Only With You

01 | gravity

01 | GRAVITY

the force that attracts a body toward the center of the earth, or toward any other physical body having mass.

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IT IS SO LIKE ME to get ditched at a bar.

Leaning against the grey brick wall of The Black Inlet's exterior, I press my phone to my ear and tap my foot against the weathered concrete. It beeps six times before Luna picks up with an infuriating snicker. Rock music plays in the background of the call, and it doesn't match the bass thumping from inside the building next to me.

"Aria, what's up?" Luna slurs.

"You left without me, didn't you?"

"Of course we left! I thought you were going home with the mega-hot bartender?"

"Are you high? I didn't even talk to him!"

"You were giving each other eyes all night, I thought you'd hit it off!"

"I was gone for five minutes!"

"Okay, chill, I'm sorry. Just come meet us."

Fuck's sake. I'd expect this from Luna, but our other roommates, Caroline and Devin, are no better. I'm going to kill all of them.

"Okay." I take a deep breath to chill my temper. "Where are you guys?"

Silence. With a frown, I look at my phone.

She hung up.

Drunk rage boils through me. "Fuck you!" I spit into the black screen. Beside the metal doors to the bar, a group of old dudes with scraggly beards puff on their smokes and stare at me, reminding me I'm in public. The humid summer air is damp on my bare legs, and storm clouds rolled over the last glimpse of the stars. I need another drink—so I go back inside.

The Strokes' Last Nite plays from the jukebox, and the air is dank with the smell of beer. My head spins and my brain throbs; I might be a little drunk, but if I don't get another one in me, this anger isn't going anywhere. I saunter past tables filled with the typical Friday night crowd: guys in leather jackets, older ladies in black tanks and jean shorts. The pool table my friends and I were sitting at before they ditched me is now occupied by two old guys with studded vests.

Things at The Black Inlet never change. Same Labatt 50 on tap, same rotation of rock CDs in the juke, same grizzled staff. So imagine my surprise when I'd arrived earlier to see a new guy behind the bar. The bartender's always been Patty, this tough-as-nails lady in her forties, but now it's him, tall and pretty, a blue and black plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

Before my friends disappeared, I was hatching a plan to talk to him, but decided against it because of last week's love life-associated disaster. I'd been talking to this Matt guy online and finally met him in person, only to discover his plans included me having a threeway with him and his fucking girlfriend. Tempting and all, but I had to pass. I'm over cheap Tinder dates and empty hookups—I want the real thing. Ever since I turned twenty-one, the nights alone have started to get, well... lonely.

But finding a decent guy is hard, and even though flirting is usually as easy as feeding a goldfish, that bartender gave me cold feet. But you know what? Fuck Luna, fuck Devin and Caroline and fuck them for ditching me. I'm getting this guy's number.

Behind the bar, he runs a dishrag around a pint glass. When I slide into a stool beside the vintage tin poster of Marilyn Monroe on the wall, the bartender's eyes fall right on me.