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As he crosses the room, eyes follow him. A woman peels away from her friends and into his path and he bends his head, his hand on her arm. He smiles but shakes his head.
The reason why it wouldn’t work. So much temptation for a man like him. The pick of everything.
On his way back, a hot young guy comes up to him and he does the same thing. The hand on the arm, the smile, the shake of his head.
“It’s a wild honey and blood orange mescal cocktail. The bartender swears it’s good.”
I take a sip and it is, but, as we drink and chat, I suddenly blurt out, “Is that what it’s always like for you?”
“What?”
“People thinking they can proposition?”
“I turned her down.” His gaze holds mine, the dark melting chocolate inviting. “Him, too.”
“I saw that. I wasn’t…wasn’t accusing, just curious, I guess.”
Ryder shrugs. “It happens. It’s fine.”
I just nod.
“Listen, Elliot, it’s part of life. It happens to you, it happens to everyone. Half the people that hit on me wouldn’t if they weren’t cruising, weren’t out drinking. If I’m in a store, I mostly don’t get hit on.”
Suddenly I start laughing. “Mostly.”
“What?” He frowns.
“Only you could make it seem like it’s not a thing.”
“It isn’t.” He leans forward. “I like you, I told you that. You don’t really believe me, so I can’t do a thing other than offer my friendship and an open door. I don’t want these people.”
Ryder stands, taking the last swallow of his drink and I think he’s off to the bar, but instead, he goes to the stage area where the small band is. They’re getting ready to perform and no doubt Ryder’s just requesting a song.
A guy comes up and gestures to the seat, pulling it out and putting his glass on the lacquered surface.
“It’s taken,” I say.
He shrugs and moves on as someone strums the guitar.
I don’t know what makes me look over. But I do and there, head bent over the guitar, is Ryder. I’m on my feet before I know what I’m doing as he plays some rusty notes.
He starts to sing. The song is pretty, folksy and full of heart. His voice is low with a hint of gravel. It’s nothing to write home about but the tune and the words and the way he looks at me as he sings about unrequited love, about offering that love open handed, open-hearted is.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard and seen.
And I can’t move.
When the band starts up and the singer joins in, Ryder hands the guitar to the owner and comes over to me. He looks down into my eyes and he’s not smiling.
Intensity thickens the air.
“That’s how I feel, Elliot. About you.”
If there’s a glimmer of a chance, I want it. I want him.
I go up on my toes and kiss him.
Ryder’s arms come about me. His lips part, and the kiss is like the song.
