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CHAPTER SEVEN

HE STARES AT ME. Flipping the card back over, regarding the obverse. It's not my real one, and it's not the first time that I've ever used it. Expecting a hard time, or perhaps even to be kicked out, I put on my most serious, older person of a look. The bartender simply smiles and makes no fuss as he hands me back my ID, pouring me my drink—bourbon, neat. After I down it in one go, he asks me if I want another, but I decline it, opting for a Guinness, instead. He smiles, winking as he gives me my new drink. Jordan returns from the bathroom to rejoin me at his seat next to me at the bar. It's been a couple of lonely weeks since I've last seen him, so I smile at him just a little wider than I perhaps normally would.

"Yup! I was right," Jordan says, returning my smile from behind the tall glass of his Long Island.

"About what?" I ask before I sip my Guinness, blankly regarding the frothy micro-bubbles.

"I saw that." He glances at the bartender, whom now furtively busies himself with serving another patron. "Not to mention, the rest of the bar."

"Not interested," I admit, plainly, not bothering to look back at all of the eyes that I can feel rolling across the back of my head and down my back to get a good feel of me. Although it feels satisfying to be the object of attention—in the sense that it's coming from people who are like me, other gay males, instead of the straight girls that I've never felt any attraction for—I feel bad that I still feel nothing for the ones currently giving me their attention.

"You're not just playing hard to get, are you?" He smirks, sipping the straw of his drink from the corner of his pale, pink lips. "You practically have your pick of anyone you'd like—from what I can see."

"Not interested," I repeat myself, plainly.

"I guess, that's too bad for them."

"Yes, it is."

"None of them are your type, huh? Well, I guess I should've asked. What is your type?" His amber eyes narrow, seemingly keen with interest. I don't know what my type could possibly be, I've never bothered, or rather, I've never allowed myself to look before. I don't know why, but of all the possible things I could be thinking of, somehow he comes up as the first answer in my brain—Jordan. I choke as the Guinness goes down the wrong pipe, I cough my lungs out as I try to expel the thought. Jordan pats my back, rubbing gentle circles across the blade of my shoulder. "You all right? Wouldn't have asked if I thought it'd kill you."

"Wrong tube," I say between coughs.

"Clearly," he says, his kind amber eyes fill with concern as he waits for my fit of coughing to dissipate, still rubbing my back.

"I'm not dying," I say, dryly and still between coughs, although it's quickly subsiding and returning back towards normal. "What time's your friend joining us?"

"He should be here before they turn it into a bit of a nightclub, so eigth-ish. Wait—don't change the subject—how am I to help you, if I don't know who you might be into?"

"Sorry—wasn't trying to," I manage to say, rather violently clearing my throat, still trying to clear away my first answer from my previous thoughts. I still don't know why he's the one that came up. Perhaps it's his friendliness, his gentle and genuine care for me, his kindness, or perhaps it's those qualities, in general, and not just because it's specifically about him at all. "Honestly, I don't know. All things considered—I've never let myself look before."

"Right. The closet," he says, simply, removing his gentle hand away from rubbing my back. "So?"

"Long walks on the beach," I say, smartly, earning me his smirk, accompanied by a light smack on my arm from the back of his hand.