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Prove Me Wrong
Couples drifted along the railing. A few groups headed toward the bars on the strip. Josh sat on the bench at the far end of the pier, jacket zipped to his throat, still smelling like the fryer.
Ben had texted him a month ago.
He’d check his phone, see Ben’s name in the inbox, and close it again.
A month of that. A month of extra shifts and pretending the program rejection didn’t sting and not thinking about that unread message.
Wind off the water. Salt and diesel from the marina.
He opened the message.
Can we talk?
Josh typed back before he could talk himself out of it.
Fine. The pier.
Sent.
Ben’s apartment was across town. Twenty minutes, maybe, at this hour. If he was even home. Josh didn’t track his shifts anymore.
Riley’s was down a narrow staircase between two louder bars on the strip. Josh had walked past it twice before he noticed the small rainbow sticker on the stairwell wall.
Piano from below. At the bottom, amber light and low ceilings. A long bar, a few small tables. Quieter than anything else on the block.
Josh took a seat at the bar and ordered a piña colada.
Two stools down, a guy with short hair and a glass of something dark looked over.
“Bold choice.”
Early thirties, maybe. One elbow on the bar, shoulders loose.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. Just figured a whiskey bar might call for whiskey.”
“I like what I like.”
“Fair enough.” He took a sip. Unhurried. “New around here?”
“Couple months.”
“And you found this place already. Good instincts.”
“I’m Josh.”
“Ben.” He held the eye contact a half second longer than he needed to, and Josh forgot what he was going to say next.
“So where’d you land?”
“Downtown. Off the bridge.”
“Which block?”
Josh told him.
“That’s rough. There’s a taco place two streets over from you, though. No sign, no menu. You just tell the guy what you want and he decides if you deserve it.”
“And if you don’t?”
“You get a quesadilla and a look of disappointment.”
Josh laughed. Ben smiled.
His piña colada went down fast. He ordered another. Ben talked about the neighborhood, which streets to avoid after dark. Josh asked questions he already knew the answers to just to keep him going.
At some point he caught himself fidgeting with his phone under the bar.
“Let me guess,” Ben said. “You’re trying to figure out how to ask for my number without looking like you’re asking for my number.”
“You’re full of yourself.”
“Maybe. But I’m right this time.”
Josh slid his phone across the bar.
“Fine. Prove me wrong.”
Ben typed his number in.
“Call me if you want a drink sometime. A drink. Not a piña colada.”
The footsteps were enough. Even after a year, Josh knew the sound of him.
He didn’t turn around.
“You took your time,” he said.
“Drove as fast as I could,” Ben said.
“I meant the year.”
“Yeah. I should’ve called sooner.”
“No shit.”
“I was a coward.”
Josh turned to look at him. No deflection, no half-smile.
“Yeah. You were.”
“I’m not anymore.”
“Big claim.”
“I know.”
“What do you want, Ben?”
“A second chance.”
Josh’s hands tightened in his pockets. He’d expected excuses. Something about Matt, about the timing, about how complicated everything was. Something he could tear apart.
This he didn’t know what to do with.
He could stand up. Walk back to Big Mike’s. Pick up an overnight shift. Never answer another message from Ben Ralston again.
“I don’t expect you to forget any of it. I know what I did. But I want to try again. If you’ll let me.”
The water lapped at the pilings. Someone laughed further down the pier.
“So,” Ben said, after a while. “You still drink that piña colada shit?”
“You’re the worst.”
“Yeah. I know.”
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