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I gasped. “My crush thinks I’m a catfish!”
“I’m fixing it. Relax.”
Angela: LOL, not a catfish. You free for a drink tonight? I’ll prove it. My treat.
“He already said he has plans,” I pointed out. “Do you want me to get rejected twice in one night?”
“Well, clearly he’s on Tinder, so…”
BRAD: I’m free in 30, meet at O’Rourke’s Bar on 72nd? I can’t stay long, but I’ll take you up on that drink ;-)
“Ugh with the emojis,” Robbie said.
I groaned. “This is worse than getting rejected. I don’t get off work for another three hours.”
“Then get out of here,” Robbie said. “I’ll cover for you on the timesheet.”
“And what if the owner comes in?” I asked.
“I’ve worked here four years and I’ve literally never seen the owner come in,” Robbie said. “I’ll be fine without you, barring another Missouri tour bus pulling up.”
“That also means giving up a night’s worth of tips,” I pointed out. “And I don’t want to sound poor, but I kind of need the money.”
Before Robbie could respond, Jack slapped the bar counter with his palm. When he pulled it away, a crisp $100 bill was where his hand had been. “Here’s your tip for tonight. Go get ‘em, honey.”
I gawked. “Jack, you know I can’t take that.”
He dismissed my protest with a wave of his wrinkled hand. “You make the best old fashioned in all of New York. And you’re never stingy on the whiskey, neither.” He gave Robbie a pointed look. “Plus, Braden sounds delightful. Better than the putzes you take home from the bar.”
Robbie gestured. “There you go. The only thing stopping you from your Valjean is you. What’s it gonna be?”
I thought about it. What was the worst that could happen? A little embarrassment? Awkwardness around the set? It’s not like that mattered since I was just the understudy. I would never really be working with Braden.
“Okay,” I finally said. “I’ll do it.”
“Good,” Robbie said as he handed me back my phone. “Because I already told him you’d be there.”
6
Nadia
I walked to the nearest subway station and took the Q-train, which conveniently let out two blocks from the bar on 72nd Street. I would get there 15 minutes early, which was perfect since I wanted to freshen up in the bathroom. I didn’t look bad—I always put on some makeup and wore a low-cut top while bartending, since it meant better tips—but for a maybe-date I wanted to kick things up a notch.
What would I say to him? “Hey, I totally lied on my Tinder profile, but I’m Angela and here I am!” There was a chance he’d get upset and leave. I might’ve done the same if I were in his position and a date lied to me about who they were. There was no way around that, though. I’d have to sit down and see how he took it.
I tapped my foot the whole way there while ignoring the creepy guy staring at me from across the subway car.
O’Rourke’s Bar would have been tough to notice if I wasn’t already looking for it. The sign was the size of a sheet of paper with a neon shamrock on it, above a narrow staircase leading down into the sub-floor of an apartment building. The smell of cheap beer and stale food bombarded me the moment I stepped inside. I was surprised at the size of the place; it was almost as wide and long as the building above, with at least 50 tables and booths. A raised stage was in the back where a band was presently setting up their instruments.
I spotted Braden immediately, in the booth on the left against the wall. He was sitting alone, focused on his phone. Was he perusing other Tinder contacts? Looking for someone better than Angela with the tits-down photo?
I put my head down and hugged the wall opposite of Braden’s booth. There was a big enough crowd of people lingering around that I could slip back to the bathroom without Braden noticing, giving me time to freshen up and decide what to say.
At least, I thought I could slip to the bathroom unnoticed.
“Nadia?” came his deep, clear voice. It cut through the background noise like a knife. “Nadia!”
My first thought was a silly one: he knows my name! I had been certain he didn’t back at the theater. A thrill went up in my chest at being known by the male lead in the show.
