Ten

JULIEN

Julien feels silly for saying they'd do better tomorrow.

They didn't. Fewer people showed up on Thursday than on Wednesday. There are too many other, hipper happy hours in town edging them out. The people who did show on Thursday, however, did spend more money since the cocktails were more expensive, so that was good. But you can't really hold a happy hour mixer when there are only three people to mix with and they all came together.

This is how Julien finds himself, on a Saturday evening, wandering the aisles of Weis Markets with a red plastic basket, wondering what to bring to Greg's place. Wine and liquor would be pointless. Flowers would be too date-like. He spends several minutes puzzling over a fruit platter before a rude lady hip checks him so she can get to the cantaloupe.

He'll find something. It's not like he's in a rush. He takes his time with important matters. For some reason, not showing up empty-handed to Greg's place is an important matter.

In his amble, he stops at an endcap showcasing Hostess snacks—Twinkies, Ding Dongs, and HoHos. These sound more like the queer "tribes" that hookup apps make you select for your profile rather than the names of junk foods, but just the same, the blue-and-red boxes remind him of childhood afternoons with Aunt Augustine, and suddenly he's craving SnoBalls, so he picks up a pack and brings them to the self-checkout.

It's not until he arrives at the row house and Greg opens the door that Julien senses he missed something in the initial invitation. Greg's text had mentioned brainstorming and creating promotional materials for happy hour—so why is he impeccably put together, wearing a dark blue button-down and a suit jacket? And why is Julien in a pair of joggers holding a box of pink coconut, chocolate, and marshmallow mass-produced pastries?

"H-hi," Julien stammers, unable to get past the heart-rate-raising sight of Greg in this business-chic attire. "Why are you wearing those?"

"Clothes?" Greg asks.

"Fancy clothes," Julien says, not playing into his flirtation. If that's even what you can call this.

"I figured I should dress the part of cocktail connoisseur for our promotional videos." Greg does that cool-guy thing where he flaps the sides of his suit jacket, effortless.

"Videos?" Julien was too wrapped up in the invitation to go over to Greg's place that he hadn't even considered they'd be doing videos. "I guess we won't need the markers I brought then." They loudly roll around in the bottom of his tote.

"We're not making missing-dog fliers," Greg jokes with a laugh. "We're the faces of the happy hour. We should make some TikToks to show our faces. They're good faces."

Julien doesn't let the compliment simmer. Instead, he asks, "Where's your bathroom?" And before darting quickly to avoid his flushed cheeks being seen, he shoves the box of snacks at Greg. "I brought SnoBalls."

"I see that."

"Throw them away if you want."

"Why would I do that?"

Julien shuts and locks the door before responding. He needs a minute. Julien prides himself on being prepared, and somehow he'd misread this situation, which mortifies him. Rationally, he knows it's not a big deal. Mentally, he's unwound. OCD can trick you into thinking the worst of any scenario—if the stain on the napkin sets, the restaurant will close; if you don't keep the TV on an even volume, someone you love will die.

If you bring SnoBalls to your coworker's house looking like a slob, you'll inevitably incite the apocalypse.

Like his therapist taught him, Julien envisions a stop sign—red, octagonal, blinking. It causes his intrusive thoughts to pump their brakes, until they're nothing but a stalled-out car at an intersection. He splashes some cold water on his face, looks himself in the mirror, and breathes.

There's a knock. "Are you okay in there?"

"Yes, I'll be right out."

Julien banks a couple more breaths before pretending to flush the toilet, wash his hands, and step out. Greg is standing in the kitchen over the sink looking flustered and concerned. The box of SnoBalls is open, and a cloud of pink coconut flurries down Greg's chin. "Hi." He says this with his mouth full. It's ridiculously charming.

"Hi. Sorry about that."

"No." Greg wipes his mouth with a paper towel from a nearby roll. "I'm sorry. I should've been clearer when I messaged you. I have some shirts upstairs you can borrow. I'll only be shooting us from the waist up, so it's okay if anything is a little big. I have safety pins around here somewhere."

"Okay." Julien's still righting himself.

Greg smiles weakly. "Want my other SnoBall?"

Julien nods, so Greg tosses it to him. The sound of the crinkly wrapper landing in his palms is satisfying.

"Shall we?"

Upstairs, Greg leads Julien into his room. Julien is surprised to see, diagonally across from a twin bed, a rolling cart turned into a makeshift bar sitting in front of a green screen. From Greg's TikToks, he assumed the second, equally glamorous kitchen was real. How easy it is to deceive your audience on social media.

"This is where the magic happens." Greg twirls.

This setup—this house—seems like the opposite of magic. Not that it's a bad place to live. Far from it. Still, it's a pretty steep step down from the place Greg flaunted in his New York City era.

Julien must stare too long at the ring light tripod where Greg's phone sits because Greg says, "Let me guess, you thought I was actually in a kitchen."

Julien shrugs. "Sort of. Yeah." He pictured Greg shacking up in those new, fancy, state-of-the-art high-rises downtown near the PPL Center and the ArtsWalk.

"My cousin is a genius with stuff like that." Greg waves his hand at the setup. "This is his house, actually. Well, it's his grandma's house. Not the grandma we share. But, yeah, he pays rent and hooked me up with this room."

"Oh, cool." Julien ventures farther into the room, finding a trash can near the tiny desk and throwing his SnoBall wrapper in it.

"Disappointed?" Greg asks.

Julien stops, wondering if he's ever heard Greg sound self-conscious like this before. He shakes his head. "Impressed, actually." He says it because he knows it's what Greg needs to hear, but also because it's true.

On that first day, Julien wanted to write Greg with his Gucci belt off as a pretty boy here to steal space and begrudgingly cash in on a content stunt. But the strange thing is, Greg doesn't seem unhappy or out of place at Martin's. Greg actually seems more comfortable than he ever did in those old TikToks Julien can now freely admit to having watched. He's impressed that he's turning this situation—whether negative or positive for Greg, it's not Julien's place to decide—into something productive.

"I don't know what there is to be impressed about."

Julien's struggling to find the words. "If I had to uproot my life for a job at a semi-struggling bar and restaurant, I think I'd be a lot more shaken. You seem...calm?" Julien's never been able to roll with the punches. He's in awe that Greg has become a part of the staff and the area so quickly.

"Learned that in the academy," Greg says quickly. "Calm under pressure. Positive in the face of negativity. Call it survival. Call it a coping mechanism."

Julien's ears ring at the words. Coping mechanism. Was Greg in therapy, too?

Greg steps over to the closet and opens the door. "Let's see what we've got in here. This might work." He passes Julien a teal button-down that complements the dark blue one he's wearing. As Julien accepts the hanger, he can tell he's going to be swimming in the garment, but that doesn't stop him from turning away, shucking his T-shirt, and sliding into it.

"It's like I'm wearing a parachute. I could probably go skydiving in this thing and still land safely," Julien jokes, flapping his arms so the shirt billows. He's hit with a waft of Greg's spicy-clean scent that lingers in the fabric even though it's clearly been washed. It's heavenly.

Greg laughs, rummaging through a drawer and producing a few safety pins. He holds one up. "May I?"

Julien nods, and then tenses as soon as he feels Greg's large, strong hands gather the fabric in the back. The cotton stretches until it's hugging him the way Greg hugged him outside Studio Artiste. He'd be lying if he said he wouldn't love to feel those arms sealed around him again.

"How's that?" Greg asks, breaking Julien from whatever reverie he was about to drift away on.

"That's great."

Julien focuses on his breathing as Greg expertly pins the back of the shirt. Every movement of Greg's fingers fills Julien with a surging sense of anticipation that is completely wrong for this moment.

Ever since Colin moved, Julien has missed the feeling of a man's fingers near his skin. The heat of proximity. The allure of bodies pressed together. But he knows that's not what this is. Greg is helping him put clothes on, not take them off. Greg isn't even interested in him. He's interested in guys like Braydon and the pilot. Confident guys. Guys with more game than Julien could ever have.

Julien severely needs to find his chill.

Greg comes around the front and fixes Julien's collar. "There. Just don't turn around, and we'll be all good."

"Thanks." Julien grabs back any errant lust that might still be floating around in the air.

"I wrote up some ideas for us. Let me text them to you."

Julien's phone lights up with a message. "These are all great." Clearly Greg has put a lot of effort into this, and he admires that. He knows nothing about going viral or setting trends or whatever else happens on these apps.

"Cool. Thanks. So we'll just start with the first one and see how it goes?"

It takes a while for Julien to warm up. He's nervous, obviously. It's not like they've gone live or anything, but he still wants these to be good. That pressure makes his hands shake while pouring wine, causing little spills and retakes.

Greg, however, is patient with him. Never pushing. Never looking for perfection. "People like the little slipups. Makes this highly produced content feel off-the-cuff, ya know?"

Julien did know. He had fallen for Greg's content previously. He had imagined the real kitchen and the haphazard camera placement and the little jokes he thought Greg came up with on the spot. Turns out, it was all fabricated for optimal views. It was genius.

Gregwas a genius.

From the way he adjusted the camera to enhance the angle and downloaded a teleprompter app on his tablet for Julien to read off of when he couldn't remember his lines, it was all so professional and straightforward. Greg's creative competence sparked off his every move.

And over the next hour, Greg gives Julien a crash course in charisma. Julien seriously thinks he should be paying for this level of expertise. It's like he takes each tip and applies it through sheer will, and perhaps osmosis?

Just as Julien is about to finish a perfect line delivery, his phone chimes with a notification that ruins the take and the congenial vibe they were finally starting to settle into.