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Instead, I decide to go home, sure I’ll find him there. But when I get back to the apartment, he isn’t there either. Did he get stuck in traffic? Surely he would have taken the subway? Worried now, I start texting our friends, starting with Eve.
I keep the message breezy.
Hey, you with Dorian?
But even when I’m trying to be casual, I can’t shake the worry that I’m coming off needy and pathetic.
When no one replies right away, I take a shower, peeling away the sweaty clothes that have started to dry and smell.
It’s not a big deal,I tell myself as I scrub my hair. Under the spray, my impulse to imagine every worst-case-scenario fades a bit and I have to admit – it’s way more likely that my boyfriend got caught up in something else and lost track of time. Which is annoying, but fine. It was just a stupid recital. Not important. When you’re in a relationship, the mature thing to do is focus on the other person’s good qualities. Like being a real person who exists outside of the internet and who I can have real-life-sex with. Sure, he’s not always reliable. But I’ve never met a man aside from my father who I could honestly say is 100% reliable.
I’ve steppedout of the shower, towel wrapped around my waist, when I see that Eve has replied to my message.
We’re at The Ivy, where are you?
I frown.Was I supposed to meet them at The Ivy?
I throw something on and take the train back towards campus.
The Ivy is one of many student bars surrounding the classical red brick buildings. It’s one of the dingiest, and cheapest, so Iwas surprised the first time Dorian took me there, because it was very obvious he had money. And not, ‘put it on my credit card so I look rich’ money either, but ‘wears a Rolex like it’s a Timex’ money. After a while, I realized Dorian’s friends enjoy getting drunk at The Ivy for the ‘experience.’ The way wealthy Victorians enjoyed touring the East End during its worst years of deprivation. I try again not to think about what that says about him.
The bar is crowded and noisy when I step inside. My armpits already starting to tingle again with the promise of fresh sweat. A vision of Alice with her feet up in soft sleep leggings and a heavy metal band t-shirt eating cookie dough and watchingYou’ve Got Mailpops into my head and I bat it away.
Dorian is in a corner booth with Eve and a few of his other friends. They’re one of those friend groups who have known each other for years and have wildly confusing in-jokes and nicknames that don’t make any sense. Dorian is ‘Jeggers.’ Eve is ‘Clip.’ I’ve never been able to get much sense out of them when asking why.
Eve stands the second she sees me weaving my way through the crowd thronging the bar.
“Darling!” She says in that British accent people go crazy over. “You’re here finally.”
She hugs me, the bangles lining her arms jingling.
“Everyone, move up for Stef,” she says, kicking shins with her high-heeled boots and slapping people’s arms. I’m squished between her and Dorian, who waits until I’m practically sitting on top of him to say hello.
I smile and nod at everyone before leaning in close to Dorian’s ear and ask, “where were you?”
“To be honest babe,” he pouts. “I didn’t think you wanted me there.”
I work to keep my voice level, still smiling as I feel his friends’ eyes on us. “Why would I invite you if I didn’t want you there?”
He shrugs. His dark, curly hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and there’s a blush of exertion on his ruddy cheeks.
“You still haven’t introduced me to your parents, and you said they might be there. I didn’t want to make it awkward.”
“You know I can’t introduce you to them, not yet.”
His gaze automatically flies to the place where my crucifix sits under my shirt. I took it off before getting into the shower, though I used to wear it everywhere. It’s real gold and it won’t tarnish. But when Dorian started making comments, it stopped feeling like the most normal thing in the world to wear it.
“Look, I got you a drink, why don’t we just forget about this and have a nice night?”
He gestures to the vodka and coke with melting ice cubes sitting on the table in front of me. How long has he been here? Did he ever have any intention of coming to my performance? Or was an afternoon at a bar his intention all along?
“How did you know I’d come and find you here?”
He gives me one of those smiles. The kind of smile that probably got him off the hook with countless nannies and middle-school teachers, something no one’s told him doesn’t work on grown men. “Don’t you always find me?”
Dorian’s louderand sloppier than everybody else, telling me that, as usual, he’s a few drinks ahead. And when he gets up to go to the bathroom again, Eve scoots over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Listen Achilles, I think you should take him home. Before he gets himself into trouble”