Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“That’s what everyone says ‘til they’re here.” He takes another gulp, then narrows his eyes at me. They’re still somehow just as bright when he squints. “If we’re gonna be friends and ‘put our guards down’ or whatever you said earlier, you’ve gotta be honest with me.”
After returning his look, I come up to the counter, lean against it, then gaze into my wine glass like a crystal ball. “I’d say my type is an intellectual who thinks he’s cooler than he really is. He overcompensates, but in a cute way.”
“Overcompensates—?”
“Don’t interrupt.” Adrian lifts his hands innocently. “I just like the idea of someone who aspires to be something more than they are, even if they have to fake it a little at first. It’s important to have dreams, don’t you think?”
With another mouthful of wine, he slowly nods, eyes narrowed in thought.
“Ever since I was twelve,” I go on, “I pictured myself married to some sweet yet moody poet whose work won a modest monetary prize in an obscure publication. Maybe it was a poem about chemistry—literal chemistry, like the atomic makeup of oxygen or something. It would read like science and art head-butting to create a work that’s just as thought-provoking and nerdy as it is beautiful.”
“That’s … oddly specific.”
“You asked.” I gaze back at him. “Don’t you have a romantic ambition like that? A dream about what your guy someday will be like? Maybe some fellow hunk in the gym, you two catch eyes over the bicep machines, then reach for the same towel in the locker room, laugh cutely, then the rest is history?”
He gives me a look. “You’ve really got this whole romantic fantasy thing down, huh?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t have a fantasy like that.”
“Hell no. Love is a joke. Real life doesn’t happen like the movies. Certainly not for me, at least.”
“Why not?”
“Because the only guys who want to spend time with me are guys who want to fuck me.” He takes a sip, then frowns. “Sorry for being blunt, but it’s true.”
“Is it? I’m here. I don’t want to fuck you.”
“Give it time,” he says. “You’ll come around, too.”
I snort. “Adrian, you’re really letting me down here. I know you’ve got a fantasy tucked away inside that head of yours, some man who sweeps you away.”
“Why sweat so much over it? When I meet the man of my dreams, I’ll know it. ‘Til then …” He sips his wine.
I might find his laidback, somewhat cynical approach to love rather appealing, to be honest. “Well, I guess you can continue not sweating over it, but I could get married tomorrow if I had that special guy in my life.” I wince. “To be clear, I’m not desperate to get married …”
“You sure?”
“It’s more …” My eyes turn to the painting again. “I feel like I’m ready to be with someone. To bare my soul. Share all of my secrets. Finally give up some real estate in my heart that I’ve been greedily keeping to myself all of these years.”
His eyes detach as he seems to process my words. I wonder if he’s picturing his heart divided into subdivisions with little street names and cookie-cutter houses, giving up some of it to another man to occupy. Whatever Adrian’s thinking, it seem to have him genuinely lost in thought.
“You’re out,” I note.
He lifts his eyes, flustered, then realizes I’m talking about his glass. “Well, that’s obviously a problem that needs to be fixed.” He takes hold of the bottle, refills his glass, then glances my way. “And you need to catch up.”
I keep my eyes on him, smirk, then down the rest of my wine. I set my glass on the counter next to him and decide to be cute. “Fill me up, server boy.”
Surprisingly, Adrian plays along. “Why, yes, sir, Mr. Quintin, at once.” His body turns rigid as he takes on the role of a fancy server, holding the bottle with one hand and tucking his other arm behind his back, bowing slightly. He fills my glass, then twists the bottle with flair when he finishes. “Anything else I can fetch you, sir?”
I don’t know what I’m doing. I chug the wine he just poured, then slap the glass right back down. “Another.”
His eyes flash with surprise, for a moment breaking character. Then he nods, “Right away, Mr. Quintin,” and fills my glass once again.
“Thank you, sir.” I take the glass, then observe Adrian for a moment. I crack a smile. “I like that you’re playful.”
He lets go of the funny server act, setting the bottle down and relaxing onto one of the barstools. “You, too.”
A warm silence swells between us.
It feels almost peaceful.
He reaches for his glass—which is sitting a bit too far away. He slips off of the barstool unintentionally.
I reach out by instinct to stop his fall, but forget I’m holding my freshly-filled glass of wine.