First Draft Romance

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I come back with my groceries and Whole Foods sushi for our lunches. But after that, I don't see Roz before the end of my shift. So, after work, I get off a stop early on the subway, because Roz was right about one thing: I need to make sure I'll continue to have a roof over my head, Gina or no. So, I take a detour to see the only two people I know who might be able to offer me that.

It's only a few blocks in the direction opposite home, but somehow, it feels like the trek of a lifetime. It's like everyone I pass on the street knows, can tell that I'm here to crawl in on my knees and beg for a place to stay.

Pretty much all of my New York friends are from after college, but I've actually known Kirby McCormick since sophomore year of high school, back before he even came out as Kirby. While I've been sitting not-so-pretty in starving artist-brand unemployment, he's been slaving away at a little coffee shop since he started at CUNY—and graduated, because it turns out psychiatry was not the move for him. Luckily, the health insurance here is great, so his T injections are covered at the very least.

It should be noted that it's also been great for me, because: occasionally discounted coffee.

The front of Deja Brew is painted a dark charcoal grey, the coffee shop's name drawn in a neat, minimalistic font above the entrance. Before my grant money was all spent, I'd come here all the time to write. There's a small cement step before the door that I somehow always manage to trip over. Today's stumble is extra special—somehow, the toe of my shoe manages to catch onto the minuscule ledge. Before I can even see it coming, I tip forward and feel the door's glass against my forehead.

I flinch back immediately and rub my face, squinting at the little oily mark left on the glass. Then I reach out quickly and try to swipe it away with the sleeve of my sweater. All it does is smudge it out, which I decide is acceptable enough. I don't have the energy to do anything better with it. Second time this week that my skull has made a harsh thunk noise, and I'm so over it.

There's a healthy crowd inside the Brew, but thankfully, I don't think anyone noticed my cute little face/glass meet-cute. That is, until I turn to the dark wood counter to my left and make eye contact with Kirby, who's already laughing.

I give him a tight smile. He laughs harder.

My forehead is still throbbing as I walk over to him, trying not to trip a second time. I clutch my tote bag strap with both hands and keep my fake smile plastered on my face, with the hope that my eyes are conveying a silent but deadly warning to a still-chortling Kirby.

"Hey," he says, his voice warm. There's a white dishcloth draped over his shoulder, and his shaggy auburn hair is an intentional mess. "Your forehead alright?"

"Shut up."

"That was amazing. Really. Truly."

"Yeah, well, I hate you. Really. Truly."

Kirby sighs and leans against the counter, the sleeves of his striped blue button-up rolled up to reveal a work-in-progress tattoo sleeve on each arm. "Did you just get off work? Wasn't that a thing?"

"How'd you hear about that?" Even though we don't live too far apart, I usually only see Kirby when he's working, and my savings have dwindled down so much that I couldn't exactly justify coming to visit, at least until I got a job.

Kirby shrugs. "I know everything."

"Gina?"

"Who else?" He at least has the sense to look apologetic—and that's how I know that he knows.

My throat tightens. So what, he knows? I figured he did—Kirby was my friend first, but Gina hit it off with him right away. Even in college, all of my friends kind of became Gina's best friends—which, at the time, was completely fine. It was like she took on the socializing for both of us, a skill I desperately lacked. It was like I still kept in touch with all my old friends, but through her. And for Gina, who knew no one as an out-of-state student, she ended up with access to a built-in community. It was perfect.