Chapter Text
You don’t notice him when you first get there. That’s the beauty of a place like Hobb’s—there’s never anything or anyone to notice. And no one to notice you.
Exactly what you want and are looking for when you slip into your usual booth in the back and spread your scripts and sketch pad out across the slightly sticky table. Hobb’s has been a constant in your life—your little safe space a few blocks from home, where you can always count on cheap food, strong drinks, and no sports fans.
The lack of TVs at Hobb’s is even better this year when you thought the MLB lockout might mean a summer without screaming, brawling fans everywhere you go. But it turns out that baseball fans in the absence of a season are a restless, bored, and infinitely more irritating bunch.
You catch Miriam’s eye, and she offers a nod and a silent promise to return with a Negroni and a basket of French fries.
“Here ya go, baby,” she says in her two-pack-a-day rasp as she sets your usual on the unoccupied corner of the table. Miri lingers just long enough for you to stop digging in your bag and glance up to meet her smile.
Your round glasses slip down your nose. “Thanks, Mir,” you say as you push them back up again. “No rush, but can I get a water, too? Just when you have a second.”
She smiles again. “Sure thing, sweetness. And say hey to your ma for me next time you see her,” she adds, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before she heads back to the bar where another round of drinks is waiting for her pick-up.
The Negroni is sharp and refreshing. The perfect mix of bitter and sweet with just the right amount of zing to soothe your parched throat on this punishingly hot day. You twist your hair up and off your neck where it had wilted and stuck as soon as you’d left the theater. It’s short enough now, recently thinned out with enough layers, that you can secure it in place with one of your spare markers and that’s what you do while you’re waiting for Miri to return with your water.
To your relief, she brings a little cup of barbecue sauce for your fries without you having to ask. You grin again while you’re unwrapping your straw to pop into your water glass. “You’re the best, Mir,” you assure her and then add, just to make her laugh, “The owner of this place oughtta give you a raise.”
Miri laughs the same scratchy, sandpaper laugh she’s had your entire life. “I’ll pass that along,” she says, going along with the joke. “But she’s a real hard ass.”
You keep your head down for most of the next hour, going through the pages of your script and drawing rough outlines of set pieces, blocking notes, and costume ideas in your sketchbook. You’re on your second order of fries when your phone lights up with a text from Sal. You tap on it and feel your face split into a wide grin at the photo of your ex with your daughter. Giuliana has melted chocolate all over her face, and she and Salvatore are both holding out hands sticky with marshmallows. He’s captioned it, ‘Guils’ first s'mores were a success!’ and you can’t help but giggle without much remorse at the thought of how much of that marshmallow he’ll be scrubbing out of her hair later.
Before you can text him back, the phone lights up again with another photo. Just Guils this time—a big, bright chocolate-covered smile as she holds up her squished, sugary treat. Gotta hand it to Sal, he’s great about sending you exactly the kind of photos you’d take yourself to supplement your camera roll when Giuliana stays with him. You make a mental note to be better about returning the favor when she’s home again.
“That’s not the baby, is it?” Miri’s voice makes you jump and when you look up, she’s looking over your shoulder with a bright smile, pointing to your phone.
“Don’t let her hear you call her that,” you warn, holding the device up so that she could see without having to squint in the dim light of her bar. “She’s a big girl now—almost four. I gotta let her go to preschool in the fall,” you add, even though the thought makes it hard to breathe.
“Jeez Louise,” Miri shakes her head. “That can’t be right. Oh, here,” she seems to remember the drink in her hand and sets it down on the table, scooping away your empty glass from earlier.
You look at it and frown. “I didn’t order this,” you say, eyeing the martini glass with its cloudy mixture and three speared olives.
“I know,” the older woman nods. “Guy at the bar asked me to send it to you.”
You don’t even look in the direction she’s pointing. “Can you give it back?” you ask. “Maybe tell him to fuck off while you’re at it? I’m just here to work.”
Miri snorts. “Sure thing, baby,” she says with a shrug. “I’ll tell Mister British Accent you’re not interested.” She pauses, her free hand on the back of your chair. “Won’t lie to you though, he’s pretty cute.”
Against your better judgment, you follow her gaze to a man with his back to you. He’s broad-shouldered and with a head of messy curls that look just a little familiar. You study his outline for another long moment, your eyes narrowed critically.
Miri gives you another smile. “Even better lookin’ from the front, honey,” she said with a little nudge. “I’m gonna leave that drink while you think about it.”
“I don’t need you playing Yente.” You roll your eyes and absently reach for the plastic sword. Miriam is gone by the time you’re sliding one of the olives past your lips, still studying the man at the bar.
Mister British Accent, Miri’s words roll in your mind like the pimento over your tongue. The salt and brine bite your mouth with the sharp teeth of nostalgia. You can’t even remember the last time you had a martini.
No, that’s not true. They were the fancy drink of choice at—
Oh fuck.
You’re on your feet before you can decide if it’s a good idea, crossing the small dining room with the martini in your hand. The man at the bar has not turned around yet, but the liquor bottles and the way he’s sitting make it impossible to see his face in the mirror above the taps. It doesn’t matter. If it’s him, you’ll say hi and be nice. If it’s not him, you’ll set the drink down and say thanks, no thanks, and go home before he tries to make conversation.
But even though you can’t see him, he must see you approach, because he turns on his barstool at just the right moment and stops you in your tracks.
Of course it’s him.
Of course it’s Joey.
That motherfucker.
You only take a second to recover before you keep walking, closing the rest of the distance to just a foot as you shake your head. “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world,” you mutter. “You had to walk into mine.”
There’s something different about his smile as he gets off his stool to stand. An unexpected bashfulness that only makes his dimples and his big eyes more attractive. “Hey Yank,” he says softly. That nickname you haven’t heard in so long hits like a punch straight to the chest.
Once upon a time, you answered to that more than your own name.
“Joey fuckin’ Quinn,” you say and set the martini glass down to pull him in for a quick hug. It’s a mercy hug, you tell yourself—he looked like he wasn’t sure what to do once he’d stood. “What are you doing here?” you laugh, letting him go. Trying not to think about how good he smelled and how for a second, when his arms circled your waist, you’d forgotten how to breathe.
“Working,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders—shoulders that are so much bigger than the last time you’d had your arms around him. “What else. How are you? You look…” he lets his eyes sweep over your body without a hint of hesitation and back up to your face before he smiles, “beautiful.”
You roll your eyes. “I look like I’ve been crawling around a hot-ass theater most of the day and then wilting on the train with everyone else,” you correct him with a grin. “But thank you.”
“Well, you’re makin’ it work,” he says with a laugh.
Shit, you can’t help but think. Because of course he still sounds the same when he laughs. Okay, the rational part of your brain tells you. You said hi, you hugged him, you can go now. “Come sit,” you hear yourself say, ignoring the advice of the part of you concerned with self-preservation. “It’s been a minute.”
It’s been more than a minute. It’s been ten years—almost exactly—since the last time you saw him in person. It’s been a little more than seven since you last spoke to him on the phone. And it’s been five since you’d gone from it being very easy to never think about your ex-boyfriend ever again to suddenly seeing his face everywhere when his inevitable stardom finally took effect.
“I assumed you’re in New York because you’re working,” you assure him as you slid back into your side of the booth. “I more meant what are you doing here, at Hobb’s?” You let your eyes bounce around the hole in the wall with its framed photos of past sponsored little league teams, maps of the old neighborhoods, and autographs scribbled on yellowed receipt paper. “I mean, I love it, but it’s kind of a dive. Not exactly where I’d expect to find the likes of you, Mr. A-Lister.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Oh God, don’t say that.”
You grin and reach for the speared olives again, pulling another off the plastic sword. “Callin’ them like I see them,” you say as you chew. “You’re a big damn deal these days.” He gets that bashful look again and glances down. And you realize that this isn’t the same Joey you used to know—the peacock who gobbled up attention like free candy—the one who always had to shine the brightest and hope no one noticed how insecure he was underneath. You soften your smile and give his leg a nudge with the toe of your sneaker. “Seriously, though,” you say. “Are you shooting around here?”
Belmont isn’t usually a hotspot for film crews, but crazier things have been known to happen.
“Yeah,” he nods, looking up again. “I’m here for the summer. They’ve got me staying closer to the stadium but—”
“The stadium?” you interrupt with a raised eyebrow. “Yankee Stadium?”
He nods again. “It’s a…” he pauses and seems to be considering if he’s going to continue. “It’s a baseball thing.”
You blink. “You’re in a baseball movie?”
“That’s what they tell me,” he says, looking pained. “I don’t think it’s particularly groundbreaking.”
“And do you…” You bite back a smile. “Do you know how to play baseball?”
His smile widens as his ears turn pink. “I am…learning how to play baseball.”
“At thirty-three?” You giggle. “Oh boy, how’s that going?”
“I’m here, drinking by myself, after practicing all day,” he says with a laugh. “What does that tell you?” He mimics the look you’d given the bar and continues. “Anyway, A-list or not—which I’m definitely not—I used to spend a lot of time with someone who taught me an appreciation for a good dive.” Before you can read too much into the way he says that, the fondness in his voice and the way he glances down at the table again, he seems to notice all the work you’d abandoned when he sent Miriam over. “I don’t want to talk about me,” he says, shaking his head. “What are you doing? What is all this? How are you? Tell me everything. And share those chips,” he adds and points to the basket.
You laugh and shake your head, sliding the fries to the center of the table. They’re room temperature, but still crispy when you grab one. “This is my life for the next two months.” You flip the sketchbook closed and set the script on top so Joe can see the title: Keep Me in the Light. “A take on Orpheus and Eurydice,” you explain. “I just got the keys to the rehearsal space today—”
“Hence the crawling around a hot-ass theater?” Joe asked with a smile.
You clicked your tongue and shot him with a finger gun. “Well, am I really involved in a show if I haven’t slithered around on my belly over every possible inch of the stage?”
“You certainly always had the best sense of environment,” he agreed and then tapped the script. “When’s this goin’ up?”
“Middle of August,” you say as he helps himself to a few fries. “I’ve got auditions next week.”
“Broadway?” he asks, and there’s something undeniably endearing about the way he talks with his mouth full. Like there’s no pretense between you. Like you’re just the same people who used to share food—share drinks, share kisses, share everything—back in London.
“Just barely,” you nod, because the Hayes Theatre is the smallest venue that still gets to sit at the Broadway table. “But I’m not complaining.”
Miriam arrives a minute later with a smile on her thin lips. “Oh, so it’s a good thing I didn’t listen to you on this one?” she asks, not waiting for an answer before she looks at Joe. “You want another drink, sweetheart?”
“Uh, yes, please. One of these would be lovely,” he says politely, pointing to the dirty martini. “Thank you.”
“You could just have that one,” you say after Miri heads back to the bar.
“What—after you’ve eaten all the olives out of it?” he scoffs. “No, thank you.”
“The olives are the best part,” you laugh, telling yourself this doesn’t feel like flirting. “And why would you send this over if you didn’t want me to eat the olives?”
“Because I wanted you to—” he stops and shakes his head, finding an excuse to look elsewhere. “Notice…me.”
You press your lips together, trying to maintain a straight face. “You could have just come over and said hi,” you remind him quietly. “I don’t bite.”
His teeth run lightly over his bottom lip before he nods slowly. “I wasn’t entirely sure how the weather would be,” he admits after a moment. “Thought you might tell me to fuck off.”
You grin. “I almost had Miriam tell you exactly that,” you confess.
“Oh yeah?” he laughs lightly. “What changed your mind?”
“She told me you had a British accent…and that you were pretty cute from the front.” You shrug modestly. “If nothing else, I figured that was worth telling you to fuck off in person.”
“And was it?”
It’s your turn to bite your lip as you consider the question. “Yeah,” you say softly. “It was. It’s…it’s good to see you, Joe.”
“It’s good to see you too, Yank,” he echoes, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “I, uh,” he coughs lightly. “I’ve missed you.”
I’ve missed you too, the words form on your tongue and nearly tumble past your lips before you can wonder where they came from.
Had you missed him?
“Alright, here we go,” Miri appears again and sets a fresh martini down in front of him. She smiles in response to his thanks and looks at you. “Are you cashing out, baby? Or staying later?”
“Done after this,” you assure her with a glance at the 1970s Budweiser clock on the wall.
“You can put us together,” Joe interjects. “All on mine.”
“No, no,” you shake your head. “Separate is fine.”
“Come on,” he whines lightly. “Let me pay,” he says and lets his bottom lip pout slightly. “Please?”
“Let him pay, honey,” Miri chastises with a wave. “You can get the next time.”
“Exactly,” Joe looks from Miriam to you with a pleased, wide smile. “You can get the next time.”
You let out a shocked laugh. “The Yente-ing,” you remind with a pointed look. “Does it cost extra?”
“Not for the daughters of my oldest friends,” Miri reaches out her red fingernails and gives your cheek a loving pinch. “For you, it’s on the house.” She pats Joe’s arm on her way back to the bar. “I’ll be right back with your card.”
You wait until she’s gone, deciding not to keep going with this whole who’s-paying-this-time-versus-next-time gimmick and return to what he’d said before. “So, you’ve missed me, huh?” you ask, lifting your eyebrows.
“I have,” he nods. “Yeah.”
“Hmm,” you pretend to consider this.
“Is that difficult to believe?” he asks with another laugh.
“Only a little,” you admit. “Considering you’ve had my number for at least seven years, and you only used it once.”
He has the decency to look ashamed. “Yeah…” he draws the word out. “Was a bit shit of me, wasn’t it?”
You shrug, feigning carelessness. “Depends on the message you were trying to send, I guess.”
“I wasn’t trying to send a message,” he says. “I just…I called you and then literally a week later the world sort of…ended. And it seemed like maybe…us getting back in touch wasn’t the highest priority.”
You raise your brow again. “Oh, so it’s Covid?” you ask with a laugh. “We’re blaming Covid for you not picking up the phone in seven years?”
He winces, looking once again too adorable for any real anger. “Can that be part of it?”
You laugh once. “And what’s the other part?”
“Same as tonight,” he says, surprising you with how easily he admits it. “Thought you might still hate me. Maybe finally tell me off for good.”
You watch him glance down again and don’t know what to do with this rush of sudden emotion bubbling in your chest. Regret, affection, guilt, nostalgia—all fighting to win out and tell you what you’re supposed to be feeling.
Out loud, you cluck your tongue against the roof of your mouth and say, “God, who knew you were such a pussy?”
To your relief, Joe snorts loudly and dissolves into giggles like a little girl. It’s too contagious not to join in and any tension that might have been inflating between you is popped like a balloon. He shakes his head. “And there she is, ladies and gentlemen,” he says with a sigh. “There’s the woman I’ve been missing for ten years.”
“Oh, well, let’s drink to her,” you decide, hoping the bar is dim enough that he can’t see how pink your cheeks are. “Whoever the fuck she is.”
“Yeah, alright,” he lifts his drink, still enviably able to hold a martini glass without sloshing half the booze down the side. “We’ll drink to her. And to…”
“Schlocky baseball movies?” you suggest, raising your own glass aloft.
“Barely Broadway shows?” he counters.
You bite your lip. “How about to…a life in the theatre?”
“And all that entails,” he finishes for you with a grin.
You smile and touch the rim of your glass with his. “And all that entails,” you agree and take a sip. Not sure if it’s the drink or the man across the table that’s making you feel like you’re nineteen again.
The humidity has finally started to dissipate by the time you’re walking home. “You do not have to carry that,” you say for the second time when Joe hitches your backpack up on his shoulder.
“Nonsense,” he scoffs. “Anyway, I can call it a workout. What do you keep in here—bricks?”
“Books! Scripts! Other shit I need to survive this urban jungle. And you don’t get to wrestle it away from me under the guise of chivalry if you’re just going to bitch about it the whole time.”
He grunts. “Fine.”
You dig in the pocket of your shorts for your lip balm and smear some over your lips. “So, they’ve got you training with the pros for this movie?”
“The literal pros,” Joe assures you. “These guys have nothing to do until the lockout’s over—”
“Is that why you’re filming here?” you interrupt him as the thought occurs to you. “Because you can use the real Yankee Stadium?”
“Mmhmm,” he nods. “Originally we were supposed to be in Georgia, later in the year.”
“And you were supposed to have more time to learn how to play the game?” you ask with a grin.
“Among other things,” he grumbles. “Now I’m in bloody baseball boot camp any days I’m not filming.”
“Is it hard?”
“It’s very hard!” he exclaims. “I have to do a lot of running. And jumping. And hitting things.”
You snort. “That’s baseball, Joe. You’re describing baseball right now.”
“Well, it’s awful,” he states firmly. “No idea how it caught on.” He waits until your giggles have subsided before he clears his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Mm?”
“Why didn’t you ever call me?”
You stop walking and turn to him. “When?”
“In the seven years since I called you,” he says. “I mean, I know why I was too scared but—”
Your lip finds its way between your teeth again. “I don’t know,” you answer honestly before you can decide if you want to lie. “I guess I could have.”
He gives you a sad smile. “But you still kind of hated me?”
“Yeah,” you shrug. “Kinda did.”
There’s nothing for either of you to say for a moment as you fall back into step together. The silence is heavy, though not uncomfortable. But you’re still grateful when he speaks again. “I know what it is in England, but what’s the statute of limitations on apologies over here?”
You feel a smile pulling at your lips. “I think they raised it to ten years,” you say after considering it. “I think it used to be eight.”
“Ooh, just made it,” he says with a sigh of relief and stops walking a second time. “I am sorry, Yankee,” he says quietly. And again, hearing him call you by your old nickname brings an unexpected lump to your throat. “For what I said that night. For how I treated you.” He rushes on before you can figure out how you’re going to respond to this apology you never thought you’d get. “I mean, it hasn’t taken me ten years to be sorry. I wanted to tell you right away but—”
“But I was gone,” you finish for him. “Yeah. I’m…I’m sorry about that,” you say after considering if you were. “I wish I’d—” you stop yourself. What did you wish? That you’d stayed with him and tried to work it out? That you hadn’t let your temper and your rash decision-making send you out of the country in a rush of tears and rage without so much as a note explaining where you were? You clear your throat. “I wish I’d done things differently.”
He lifts his brow and looks painfully, adorably hopeful for a moment. “D’you think maybe we could…consider this a fresh start?” he asks, sounding as though he’s choosing his words carefully. “Like a…second take?”
You can’t help your smile. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I’d like that.”
Things feel a little lighter by the time your building comes into view. Joe hands you back your bag and waits while you dig out your keys. “You’re not walking back alone, are you?” you ask, realizing you’re not sure how far that is.
“No, no,” he pulls his phone from his pocket and, while you’re watching, calls a Lyft. “Two minutes away,” he promises, holding it up to show you.
“Good,” you nod once and curl your fingers around your keys. Actually, you could say, cancel that and come in for a minute. You could say, I want to keep talking to you. You could say, I’m worried this is the only time we’re going to see each other.
You could say any of those things.
You want to say all of those things. And for a moment, while you’re both standing there in the bug-dotted yellow light of your doorway, you could swear it looks like Joe wants you to say them too.
But before you can decide if that’s a good idea—it’s not, it’s definitely not, you know it’s not—a blue Jetta pulls up and taps the horn once before the window rolls down.
“One a’ you Joe?” The driver squints from behind the wheel.
“That’s me,” he says with a wave, and before you realize what he’s doing, his arms are around you, pulling you in for a long, tight hug.
Totally enveloping your senses, stealing your breath, and stopping your heart for the few seconds he holds you. He lets go too fast—and somehow not fast enough—and drops his head to press a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you soon, Yank,” he says quietly, his lips close to your ear.
“Yeah,” you breathe out the word, trying to figure out when your heart went from frozen in your throat to fluttering like a bird in a cage. “H-have a good night.”
“You too,” he smiles as he pulls away and you have to force yourself to remember what you were doing, turn and unlock your door.
He gets one more wave over your shoulder as you slip inside to trek up to the third floor.
Archie is yowling pitifully, winding his bendy little body around your ankles while you drop your bag onto the papasan in the corner of the living room. You drop some kibble into his bowl and make your way into the bathroom where you stare at yourself in the mirror.
Nothing happened. Literally nothing happened and your cheeks are pink in a way that has nothing to do with the heat. Your chest is flushed too. You take a deep breath and bend to splash cold water on your face.
“You’re fine,” you say to your reflection. “You’re totally fine. You’re—”
Your phone buzzes in your back pocket before you can finish that thought. A text from a number you’ve seen before but didn’t save last time.
It’s Joe, he says to start, and you almost roll your eyes because of course it is. I’ve got the night off on Monday…would you like to have dinner?
Sure, you text back. Sounds fun.
You look up at yourself in the mirror again and sigh. “Oh, let’s face it, girl,” you shake your head as you set your phone to the side and reach out to turn on the shower. “You’re totally fucked.”