Babe, I Think We're Just Friends

I had three hours to finish a practice test and no intention of finishing it. The timer on my laptop kept counting down beside a question about data interpretation. I had reread the same sentence four times. My pencil tapped the kitchen table. My phone buzzed with a message from my friend Tessa. Tessa: Come out. You need food and one conversation that isn't about your portfolio. I looked at the stack of drawings by the wall, then at the practice test, then at the rain stippling the dark kitchen window. I was twenty-four, applying to graduate programs in architecture, and apparently one ordinary evening away from turning into a person who yelled at a standardized test. I texted back that I'd come for one drink. An hour later, I was sitting at the end of the bar at the Lantern Room, eating fries from Tessa's plate and watching Eli Mercer make a woman laugh while he poured her a glass of red wine. I didn't know his name yet. I knew he had a crooked smile, dark hair falling into his eyes, and the kind of looseness in his shoulders I envied. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and a thin silver chain at his throat. He looked like someone who had never once worried about whether his portfolio told a coherent story. When the woman left with her wine, he glanced toward us. Tessa lifted two fingers. "Another round?" he asked. "Just for her," Tessa said, pointing at me. "She's been staring at that phone like it owes her money." "I have a test to finish," I said. "On a Friday?" Eli asked. "It's a practice test. It doesn't care what day it is." He set a glass of water in front of me. "That's a bleak relationship." "Most of mine are." His smile widened. "Eli." "Mara." We talked because Tessa went to the restroom and because he leaned on the bar like he had all night. He told me he shot photographs for restaurants and small magazines, and worked a few shifts at the Lantern Room when assignments were slow. I told him I designed buildings, which was mostly true if you included the part where I had graduated and currently worked as a junior drafter at a firm that gave me more window schedules than buildings. "Graduate school?" he asked. "Maybe. If I get in." "That's a lot of ifs." "That's why I'm taking the test." He looked at the fries. "And you came out because you love tests?" "I came out because if I look at one more practice question, I'll start answering in all caps." "That sounds like a legitimate medical concern." It was easy to laugh with him. That was the trouble. Easy things had a way of making me forget how carefully I had arranged my life to avoid wanting anything I couldn't control. When Tessa returned, she took one look at my face and announced that she was leaving without me. I protested. She kissed my cheek and walked out into the rain. Eli wiped the bar where she'd been sitting. "You want to stay?" "I should go home." "Should you?" I looked at the empty glass in front of me. At the rain. At the practice test waiting in my kitchen. "No," I said. He raised his eyebrows. "I mean, not yet." He nodded as if I'd given him a perfectly normal answer. He didn't push. That, more than the smile, made me stay. We walked to a diner around the corner when his shift ended. The place was nearly empty, the windows fogged, the waitress tired enough to let us linger over coffee. I told him about my applications: Alder, mostly, because it was the one I wanted most and the one most likely to turn me down. He told me about a magazine assignment that had paid him in exposure and a sandwich. At some point, our knees touched under the table. Neither of us moved away. When he walked me back to my car, I said, "I'm not looking for a relationship." The sentence came out before I could soften it. I wanted it to sound casual, but my fingers had tightened around my keys. Eli watched me in the wet glow from the streetlights. "Good." "Good?" "I'm not looking for one either." I should have felt relieved. I did feel relieved. But there was a little pinch beneath it, like a note I couldn't place. "So what are you looking for?" I asked. He tipped his head. "A good night. Maybe another one if we both want it. No promises we don't mean." I held his gaze. "And no expecting more because we've had more than one good night." "Agreed." "Friends who sometimes make bad decisions?" "Friends who sometimes make excellent decisions." I laughed. He stepped closer, slowly enough that I had time to change my mind. I didn't. His kiss was warm and unhurried, his hand light at my waist. I could taste coffee and the faint salt of fries. For a few minutes, I wasn't thinking about the test or Alder or how many ways a life could go wrong. When he pulled back, he said, "Do you want to come over?" I looked at the rain-soft street, then at my car, then back at him. "Yes," I said. "But tomorrow we go back to being sensible." "Sure," Eli said. We both knew neither of us had defined what sensible meant.