single opened shirt button is a patch of chest hair, and I’ve always been drawn to a man with chest hair. Not like, to the point where I seek them out, but I’ve felt a little thrill when undressing someone for the first time. Mountain men and beard hairnets? Whatever, I’m owning it.
“Hell of a Christmas party,” he agrees.
“Holiday party,” I correct.
At that, he gives me this sheepish look. “I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but I guess I’ve gotten into the habit of not talking about religion at work. I’m Jewish, too. And this was definitely a Christmas party.”
“Wait, what?” I knock his arm with mine, an action that sends electricity across my skin. It may be the first time I’ve touched Russell Barringer, and he immediately glances down to where my arm met his, as though he’s realizing it, too. “I thought there were only two of us! We should start a club! You, me, and Hannah Stern.”
He scratches at his stubble, pretending to look pensive. “What would we do during club meetings?”
“I don’t know, learn how to make hamantaschen? I’ve always wanted to.” With my glass, I gesture between us. “Look at us, two Jews, the last people to leave a Christmas party.”
“Hey, we keep Hanukkah going for eight nights. We don’t skimp on celebration.”
“I feel like most Jewish holidays are observance and reflection as opposed to celebration.”
“Fair point,” he says, nudging his glass against mine with a soft clink. The way alcohol has unstitched him, turned my ever-pleasant coworker into someone honest and fun—I don’t hate it.
I still can’t get over this fact about him. It shouldn’t be groundbreaking, but there it is: Russell Barringer is Jewish and drunk and kind of adorable, and his leg is five inches from mine. If I slipped off my stool, which is a distinct possibility, I’d fall into his lap.
His eyes lower before flicking back up to mine with an intensity that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. Is he checking me out? I’m so out of practice.
“I like your pin,” he says, his voice a quarter of the volume it is when he’s reporting a story from down on a football field.