Chapter Text
Courtney was feeling alright, all things considered. It was Friday night, for one. And she had a drink in hand, for another.
She had agreed to after-work drinks with her coworkers. While she wouldn’t have picked the place, she had to admit it wasn’t half bad. Good-sized tables, decent selection, within walking distance of her place. Superhero theme was a little odd, though.
There was a good crowd around and the mix of music, noise, and whiskey had her feeling comfortable. Or as comfortable as she gets. They were seated around a table at the back corner of the bar. Alice was to her left talking about her new man. Mal sat opposite Courtney on the cushioned seating with her back to the wall asking Alice follow-up questions. Janelle was to Mal's right, and as always, listened quietly and inscrutably.
Courtney was on the periphery, half-listening. Nothing against Alice’s storytelling abilities, but she was kind of just vibing at the moment. She scratched absentmindedly at the nicotine patch under the sleeve on her left arm. She swirled her half-drunk glass of whiskey. Courtney then pulled out her phone and checked her messages - she's not sure why she did, she didn't expect to see anything. She swiped open Hinge and then immediately swiped it closed. She quickly ran out of things to occupy her hands.
She considered dipping back into the conversation. Alice and Mal were engaged in a good-natured back and forth about the subtext of a text message Alice had received. Maybe she should stretch her legs, do a lap.
She downed her drink and pushed her chair back from the table. She announced that she was going to take a walk and grab the next round.
Courtney made her way up to the bar, squeezing between a group of finance bros, suit jackets shed, ties loosened. The bar was the traditional long, faux-mahogany setup, wrapped around into an L shape. All of the bar seats were currently taken and there was a two-deep crowd hovering behind each occupied seat. She elbowed her way to the front of the bar and staked a claim for a slice of free real estate in between two high back chairs at the vertex of the “L”.
Courtney leaned both elbows on the bar and waited to catch the bartender’s eyes. To her left, she heard the voice of a woman over the inoffensive pop music blasting from the sound system. The woman was slowly repeating the bar’s name out loud. “Cryp…to Night…Crypto…Night,” she sounded out.
A quick glance to her left revealed the dark-haired speaker in a low cut white top and hoop earrings – early to mid 20s, based on Courtney’s quick appraisal – addressing the man seated in the chair next to Courtney. She was angling her body towards him in a very clear and obvious drunken display of interest. Courtney had no idea why she was repeating the bar’s name, if, and how, she had developed some form of brain damage.
All Courtney could see of the man (Chair Guy, she named him in her head) next to her that held the girl’s attention was lightish brown hair and slim brown bomber jacket. He was hunched over his beer, angled away from Courtney. When he spoke, her ears perked up immediately.
“Yes,” he said in a patient tone, low and soft, but no less forceful for it. “It’s a play on words,” he explained. “Cause it’s a superhero themed bar and Superm— you know what? Never mind,” he said, giving up in the middle of his sentence.
“Okay,” the brunette replied cheerfully, unconcerned by lack of comprehension.
The bartender, a tall, burly man with a comically small vest over t-shirt combo, arrived with the woman’s drink. Courtney noted its pinkish hue, but wasn’t sure what it was. Courtney wasn’t a snob about alcohol, generally, but she didn’t think this girl was getting her money’s worth there. It seemed like the type of drink the bar pushed because it relied on low cost ingredients and could be sold at a high markup with a ridiculous name.
The brunette looked at Chair Guy somewhat expectantly. Courtney recognized it immediately — the assumption that any man, given sufficient attention in a certain social situation, would fall over himself to purchase drinks when sex was on the table. She is not too proud to admit that she had used it before, to some success.
Surprisingly, Chair Guy didn’t pick up on this unspoken interaction. “Can you get this for me?” the girl asked, boldly, in Courtney’s opinion. The brunette stared with glassy eyes.
“Oh,” Chair Guy responded, “Sorry, I wasn’t aware that’s what this was," presumably referring to the unspoken subtext of their conversation. The woman grew visibly frustrated. She fished a credit card out of her small, white handbag and left it with the bartender. She grabbed her drink, sloshing it a little in the process, and retreated to another part of the bar without another word.
Fumble.
Courtney thought about making a joke. Nah, let it go.
“Do you think puns are her Kryptonite?” Courtney asked the man's profile. She never could help herself. Overstepping was one of her best qualities.
He slowly shifted, half angling his body in his seat to face her, allowing Courtney a first good look at the audience for her joke. He smirked.
Oh shit.
She felt something move in a long neglected region of her stomach, uncoiling slowly in time with the slight upward turn of the corner of his mouth.
Brown hair messily tousled. Sharp brown eyes accentuated by long eyelashes. Thin face, square jaw, with just a hint of stubble. A dotting of freckles across his face. Pretty in way that made her brain stutter. Her eyes traveled to a chunk of missing cartilage on the top half of his right ear, a nominal imperfection that somehow added appeal.
“Very possible. And what would yours be?” The smirk remained in place as he cast his gaze over her.
Okay, he threw her joke right back at her. His voice though…
He tilted his head back to take a sip of his beer, something imported in a green bottle. No wedding band, Courtney noticed. But she knew that meant next to nothing.
Although his eyes were bright and his voice was clear, he couldn’t shake the weariness about him. Just a sad aura hanging off of him which, unfortunately for her, just made him hotter. Nothing worse than a mentally healthy hot guy.
She caught a flicker of something in his brown eyes, before they returned to impassivity. She realized she hadn’t responded. Get yourself together.
“Sad sack losers that drink alone at the end of bars, probably,” Courtney replied. Maybe she was thrown by his appearance and reacted slightly more harshly than planned.
He laughed softly. “Very specific.” He took another sip of his beer, but his eyes kept returning to Courtney.
At that moment, the vested bartender saw her outstretched hand and approached to collect her order. Two vodka tonics, one whiskey, and one martini with very precise mixology instructions from Janelle. She gave the bartender a half-hearted shrug as an apology.
“You’re the whiskey,” Hot Chair Guy guessed, correctly. Courtney didn’t like being so easily read. She swung her eyes back to him.
“Nope, haven’t even ordered mine yet,” she lied. “White wine spritzer,” Courtney added, throwing in some fake vocal fry for good measure.
“Lies.”
That surprised a laugh out of her, a short bark that prompted a moment’s concern due to her diminished lung performance. She double checked her jacket pocket for her inhaler, a frequent tic.
Courtney met his eyes, her brown fixated on his. She nodded in the general direction of the brunette’s departure. “You could have fucked her, dude.”
He seemed amused. “And did I have a choice?” At Courtney’s blank stare in response, he added with a shrug, “I guess I’m particular, then.”
“Whoa, standards. What’s that like?”
He laughed, full and deep. It resonated at a frequency that seemed to hone in on an area just below her solar plexus, like he had extended a fist and jabbed her in the soft, unguarded area that had been closed off to such shots for quite a long time.
Courtney would do unspeakable things to hear it again.
“I’m Courtney.”
“Nice to meet you, Courtney. Robert,” he introduced himself. His voice was warm and smooth and cut against the sad vibes he was exporting. Courtney clocked him leaning forward to prop his left elbow on the bar, a short distance from where she stood. He was wearing a blue button down shirt that honestly looked like it had seen some better days.
She gave him a side glance and smirked. “Yeah, I know, dude.” She leaned her back against the bar, her right forearm drifting close to his elbow.
His eyes narrowed, trying to place when or where he might have given her his name before, or how she might have otherwise crossed his path. It’s all playing out in his eyes as she watched. He can’t place her.
“I feel like I would remember you,” he noted sincerely, looking right into her eyes.
The warm feeling in the pit of her stomach returned. She pushed past it because it’s threatening to ruin her fun.
“Nah — we haven’t met, I just got it off this.” In her right hand, between index and middle finger, she held his driver’s license aloft.
Robert Robertson III, age 30, 5’10, organ donor. Dumb name, cute photo.
She’s got his beaten, brown leather wallet in her left hand. She normally wouldn’t have attempted the lift on a seated target, but sometimes guys sitting on bar chairs for extended periods of time move their wallets to a jacket pocket. After that, it’s just slight misdirection and light fingers.
He looked at her coolly, eyes scanning to his wallet, and then back to her. “Nice lift,” he complimented. He took a swig from his beer, casual as you like. “Where’d you learn that?”
Okay, Rob is one weird fucker.
Most guys freaked out when she did that, which she considered to be the best part. As party tricks go, it’s pretty hit or miss for all involved. But she'd never had a guy react with the equivalent of a yawn.
“Over in London. Ran with a crew run by this guy named Fagin. He was pretty nasty — forced me to steal for him, tried to kill me, but I managed to escape,” she deadpanned.
The right side of his mouth inched upward. “I did pick up urchin vibes from you,” he noted wryly.
“Hey! Fuck you.” Courtney smiled. She was having fun.
She took a moment to glance back at her coworkers seated at the table along a back wall lined with framed comic books and movie posters. Courtney could only see the back of Alice’s head but, as ever, it was pointed in a downward direction, eyes eternally fixed to her phone. Consistent with her tendency to remain in the background, Janelle was obscured from her view by an ever-growing crowd of Friday night patrons. Mal was leaning over the table facing her, her long legs telescoping into the common area between two tables. Courtney locked eyes with Mal who, despite the distance, managed to shoot Courtney her best what the fuck? look. Mal and Alice — Malice, heh, she needed to remember that for later — are now both looking down in tandem. Courtney’s phone buzzed and she knew it would be the group chat. She ignored it.
She looked back at Rob. He was still looking at her, eyes observing her in amusement or bemusement — or some other letter -musement. She realized she still had his wallet in her hand. With a sheepish look, she slotted his ID back into one of the folds and handed it back to him. He accepted it with a slight eyebrow arch, making a show of placing it in the interior pocket of his jacket, the opposite side from where she stood.
Robert relaxed and he leaned back in the seat with his beer and closed his eyes as if bracing for impact. “Okay, let’s hear it… let’s get the name jokes out of the way.”
Oh, there was so much for her to work with here. Robert Robertson III. Such poor, multi-generational decision-making.
Still…a piece of low hanging fruit. He’d probably heard it all before and Courtney hated being unoriginal. Or, at the very least, appearing to be unoriginal.
“Don’t know what you mean, Bobby. A normal name for a normal person,” she lied. She punctuated her response with a sip of whiskey. It burned going down and she gave a little shake of the head to clear it.
“Really? Nothing at all?” He seemed skeptical that she was capable of restraint. He wasn’t necessarily wrong, Courtney thought.
“Nah, man. It’s great. No notes.” She messed with the zipper on her black all-weather neoprene jacket. A casual reminder that she was, basically, in her work clothes. She pushed that insecurity to the side.
Robert nodded slowly, accepting the fact that she had no intention of taking that bait. He actually shot her a genuine smile. She felt like she had won a game she didn’t know she was playing.
When he smiled, his eyes brightened and the lines around his eyes crinkled. Her eyes were again drawn to the notch on the top of his right ear. She wanted to put her tongue on it.
“Your fucked up ear is really hot.”
She hadn’t actually intended to say that out loud, but whatever filter that had once existed between her brain and her mouth had long since ceased operating in any normal capacity. Weirdly, the filter still kicked in when she attempted to express any manner of real emotion. She inwardly cursed her defective filter.
Robert laughed and shook his head from side to side. “Okay, that’s a first for me,” he admitted. “But definitely preferable to watching people stare at it while trying to maintain eye contact,” he added.
She thought about asking him about it. Too obvious. Maybe later, if she didn’t manage to fuck this up.
“Honesty is always the best policy,” she confirmed, fixing her fingers into what she thought might be a boy scout’s salute. They had salutes, right? The fuck did she know about it.
“Says the pickpocket,” Robert retorted dryly.
“Who honestly told you that she had picked your pocket,” Courtney stated, smugly.
“You know what? That’s fair.”
Robert glanced down at her from his seat. The crowd around the bar had grown in the last couple of minutes and bodies were pushing closer as people waved to get the bartender’s attention. Courtney was wedged between Robert’s high-back chair, the bar, and another chair whose occupant was crouched over his drink, offering only a view of an expansive back decked out in a leather jacket that appeared to have the logo of a local billiards club. Robert shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
He leaned in closer to her. “Hey…do you maybe…do you want to sit here?” He asked. “Take my seat. I can stand.”
Courtney shot him a quizzical look. “My legs fucking work fine, dude. I’m good.”
He nodded, but still seemed uncomfortable. She could tell he would have preferred a different response.
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Is it really bothering you?”
“Yes, a little,” Robert conceded, although he seemed embarrassed about it.
“You didn’t offer your seat to Lois Lane over there.” She jerked her head in the vague direction where the dark-haired wordsmith had retreated. Out of curiosity, Courtney attempted to actually locate the woman, but then quickly gave up trying to see through the crowd.
“True,” Robert acknowledged. “But I didn’t like talking to her.”
Oh. His simple statement has apparently set off a chain migration of massive fucking Monarch butterflies in the middle to lower sections of her stomach.
Again with the requisite rolled eyes, Courtney gave in. “Fine,” she stated.
He responded with a sweet smile, a glimpse of teeth. She pretended to grumble as she moved back to make room as Robert extricated himself from the bar seat. After contorting around the tight space, he stood with his left arm along the back of the seat, holding it back from the bar for her.
“Because I’m a delicate lady in a fucking Regency drama,” she scoffed.
As much as she complained outwardly, she didn’t actually mind that it was apparently painful for him to not to yield his seat to a “lady.” Nice change of pace for her - guys didn’t always think she qualified for that definition.
“Now, you in a ball gown I would pay to see,” Robert admitted.
She flipped him off. She briefly wondered if he was regretting treating her like a lady.
“Don’t have a ball gown, but I think I have a corset somewhere,” she offered breathily. Try to get that image out of your mind, Bobby.
She saw his eyes flick down to her body automatically and, with apparent superhuman resolve, return to her face in a microsecond. She genuinely did appreciate his efforts.
As she moved to take a position on the chair, she brushed up against his body in the tight space available. They were standing face to face, inches apart. Courtney’s head tilted to look up into his eyes and he returned her look. She could close the gap, run her fingers down…Intrusive Thoughts Courtney was doing a number on Barely Holding It Together Courtney.
Robert broke her little spell by crooking his left elbow and holding out his hand for her, like he was helping her to mount a horse. With an exaggerated sigh, she put her hand in his and he assisted her onto the chair. His wrist was surprisingly strong. She had taken him for an office drone, but was now second guessing that.
Seated, she maybe held onto his hand a second longer than necessary. Maybe two seconds. The warmth from his hand lingered.
“Happy now?”
“Very,” he confirmed.
Courtney turned away to hide her smile.
Just as she had managed to shift comfortably in her seat to face him, the bartender arrived carrying her drinks. She had actually forgotten that was her original reason for coming to the bar. Annoyed, she began to clamber down off the chair.
“Name on the card?” The bartender asked, as he carefully set the drinks down in front of her.
“Robertson,” he spoke, before Courtney could respond. The bartender nodded and was off to take another order.
Courtney’s head whipped towards him. “You didn’t…you didn’t have to do that, dude.” Four drinks here wasn’t exactly cheap.
“Didn’t have to, no.” He slid the whiskey in front of her with a raised eyebrow, daring her to contradict his earlier guess. She accepted the drink with an eye roll, as he smirked like a big fucking dork.
Robert gathered the other drinks and balanced them in both hands. He made to turn with them.
“Wait…what are you…what are you doing?” Courtney asked, confused.
“Dropping the drinks off. Three ladies, back table, right?” He motioned with his head in the direction of Alice, Mal, and Janelle. “I saw you come in,” he admitted.
She nodded dumbly and he was quickly off with a “be right back.”
Courtney watched as Robert navigated the crowd, twisting in between bodies to reach her coworkers.
What in the actual fuck? Who does that?
Her phone started buzzing again. She pulled it out this time and opened up the chat.
Robert had completed his drop-off and made his way back from the table to the bar. He had to admit that was a particularly intimidating group of women. They had adjusted pretty quickly to what was happening. He assumed that they had people sending drinks their way pretty often.
He bumped into one patron and lifted his hand as an apology. Through the crowd, he looked up and saw Courtney perched on the seat, head buried in her phone. He watched as she brushed a stray strand of short, dark hair behind her right ear, three upper ear rings now visible. Her face seemed softer as she concentrated on typing, her wide, expressive almond eyes cast downward. She bit part of her lower lip between her teeth as she read.
“You’re staring, weirdo,” she said, without looking up.
He was. Couldn’t help it.
“How’d I do?” He nodded to the phone. “In the group chat,” he clarified with a slight smirk. He was just guessing, but it seemed a reasonable assumption based on the way all of the women furiously texted as he left the table.
“Mal sent three fire emojis. Alice is telling me to commit long-term because you bought her a drink.” She held her phone further away from her face and furrowed her brow. “This is the most enthusiastic I’ve ever seen Janelle.”
Her eyes narrowed at him, as she leaned back and crossed her legs, right over left. “So, what’s your deal, Robertson?” She took a sip of whiskey.
“Just being nice, I guess.” Robert respectfully limited his glance at her legs to the briefest of moments. She was wearing tight black jeans, with several convenient tears in the denim displaying tan skin underneath.
She eyed him skeptically. “Yeah? Is that what gets you off, you sick freak? Being nice to people?”
Rob sighed wearily, offset only slightly by a crooked smile. He reached back to run a hand through his hair.
“Yes, it’s my fetish,” he replied, dripping in sarcasm. “I know it’s niche, but…” he leaned in close, his left arm perched along the back of the chair, shrinking the distance between them. His face was close to her ear, voice low. “Sometimes, I like to buy drinks for beautiful women that flirt with me at a bar. Fucked up, I know.”
Fuck. She fought a losing battle to keep the blush from creeping to her cheeks. Didn’t help that his face was so close. The butterflies in her stomach had somehow managed to construct a corkscrew rollercoaster and were currently screaming in free fall.
She collected herself by downing the rest of her whiskey. Future Courtney would likely regret that, but Current Courtney needed a distraction.
“Don’t remember flirting at all, fucker. Seem to recall insulting you, though.”
“I don’t know you that well, but I suspect for you those are one and the same,” Robert responded, with an arched eye brow.
Damn. Read for filth.
She flagged down the bartender to order another drink. He appeared more quickly this time. Bar seats are better, apparently.
Robert watched her closely, hoping he hadn’t said the wrong thing as she went quiet for the first time in the — he checked his watch — twenty minutes he had known her.
She ordered another whiskey, then turned to Robert, “Another one?” Eyes gestured towards his mostly empty beer.
He nodded. The bartender left to grab their drinks.
Courtney leaned back in the chair, making no attempt to avoid Robert’s arm slung across the back. Her shoulder blades pressed lightly against the knuckles of his left hand.
Her eyes flitted to his and then away quickly. Some of the bravado Robert expected from the cute, sarcastic pickpocket was absent. “Thanks…for the drinks. It was nice of you,” she said, voice smaller.
“You’re welcome.”
“They’re my coworkers,” she explained, with a vague wave indicating the recipients of Robert’s gesture. “Maybe friends? I don’t know, I just started a few months ago. Anything that helps me with them is…good.”
Robert looked at her. He could tell that this level of vulnerability was discomforting. He thought she would appreciate a change of topic.
“What is Z-Team, anyway?” Robert asked. He gestured to the light blue insignia on the dark grey t-shirt she was wearing. The other women were also wearing similar shirts, although Robert noted that Courtney’s had been cropped to display her midriff. “Yours is my favorite, by the way,” he added, before she had a chance to speak.
“Oh, you like this?” She looked down at her shirt, holding open her jacket. “I had to make some modifications. My boss loved it,” she said facetiously.
She adjusted slightly so she could get a better view of Robert’s face. She took a second to just stare at him, memorize the lines. She figured she would fuck this up at some point soon but the memory might be worth something later.
She leaned slightly further into his hand.
Robert was close enough to smell her hair, some kind of floral note — he wasn’t an expert, he just knew that it smelled good. Honestly, he was having trouble concentrating. He snapped back to attention when he realized she was answering his question.
“It’s a courier service. Basically, they send us out to pick up and deliver stuff — mostly documents. Law firms, businesses — they sometimes need originals. You know, wet ink signatures for deals or court filings or whatever. It’s fine. I get to be outside all day, have my headphones in. Nobody bothers me except to dispatch me to the next place.”
She smiled. “Plus, let’s me try out different food spots everyday.”
The bartender dropped off their next round.
“Robertson tab,” she casually told him.
Robert burst out laughing. The momentum of his laugh carried him further into her orbit. Her heart lifted at the sound. She wanted to reach up and muss his air up, but she quickly nixed that thought.
His hand slipped almost imperceptibly from chair to her shoulder, landing lightly.
“After the big deal you made about the first round?” He leaned and dropped his head down so that they were both eye level.
“What? That was before I knew you had, like, a fetish!” She hits the word “fetish” pretty hard, even over the music and general din of the Friday night crowd. Several other bargoers’ heads swiveled to look at them. “I don’t kink shame,” she added solemnly, at a lower volume. Her eyes sparked with mischief.
“So noble.” He smirked at her.
“I try.”
Courtney was very, very aware of the warm presence of his fingers on her shoulder. She was caught between her desire to shift in her seat so that she had a better view of his face without craning her neck, and potentially disturbing the placement of his hand. She opted not to chance it.
She brushed a stray hair out of her eyeline. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bar mirror. It wasn’t an ideal source of visual feedback, as it was partially obscured by shelves holding the hard liquor. Through the unobstructed mirror partitions, she pieced together that she looked decent — short, dark hair a little messy, but like sexy messy, not crazy messy. Her makeup and overall appearance were still holding strong, two and a half whiskeys in. She had left her septum ring in like she usually did when going out. For one, she liked it, and for two, she knew it filtered out a very specific type of guy that she had no interest in talking to. Didn’t seem to bother Rob, so, points in his favor.
Robert’s phone buzzed but he reached down without looking at it to send it to voicemail. Courtney noticed.
“Okay, since you’re hitting up so many food spots — best food truck in the City?” He added: “There’s a correct answer, by the way.”
Courtney leaned forward excitedly. She whipped out her phone and pulled up her notes app. She proudly shoved it forward. “Here’s the current ranking.”
Rob used one finger to scroll along. And kept scrolling. And scrolling.
“Courtney…this list…there’s like 250 places on here,” he commented awestruck.
“Like I said, I know my trucks.” She smirked at him. “But please…tell me what the correct answer is,” Courtney asked sarcastically.
“Well, now I feel self-conscious about it.”
“As you should. You’re out of your element, Bobby,” she boomed.
He laughed at her smug look. Lebowski. He was mentally cataloguing all of her movie references.
“Pedro’s. Usually on Sepulvada,” he responded, venturing an answer to her original question.
“Okay, I have to actually give you a little credit. That one is good.” She scrolled down on her list. “I have it at 34. I like the chicharrón.” She looked up at him.
“Thirty-four. You’re telling me there are 33 better trucks you’ve found.”
“The list doesn’t lie, dude.”
“Okay, well then you’re just going to have to prove it,” he challenged, pointing his beer bottle at her.
Courtney’s eyes lit up. The competitive streak in her was activated.
“Dude, I will take you to any of these and show you exactly what you…” she trailed off and stopped mid-sentence. Tilted her head up with a questioning glance. A smile slowly spread, lips curving upwards.
“Rob, that was incredibly smooth. I’m, like, actually impressed,” she praised. “Did you just manage to ask me out without asking me out?” She leaned back and crossed her arms, eyebrows raised.
“Don’t think I asked you out,” he teased. “But since you suggested it, I’ll take you upon on your offer.” He was laying it on thick now. He would have asked her directly, but it was funnier this way.
She punched him in the arm. “You’re infuriating,” she glowered, but just ended up, impossibly, looking cuter.
He looked into her eyes with a sincere smile. “Jokes aside, I would like to take you to one of these. Your choice,” Robert offered.
Her eyes shone, but her voice wavered slightly. “My choice?” To Robert, she seemed uncertain, like she thought he was still joking around and at any moment would literally pull the chair out from under her.
“Your choice,” he confirmed. “Robertson tab,” he added gently.
“Cool. I’ve already got a couple of ideas.” Courtney pretended to be unmoved.
She leaned back and gave him a full appraisal. She batted her eyelashes at him. “But I barely know anything about you,” she cooed. “You could be a serial killer that preys on young innocents like me.”
His eyebrow arched violently at the word “innocents.”
“For one, not a serial killer,” he started.
“Exactly what a serial killer would say.”
“Okay, so what’s something a serial killer wouldn’t say?”
“Dunno. I’m not a serial killer,” she bantered back.
“Exactly what a serial killer would say,” he reminded.
“Okay, Rob, the bit is circular. We can’t actually keep doing it to infinity.”
He laughed and then gestured to himself with his beer bottle. “Open book.” Rob knew that statement was probably more aspirational than accurate.
He took a sip of his beer. On a normal day, he wouldn’t be apprehensive in the slightest about answering the basic demographic bullshit that anyone faced in casual conversation. But it wasn’t a normal day for him and he knew what the first question would be. He had offered anyway. Rip the band-aid off.
“So, what’s your sign?”
Okay, he was wrong. Not the anticipated question.
He started to open his mouth, but Courtney interrupted. “I’m joking. I don’t give a shit about astrology.”
She fiddled with her inhaler. Banter with some rando she could handle. But real conversations about someone’s like life, or family, or goals or dreams or whatever…she didn’t know. Plus, now everything had, like, pre-date pressure with Robert, a guy that she liked. Well, the sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could get to her inevitable fuckup. Courtney was an Olympic medalist in speed-running relationships in her mind.
Why is my brain like this?
“I guess,” she ventured, “what do you do, like for a job?” Nailed it. Perfectly executed social skills, Courtney.
“Funny story,” Robert said, in a way that people did when the story wasn’t funny at all. He checked his watch. “As of approximately three hours ago, I am unemployed.” His face contorted into a slight grimace.
Courtney laughed. And laughed.
She transitioned to coughing, paused for a moment to assess the need for the prescription wrapped tightly inside in her hand, and then continued laughing as the anxiety passed.
“Jesus, it’s fucking uncanny.” Shaking her head, voice hoarse from the combination laughing/coughing fit. “ it’s like a fucking superpower - the way I’m able to zero in on the jobless man in a crowd. Like, it’s even accurate within a couple of hours,” she added.
Robert observed this and — mild tinge of embarrassment aside — found himself captivated by her. Eyes closed, head thrown back, just pure joy in her reaction. The moments of abandon, when the guard was down, were worth a minor insult.
After the last couple of years, he welcomed a little chaos.
When Courtney recovered sufficiently to look up and see Robert’s eyes, patient and kind, matching his amused smile, she felt immediate and instant regret. God, I am such a piece of shit.
“Hey,” she said, meeting Robert’s look. “That was super shitty of me, man. Managed to make your thing all about me.”
“Fucking selfish,” she muttered, more to herself, but loud enough for Robert to hear. She struggled to meet his eyes and messed with the cuffs of her jacket sleeve.
“Courtney…”
God, she'd only heard it twice, but she loved how he said her name. Just a low tone that cuts through everything, all the bullshit flying through her head. Quieting the noise, external, internal, whatever.
She looked up at him. He was in that perfect zone of alcohol consumption that softened his features without pushing him over the edge into glassy-eyed and unfocused. Intrusive Thoughts Courtney wanted to smush his face.
“It’s okay. You’re good,” he assured. “I thought it was funny,” he noted honestly. He gave her shoulder a light squeeze.
Courtney brightened immediately. “Okay, so unemployed what? What am I working with here? Unemployed drummer?” She’d had one of those before.
“Yes,” dry as sandpaper. “As you can tell from my outfit, I was just let go from my gig as a drummer in a hair metal tribute band.” Robert gave a rueful shake of the head. “What am I going to do with all my unitards now?”
Courtney laughed. She gave an exaggerated up down, devoid of any shame. His wiry frame could totally pull off a unitard.
“I was — I still am, I guess — an engineer. Just an unemployed one now,” he explained.
“What — do people ask what kind of engineer? Is that a thing?” She approached hesitantly.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “There are different types. I’m a mechanical engineer. I worked at CalTech. Program cuts,” he shrugged.
Courtney could tell he was being more casual about it than he felt. She felt a little pang in her heart for this guy who, on top of losing his job and putting up with her bullshit, was sanitizing his feelings for her benefit. He should have, like, someone caring or empathetic to talk to.
Courtney glanced around. The bar was at its busiest now. You had the post-work crowd still bumping, mixing in with the recently arrived dinner and drinks crowd. It was loud. Normally, she was all about the noise. Bars, concerts, headphones. The louder the better. Drown out the quiet thoughts. But right now, she just wanted it to be quiet with him.
She downed her drink and deposited the glass on the bar. She turned to face him.
“Do you want to…” she started.
“Are you h-,” he spoke simultaneously.
They both stopped, faces close, angled towards each other.
“You first,” Rob prompted.
“Do you want to get out of here?” She searched his eyes.
“Yeah, I do,” he smiled. “I’ll close out.” He turned to flag down the bartender.
Courtney watched him reach into the inner pocket of his jacket. He made a little show of patting the pocket, as if it was empty. He looked at her with raised eyebrow, before a moment later producing the wallet with a smirk. So fucking corny. She couldn’t believe it was working on her.
Robert collected his bill and his card. In a side glance, he could see that Courtney was quietly watching him. She gave him a little wink. He felt an incredible urge to hurry up.
“Hey,” she poked him in the shoulder. “What were you gonna ask? Before.”
He calculated a tip in his head. “Oh, same thing as you. Ask if you were hungry, if you wanted to get some food.”
He scratched his name on the merchant copy quickly.
“Uh-uh, don’t forget the Third,” she teased, looking over his shoulder. “How are they gonna know which Robert Robertson signed it?”
He rolled his eyes. But he added the Roman numerals anyway. Courtney smiled and clapped her hands together excitedly. He was already doing absurd things for her.
“Yes, I would like to get some food with you, Robert Robertson III,” Courtney confirmed.
“Cool,” he responded.
"I know the perfect place," Courtney said.
Courtney hopped off the chair and her black boots connected with the floor. She angled toward the door preparing to move through the crowd of bodies. She had her right hand stuffed firmly in her jacket pocket still wrapped around her inhaler.
Robert closed the bill presenter and slid it across the bar.
Courtney looked back at him. She extended her free hand.
He took it.