First Draft Romance

CHAPTER EIGHT

I'm about a block away from the bookstore when it dawns on me why I've been dismissed so early.

Man, I'm pretty sure Roz and Willow are gonna ... adult things.

I'm not jealous. Just, for the record. Feels like it should be obvious, but maybe it's not, so, yeah. I am so far removed from being jealous right now.

What's there to be jealous of? Of Willow Bitch-Face Leave for hooking up with Rosalind Lindbergh immediately after I was put in the assistant-zone, arguably an even worse zone than the friend-zone? Or of Roz, for staying behind to sign copies of her multiple bestsellers and then hook up with an annoying-but-gorgeous woman?

Maybe I need another drink.

The subway seems to take forever. I hop off and make my way up to surface level, still debating if I'm in the mood for a cheap bottle of wine. I'm not a big drinker, so much so that I've never drank by myself before, but maybe today's the day to make a goddamn exception.

After arguing with myself, I take the slightly-longer way back to the apartment to hit up the slightly-nicer bodega on the street over. I like this one better, because the owner and his son are funny as fuck. Also, the Korean lady who owns the bodega below our apartment hates me. She loves Gina, so I don't think it's a homophobia thing. I think it's a me thing. Which, like, fine. Gina can take judgy Ms. An, and I'll take my besties, Ibrahim and Waleed.

I wonder if we're going to have to split our friends, too.

Waleed, Ibrahim's lanky son, is leaning on the counter when I walk in, scrolling on his phone. He might be a couple years younger than me, but I'm not entirely sure. He has a sister who goes to Johns Hopkins or some shit, but Waleed has simply always been here. He's a goddamn institution. Like, I swear—he doesn't leave, doesn't sleep, doesn't age. He's, like, Mr. Bodega. Well, I guess Mr. Bodega Jr.

"What's up, Waleed?" I ask, adjusting the strap of my tote bag.

He glances up. "Oh, hey, what's up? You're never here at this time."

"Yeahhhh...." Usually at this time, Gina and I would be preparing for some kind of dinner. When I still had my grant money, I'd usually come to the bodega for a quick lunch and to stretch my legs before getting back to writing. I've also been known to come here to get breakfast for Gina when she's "too hungover to function."

Otherwise, Gina and I might stumble in here for a warm snack on our way home from the bars. It should be noted that I was hardly ever drunk, whereas Gina would need an arm around her waist to keep her upright. Waleed and Ibrahim always seem to appreciate that I've never been so drunk that I knocked a stand of bagged chips over, burst into tears, then proceeded to throw up on the sidewalk outside their door.

Maybe that's why I'm the favorite here.

It also makes this question slightly embarrassing.

"Do you guys ... you guys sell alcohol, right?"

Waleed raises a brow. "We sell really, really terrible beer. Not worth it. You're not that desperate."

"Damn, bro." I lean towards the counter. "Do I seem any, like, remote ounce of desperate?"

"I dunno," he says, shrugging. "You smell like you've already drank enough today, though."

"Okay, damn."

He shrugs again, longer. "I just call it like I see it."

I sigh. This kid. "Fine, then, lemme get, uh—" I reach for the closest thing. "—this bag of chips?"

He shakes his head, waving his hand. "Just take it, go, go."

"Are you sure?" I ask him, my stomach swooping. I guess I haven't really eaten anything—only drank. Maybe that's part of why I was hit so hard earlier. I felt awkward taking Roz up on her offer of lunch, so I stuck to that matcha. And then, of course, breakfast was rudely interrupted, thanks to Gina.