Undone by Leslie McAdam
Murph
“How’s your new place?” Tanner asks as he pours glasses of merlot for a table of customers. The din of the wine bar surrounds us: tables full of couples, groups, single people reading books. It’s afternoon, and since I came in early, I’ll be off soon. We finished the inventory an hour ago, so now I’m tidying up before the evening rush.
While Vino and Veritas isn’t technically a gay bar, it’s also not not a gay bar. It’s an inclusive place that serves wine, with rainbow flags in the windows, owned by a gay man—who wants to make sure there’s no bi erasure. And it’s connected to an outstanding bookstore. I lucked out when I got hired here.
I look up from where I’m wiping glasses and nod. “It’s great.” I think about my farmers market excursion with my generous roommate. Actually, the part I’m obsessed with is how I’m pretty sure he’s straight, but everyone thought we were together.
Okay, by everyone, I mean two people: Roderick and soccer mom. But that’s enough.
I’ll note Jason didn’t deny that second one, but maybe he was distracted by all the cucumber talk.
Are they seeing something in him that I’m not? Because my gaydar didn’t ping when I met him.
What also confuses me is, well, the whole day felt like a date. An odd, very early, coffee and shopping date, but a date, nonetheless. He made me feel so special. But then I wonder if he cares for everyone that way, and my face falls.
So does the glass I’m holding. It smashes into pieces on the floor, making an embarrassing racket. Lucky me missed the part of the floor with the rubber padding.
The room goes quiet as every single person searches for who broke whatever it was that broke.
“Fuck.” I reach for a broom to clean up the shards. “Shit, I swore. Sorry.”
Tanner nods at a customer walking in, then turns to me, noticing my shaking hands. “You all right?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Ohh-kay. You’re acting like Molly.” She’s our resident klutz, not working today. He eyes me distrustfully and takes the tray of drinks over to a table.
Is Jason just being friendly? Or does he like me, like me?
I pick up another glass to dry and fumble it, too, but I catch it in time—and luckily Tanner doesn’t see me.
Get it together, Murph.
When Tanner brings a tray of dirty glasses back, I reach for one and knock them all over.
And I get a repeat of the whole room looking at me. At least this time the glasses didn’t break, they just made a racket.
“Shit. Sorry, I swore again. Fuckbuckets.”
The owner, Harrison, passes by on his way to the office, looking amused. While this really is the best place to work on the entire planet, I need to stop fucking up. I already give both Harrison and Tanner enough heartburn with my adventures in pushing the “dark clothes” dress code by adding sparkle wherever I can. They don’t need me adding property damage to my list of issues.
So I take a big, cleansing breath.
Just because I live with an unselfish and giving man doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I don’t have enough experience with healthy relationships to separate kindness from attraction.
I do my best to carefully take each glass and set it in the dishwashing tray. Mission accomplished. I let out the breath I was holding.
Then I whirl around and send a stack of menus flying across the bar.
I give up.
“Murph?” Tanner gives me a hard stare from the other side of the bar as he picks up another order. “What the fuck is wrong?”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Because normally, as you flit around here, you off-gas glitter.”
I stick my nose up and sniff. “That sounds disgusting. I don’t have gas.”
“You know what I mean. Normally you’re … floating.”
Gathering up the menus, I take one and very carefully wipe it down. Then another. “It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
I let out a breath, debating what to say.
He narrows his eyes. “Out with it.”
“I’m already out.”
“Your rainbow nail polish gives you away.” Tanner scans my outfit, which today contains no trace of Murph-ness except the lavender socks. “At least you’re otherwise following the dress code.” He sighs. “Look, you don’t have to tell me.”
I blink at him, warm fuzzy feelings blooming in my chest.
It’s not a question of whether I’d share my personal life with my manager. I already know Tanner is safe to confide in. Something about him—how he’s inked and tough but doesn’t gossip—makes him a vault for other people’s stories. He’s the perfect bartender, ready to lend an ear but slow to judge.
And even if I didn’t trust him, I’m not the kind of guy who keeps my heart secret. If my life were on stage, I’d gather all the players and sing the story of my unrequited love while they danced around with ribbons and did their utmost to console me through verse. The stage decor would be outstanding, of course. And I’d change clothes midsong like Elsa from Frozen. How they did that shit live, I’ll never know.
I maybe am getting a tad bit far afield from the here and now. No wonder my fourth-grade teacher told me not to daydream in class.
But if I say out loud what I’m thinking and feeling, will it make it real? Worse, will it make it come true?
Fuck it.
“Alas, my dear, sweet Tanner”—no one else calls him sweet, but I think he is, underneath it all—“I’ve broken rule number one. The only rule, really.”
No one appears to be ready to start singing while I relate my tale of woe. Still, I prepare to tell it as tragically as I can, batting my eyes like a fair maiden. I open my mouth to explain, but Tanner puts both hands on the counter and leans toward me. “Who is he?”
“Who is what?” I straighten the menus, not looking at him.
“The straight guy you have a crush on.”
The probably straight guy I have a crush on.
Ugh. Tanner’s as perceptive as a bird of prey. “How did you guess?”
A sympathetic smile stretches across his rugged face. “Because that’s rule number one, Murph.”
Dammit. I kick at the floor.
Tanner tilts his head. “You’re talking about Jason Falkner?”
“You dare say his name!” I hiss. “His name has power!” I pick up two empty wine bottles and toss them in the recycle bin. At least, with those, it’s okay if the glass breaks. “I will neither confirm nor deny that he’s the object of my affection.”
And I can’t make Jason confirm or deny his sexual orientation. Because reasons. Reasons like, if I know for sure he’s not into men, my heart will hurt. And if he is into men, but not into me, my heart will hurt in an entirely different way.
Tanner comes around the bar and hip-checks me good-naturedly. “You goof. We all know where you moved. Jason’s a great guy. I can see why you have a crush on him. Almost everyone has had a crush on him. He’s younger than me, but I remember him from high school.”
“You went to school with him?”
He nods. “He’s gorgeous. Rough around the edges. I’d bet he’s hiding a gooey center inside.”
It’s funny. Tanner could be describing himself. I’m sure his partner, Jax, would say the exact same thing about him.
“I knooowwww,” I moan. “He’s so perfect, he’s like Audrey Hepburn. The only thing keeping him from being perfect is that he’s perfect.” And his niceness confounds me.
“No one’s perfect. But I’m pretty sure your instincts are right. Jason’s not gay. I think he has a long-term hookup. The gossip mill sees him coming out of Marnie Madison’s house all the time. And I’m pretty sure they aren’t there to play UNO.”
“I’d play UNO with him,” I mutter. And Tanner goes to the storeroom to retrieve another case from the back.
When he returns, he sets down the box and says, “Hey. Come here.” Then he gives me a big bear hug.
See? Best place to work ever.
It’s soothing, but it’s the wrong guy.
For the remainder of the afternoon, I manage to not drop anything else, but my thoughts are on a one-track Jason station, playing all his greatest hits, all day long. Even though I’ve only known him a few days.
The first night, when he made me ziti.
How he looks wearing a white towel … and nothing else. Good goddess, he deserves a warning label.
How he’s neat and conscientious.
And how I want to kiss that scruffy face of his more than I want caffeine, which is saying something.
Somehow, I make it through the rest of my shift.
* * *
When I get home in the early evening, Jason isn’t here—he must still be at work. There’s a bowl in the fridge with a note on it in Jason’s all-uppercase writing.
“Chili if you want it. Just heat it up.”
How on earth did I win the roommate lottery? Seriously.
It would be a lot less complicated if he were a jerk, because that would override how attractive he is. But if he were a jerk, I’d probably want to move out ASAP.
I pick up my phone and call Reeve. While I adored living with Reeve, since he found a Viking to snuggle for the rest of his life, I had to move. But he’s still my best friend.
“Tell me if I’m asleep or awake,” I say without preamble.
He laughs. “Do you usually call me when you’re asleep?”
“But I must be sleeping,” I protest, “since I’m living in a dream world.”
“I take it you’re doing okay in your new place.”
“More than okay.” I tell him all about moving in and Jason taking me to the farmers market.
“You’re feeling things, aren’t you, Showgirl?”
“Yes,” I confess. “I haven’t felt this way about someone ever. This infatuation. Whatever Jason does is immediately my favorite thing. I know it’s dangerous to let myself feel something, since I have no idea how he feels—or if he’s even queer—but I can’t help it. I like him.”
“I understand.”
“I should just forget about him. But I can’t. It’s impossible, because I’m living with him, and he’s my ideal man. Not simply physically ideal—although you should see him. I’m not at all sure he knows how sexy he is. Because it’s a lot. Jason is all the sexy.” Reeve chuckles. “But it’s more than that. When I lived in Vegas, the people I knew were as fake as the architecture. They only cared how much money you had or what they could get out of you. No one was real. Jason’s real.” My voice drops to a whisper. “So real it aches.”
Reeve’s tone gets serious, and I can picture the frown on his face. “Are you setting yourself up to get hurt?”
I sigh. “He has a female fuck buddy. Although this morning I thought for a second he was checking me out. But that’s wishful thinking.”
I can hear Reeve’s smile over the phone. “Well, who wouldn’t check you out? You’re beautiful.”
“Thanks, babe.”
Reeve is a babe, all dark-haired and dashing, like men in that sexy romance show with dukes and viscounts in breeches. But he and I have never been more than really good friends.
“You positive he’s not, like, in the closet?”
“Well, that would almost be worse than him being straight. Because then he’d just be a tease.” I sit on the edge of my bed, pull out my glitter nail polish, and touch up my pinkie. “Part of me wants to push him. And the other part wants to forget about him and go find someone else.” I pause, thinking. “Even if he’s straight, I’m sure he wouldn’t say no to a blow job.”
Then I wonder. Maybe he would. Most guys don’t care whose mouth they stick their dick in—at least if their inhibitions are down. Not that I’m into creepy shit like getting guys drunk to have my wicked way with them. But does Jason care how he gets his rocks off?
As if Reeve can hear my thoughts, he says, “Murph, nothing you can do can force him to like you. You probably need to go find someone else.”
“I could see if he responds—”
“Let me ask you something. Does Jason respect the fact that you’re gay?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
“Are you respecting the fact that he might not be?”
I kick the ground. “Not so much.”
“If you flirt with him, and it goes too far and he rejects you, how will you feel?”
“Like crap.”
“And what are the chances of him rejecting you because he’s straight?”
“High.”
“Then I vote for finding someone who will actually respond to you.”
“I hate that idea.” I also hate saying my next words. “But you’re right. I’m going to do my best to try and forget about Jason. Because it isn’t going to work.”
“You know …” He pauses. “If you go out with someone else and Jason objects, that could be your answer. It’s a twofold solution. You’ll find out how Jason feels, and it might get you laid.”
A wee bit of happiness warms my heart. “You’re brilliant. Operation Get Murph Laid and/or Jason Out of the Closet is now officially beginning. And I know how to start.”
“Oh? How?”
“London texted me the other day.” I smirk. “His equipment.”
Reeve chuckles, then sobers. “Are you gonna send him something back?”
“I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, not convinced. Because he knows me. “Good luck.”
I’m not sure whether Reeve is wishing me good luck with London or with Jason. Or both. “But enough about me. Tell me everything about you, Hotcakes.”
After I talk with Reeve about how he and Oz are the best thing ever, I text London back and we arrange to go out on Friday.
And now I wait.