Wright:
Alex chose this bar on purpose.
I know it the second I walk into The Rusty Clover and he gives me that grin—the one that means he’s about to emotionally waterboard me for entertainment.
“There he is,” Alex calls, lifting his beer like he’s toasting my downfall. “The man. The myth. The emotional cryptid.”
“I’m leaving,” I mutter.
“Sit your tragic ass down.” He yanks me into the booth. “You called me. Which means something catastrophic happened, and I want front-row seats.”
God help me.
He pushes a drink toward me. I don’t touch it. I can barely look at it.
“So,” Alex starts, already vibrating with excitement, “how’d it go?”
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. “I offered her the TA position.”
Alex blinks.
Slowly.
Then loudly: “YOU WHAT?”
The guy at the next table looks
