"I'm working."
"You're always working."
Tom looks at me then, directly, and whatever ease I'd built over the last ten minutes with Jason disappears. Not gradually. All at once, like someone flipped a switch. I know I'm doing it. I watch myself do it.
My posture changes. Something about his presence activates a version of myself I don't particularly recognize—someone who has a response loaded before he's said anything worth responding to.
See, I am naturally sweet. I do not have a sarcastic bone in my body … that I know of.
Tom has somehow located one and is apparently committed to finding it every time.
"Nice poster," he says, looking at the Black Sabbath framed poster by the window. I was supposed to carry it to my apartment upstairs, but it helps keep up the lie. My lie.
"Thanks. It's signed."
"By who?"
"Probably Ozzy or Tony. It’s a scrawl, but an O looks prominent to me."
His jaw does the thing where it tightens just slightly, and I know I've scored a point in whatever game we're playing. "You get a lot of vintage stuff for a new bar."
"Makes it look cool."
"I don't see taps anywhere."
"Yet." I take a sip of the beer Jason brought me and maintain eye contact. "I'm glad to see you're as excited as I am about my own bar."
Jason watches with undisguised fascination and amusement, eyes darting to me, then Tom, then back to me. He's definitely telling his wife about this later. Tom and I are about to become punch lines.
Tom's mouth twitches. "I see you framed the noise complaint."
"I did. Not sure if I should put it beside Ozzy's signed poster or Mick's."
"I'm flattered you find me that important."
"Nah, just a good reminder to always keep winning."
"You haven't opened yet. You're not winning."
"Are you nervous about my opening?"
"If you didn't have beige walls, maybe."
I don't remember moving, but somehow the distance between us has compressed. I'm now standing before him, so close I can see the stubble along the edge of his jaw.
God, why does he have to be an asshole? Can’t he just let my eyes drink in his sexy as fuck veiny hands?
I'm about to say my parting shot before he turns and goes back inside without another word.
Jason sighs. "He's not actually like that."
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't, so I take the bait. "Like what?"
"Like that." Jason tips his beer to Tom's retreating back. "You make him nervous."
This is the most infuriating possible thing to say because it explains nothing and implies everything.
Jason finishes his beer and waves. "See you around, neighbor."