Jett invited the floor to drinks on a Friday.
Not everyone went. Eight or 10 people, the younger ones mostly, the ones who still had energy to pretend they wanted to hang out with coworkers after spending 40 hours with them (... guilty!). The bar was maybe three blocks from the office. It had exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs, and $21 cocktails with names like Blackberry Sage Smash that were no larger than a swig of mouthwash. The kind of place I would never go on my own because a single drink cost what I spent on groceries in two days. I went, but I was trying to figure out how to not buy drinks while still fit in. Did I even want to fit in anymore? After what Graham was doing to me?
I steeled myself: I went because my basement room was waiting for me like it always was and I couldn't face another Friday night with the walls and the mattress and the mitten on the ceiling. Another night of ramen, or a frozen burrito. Sure, the job was paying okay now, but that just meant I had rent money two weeks ahead of time instead of a week behind, and it was coming due.
I also went because Jett invited me directly. He'd walked to my desk at 4:45 and looked at me with an expression that was almost warm and said, "You should come Drew. You look like you could use a drink." Then he looked down at my trash can and saw the ziptop bag from lunch. He smiled, and it looked warm in a weird way. "First drinks are on me. Don't worry, I uh, I know the bartender. I got you."
I should've heard it. The precision of the invitation, then the faltering. But I was tired and lonely and and somebody was inviting me somewhere and it was the first time anyone at a temp job had invited me – specifically, me – out. So I went.
The group of us went, and I cast one small look back. The jacket was off, his tie loosened, an amber desk light on. His door was still open. I walked out to the elevator.
The bartender didn't card me. I looked tired enough and was surrounded by enough office people in business casual. Jett ordered for me while I talked with the others. He asked me what I drank and I didn't even really know what to lie about because I didn't drink, I'd never really drunk ... much ... even that semester at college. Yeah, maybe one frat party. Or two. Okay, three.
He'd just clapped me on the back and said, "Okay, I'll get you something. Trust me, you'll like it."
By the time he got back to the table carrying two glasses – one with a purple umbrella that he kept, and one with yellow that he handed me – a guy from Development who I think was named Marcus had bought a round of tequila shots. I was one in when Jett sat down. The drink looked interesting, kinda purple on the bottom and green then red. "Berries and mint and some sweet syrup. And a lot of vodka. Trust me, I get this all the time."
I sipped it, nursing it a little. Bleh. Maybe I don't like vodka. The background noise becoming more background, and my head started to throb just a little to the music. Like the frat party.
Jett sipped his and raised his eyebrows. "Don't like it?"
"No, it's fine," I lied. "Just pacing myself." My head was starting to pound a bit more.
A woman – Jane? maybe – asked, "You don't drink much, do you?"
"Nah, maybe a couple times a month." I needed to fit in – I wanted to fit in.
I took the glass by the stem and drank some more. Smiled at her and toasted in her direction.
I am not a drinker. Two beers gets me buzzed. I was now two in, and the room was slightly softer than I remembered it. I was smiling more, feeling relaxed – maybe this is why people drink? I looked over to Alan and started to lean a bit too much because Jett grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, sorry. I guess two is my limit."
We talked and laughed and I'm sure I said things I shouldn't've. Jett was there for me the whole night. Made sure I knew everyone's name (said there'd be a quiz on Monday), hand on my shoulder to steady me. With five of us left, Ashley from Accounting bought us another round of tequila. I liked that one more than the vodka thing. Someone joked about straight shots and I think I laughed too hard.
Eventually, it was down to me and Jett, the two of us at the table as I looked around. Three shot glasses and the martini glass from Jett still in front of me.
We were talking. His hand on my shoulder. His mouth close to my ear because the music was loud, some playlist of songs I didn't know with a lot of bass and all I could feel was the bass and Jett's hand. He slipped and his hand went lower and I didn't say anything because I was feeling sorry for myself and sick to my stomach about this whole situation. He was saying something about knowing what I was going through and if there was anything he could do, anything I needed, he was there to help. He twisted towards me, and his other hand landed on my knee. I melted at the contact, it felt nice, needed, and I leaned into it, it was what my body needed after the two weeks I'd had, pining for something I'd never even thought to want until I'd met Graham.
He backed up, and I was afraid I’d done something wrong. "Graham never comes to these things," Jett said. "Too busy. Or too good for us. Depends who you ask."
"No! He's... he's not like– like that." My words were blurry like my eyes, my tongue felt thick. The things weren't landing right.
"No?" Jett's hand squeezed above my knee. "What's he like, Drew? Tell me what he's like." His lips were close to my ear again.
"I ..."
"Tell me, Drew. Tell me and I can help. I can make everything good again." His hand rubbed my back, his other hand was on my thigh.
"Jett ..."
"Tell me, Drew. What did you want from Graham? What did he want? I can take you there even if he won't." He pushed another shot in front of me. "This will help the pain."
"This isn't ... this isn't right." His hand felt so good.
"I can make it right." He held the glass up, and I could smell it. My stomach lurched. I looked frantically around and saw it, I ran to the bathroom, Jett a blur as he grabbed for me, everyone else a mist of bodies.
I made it to a stall, locked it from habit, and hugged the toilet as I threw up. Like my second frat party.
I heard a banging.
"Drew! Open up! Are you okay? I just want to talk, I'll take you someplace safe."
All I could think of was him. I grabbed my phone, I had to use the voice feature to call him.
It took one ring. Before the second, it was my name, "Drew?"
"Graham."
Footsteps retreated outside the stall.
"Drew, where are you?"
"I think I need help." It was hard to make my tongue work.
"Where are you? Just tell me where you are."
"The bar."
"The one everyone goes to?"
I looked up at the dark ceiling.
"Drew?"
"Yes."
"Okay, I'll be there in 15 minutes. Don't hang up, stay awake, don't hang up."
The phone clattered to the ground.
Voices. A bright light. Graham. Him and another guy, they helped me up.
I was in Graham's car. The leather. The cedar. Him.
I'm pretty sure I cried.
"I thought you'd fire me."
"Drew."
"If I didn't want you."
"Drew."
"But then Jett said ..."
"Drew!"
"And I couldn't look at you anymore, I couldn't want you."
"Drew, please."
"And I couldn't stop."
"Drew, stop. I can't engage with you like this, not now, not like this, you're too drunk. We'll talk about all that, later."
I couldn't look at him. The next thing I knew I was in his garage— he was helping me up stairs— laying me in a bed— covering me.
"Water's there. Advil. I'm down the hall. Bathroom is right in front of you."
I laid there and the next thing I knew was blackness.
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