Three

JULIEN

On Tuesday, the LANTA bus bounces down West Broad Street as Julien tries to focus on the steady stream of Bach flowing through his wired headphones and not his annoyance over having to arrive to work early. Uncle Martin has called a staff meeting before they officially open for dinner service to introduce everyone to the new guy.

Greg.Julien found out his new coworker's first name by creating an anonymous TikTok profile and scrolling through a few of @GoodWithHisHandsHarlow's videos. He remains firm in the fact that this had nothing to do with Greg's long, fluttery eyelashes, his well-placed and appealing brown birthmarks, or his cocky but somehow goofy smile. (It tips more toward the right—like it's picked a favorite side of his face and stuck with it.)

He will not admit, no matter how long he spent staring at it on his phone with his heart rate spiking, that both sides of Greg's face are worthy of favoritism.

He especially won't admit that Greg's good at cocktails. Granted, Julien's relationship with hard alcohol is complicated, so perhaps he's not a voice of authority when it comes to vodka or gin or whiskey. He is, however, a voice of authority on professionalism in the service industry. It's a whole facet of his sommelier studies. And fake spills and no shirt and unwashed hands (no matter how large and supple-looking) are, for sure, red flags.

He tries not to think about all that, instead tuning in to the concerto that hugs his brain and squeezes it tight with familiar violins.

He doesn't remember exactly when he started listening to classical music to calm his mind before another hectic night at Martin's Place, but it helps. A lot. Ever since selling his used car and switching to public transit (which he explained was for the environment but was mostly for his bank account), he's come to rely on the quiet, passive ride as a sort of meditation. A clearing away of a busy morning studying before an even busier evening serving the masses.

Somedays, when he's particularly anxious about his shift, he gets so lost in the music—eyes closed, fingers waving—that he nearly misses his stop.

Today is one of those days.

Except worse.

Because he doesn't nearly miss his stop. He does miss his stop. And when he opens his eyes, he's on the South Side of Bethlehem, on the wrong side of the river.

Frantically, he yanks off his headphones, stands up, and exits the bus. Breaking into a jog down Third Street and across Fahy Bridge, he tries not to panic. He takes up his rhythmic breathing practice—the kind he learned for long, mind-clearing runs. Inhale for three steps, exhale for two.

If he maintains this pace, he'll arrive in twenty minutes. Twenty-five if he hits any flashing red hands at the plentiful crosswalks. Good thing the streets are never that crowded on a Tuesday, and thanks to his tall frame, he has a long stride.

It's sweltering for September, the sun just coming down off its peak. The breeze from the river does little to cool him thanks to the bomber jacket he wears over his T-shirt. His boots pound across the sidewalk as he passes the old YMCA, the Moravian Bookshop with its fun window displays, and a chocolate boutique he wishes he could afford on days like this. Dark chocolate and a bubble bath this evening sound divine.

By the time he arrives at Martin's Place, the meeting has already started. Chairs have been pulled away from tables and arranged over near the tiny stage where Frank Sinatra impersonators or indie acts sometimes perform. Now, @GoodWithHisHandsHarlow—Greg—stands before the staff looking perfect in a gray T-shirt that stretches over the gentle curvature of his pecs. The hint of his nipples can be seen through the thin fabric, and his ab muscles appear when he reaches for an ingredient and then stops at the sound of the bells over the door.

The whole room turns to see Julien standing there, sweaty, winded, and without escape.

Mortified, he hangs his head, mumbles a brisk apology, and finds a seat in the back to change into his nonslip sneakers.

Greg continues as if nothing has happened, which makes perfect sense. Guys like Greg don't get rattled by guys like Julien. Guys like Greg eat guys like him for breakfast alongside raw eggs and protein shakes.

It's not that he's embarrassed of his body. Normally. Today is the exception due to his overactive sweat glands and his lateness. But he was a bit of a late bloomer. When the other boys in the high school locker room sprouted pit hair and got shoulder muscles, Julien was shooting up, up, up but never out, out, out. He got tall, gangly. The other boys got broad, defined.

Julien suffers a similar self-consciousness now as he coaches his too-tight lungs into working properly, and watches Greg up onstage wearing a Gucci belt.

What a tool. Nobody in this part of Pennsylvania needs to be wearing a Gucci belt at a mid-priced bar.

"The Getting to Know You gin and tonic is meant to loosen you up and get that awkward small-talk portion of meeting someone out of the way," Greg says with such confidence that it makes Julien squirm. Until Greg sings completely off-key, "Getting to know you, getting to know all..."

The song is familiar from The King and I, one of Aunt Augustine's favorite movies that they watched a lot together when he was a kid.

"This one includes gin and tonic, obviously." Greg flashes a toothy, charming smile. What makes it so charming is that while the rest of Greg is impeccably put together, his teeth overlap just slightly in the front. A perfect imperfection. A weapon. "And hibiscus tea and lemon juice."

At the first flex of Greg's large biceps as he pours the gin into a short glass with a few ice cubes, Julien crosses his legs and sits forward in his chair, suddenly enraptured. His breath picks up impressive speed. He doesn't even see Greg add the other ingredients because by the time he's done ogling those biceps, Greg is placing the garnish—a swirled lemon rind affixed to the rim. The drink is a dark pink and utterly pleasing to the eye.

"Now, who wants a taste?" Greg asks, producing a large serving tray of tiny plastic cups. "Just a little bit for everybody. I assured Martin we wouldn't get anyone drunk before their shift." Greg's laugh is warm and buttery, and Julien feels it in his toes.

Greg steps down off the stage, loose laces on his black, high-top sneakers clattering against the hardwood floor. Julien hurriedly tries to make himself look presentable—sweat blotted, hair brushed off his slick forehead.

Argh. Why am I doing this?

"Here you are," Greg says, flaunting the near-empty platter in Julien's face.

Just the light waft of alcohol singes Julien's nostrils and makes him grimace. "None for me." He waves a hand dismissively and doesn't look up. Eye contact is often too intense.

"It's just a little taste," says Greg, voice more chipper than before. "It's sweet. Try it, you'll like it."

"I won't," Julien says reflexively. He doesn't mean for it to come out as harsh as it does.

"I didn't poison it or anything."

When Julien musters the courage to look up, he swears he catches hurt lightning-bolting across Greg's handsome, chiseled features. But the moment he swears it, it's replaced by a right-favoring smile so electric he has to look away again. "Never said you did."

"Then give it a chance. I promise it's delicious." Greg says delicious like he's tasting the word itself, which sets Julien's hormones into a frenzy.

Unnerved by the number of eyes on him and generally uncomfortable with Greg's insistence, Julien stands abruptly. "No, really. None for me," he grumbles, not watching where he's walking. His erratic elbow hits the lip of Greg's tray, effectively flipping it up. Like in that first TikTok he watched, the cocktails go sliding down Greg's torso. Except this time, the whole front of Greg's shirt is soaked and stained, making his worked-out abs even more pronounced beneath the clinging, sopping fabric.

Perfect. Just perfect.

GREG

Earlier that day, Greg spends an hour trying to decipher what to wear for his first night as the bartender at Martin's Place.

It's important that he dress to impress. While he doesn't love it, he knows his appearance helps. How else would he have been responsible for hundreds of sales for a cocktail shaker company with faulty lids? In fairness, he didn't know the lids were faulty until after he'd signed the contract to promote their product on his socials through videos and sharing a promo code.

Fellow influencer Stryker Storm, his ex, had pushed him to do it. Said he could use the money. And since Greg couldn't argue with that logic, he shot the TikToks and Reels required, even though he had to do a million takes to get a good one where the cocktail didn't go flying all over the kitchen. He seriously needed a cleanup crew that day.

Great. Now he's nervous for his first day, unsure of what to wear, and nauseous with guilt over the past he wishes he could overwrite. He won't be that clout-hungry egotist any longer. He can show off without being a show-off.

To prove it, he settles on an unassuming heather-gray T-shirt that's on the baggier side, tucked into a pair of dark wash jeans. He must've lost a pound or two since the move—he meant to start bulking with his trainer before he left New York—because the waist on these is a little loose. In his closet, he finds the one belt he packed, and it's Gucci. The gaudy buckle makes him look a bit like a tool, but he can't serve drinks with his pants falling halfway to his ankles, so this will have to do.

The drive to work is a relatively quick one, but finding parking turns out to be harder than anticipated. He still arrives at the restaurant early-early to help Martin set up for his grand introduction. He wipes his palms, which are slick with nerves, on his jeans before entering.

"Glad you're joining the Martin's family, Greg," Augustine says, sweeping her red hair back over her shoulder and offering him a handshake. "We're excited to introduce you to our ragtag bunch."

Augustine and Martin did his virtual interview, so he already knows they seem to be kind, funny people. The rest of the pack he can't vouch for, but he's optimistic he'll meet some friends here.

The weekend, as predicted, was lonely. Back in Brooklyn, he was used to being around people, noise, nightlife. Without Rufus in the house, Greg mostly filmed content that underperformed, reheated food that didn't taste quite right, and scrolled social media until his FOMO and anxiety overwhelmed him.

That's why today he's resolved himself to making one friend. One. What was it his mom said when he called her that first Friday after they dropped him off at the academy?

Chin up, Greg. Everything will be better once you make one good friend.

To this day, he still thinks what she said was a cop-out so she didn't feel bad about abandoning her only child at a military boarding school he had no interest being at. But, still—for the most part, she was right. Nothing was ever good at the academy, but things did eventually get better once he learned how to project positivity.

If he can make one local buddy by the end of the night, then he's going to be okay here. Someone he can go to the farmers market with, or the very least text. Someone who can recommend the best Chinese food places and maybe go with him to the local movie theater without feeling like a third wheel.

He uncorks his stock of optimism like it's a bottle of Patrón.

Martin comes out from the back in a red shirt and black pants sporting a welcoming smile. "Greg, my boy, nice to see you." Martin's handshake is so strong and forceful it knocks Greg off his balance, and he lifts six times a week so that says something. "Thanks for being here early. I wanted to give the staff a little introduction to you before beginning your training so people weren't starstruck."

Greg straightens up at the embedded compliment. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

"You never know, some of our younger staff members speak exclusively in trending TikTok sounds," says Augustine, sipping a flavored seltzer from a plastic bottle.

Martin and Augustine show Greg around the place. The tour he got on FaceTime was nice, but in person the restaurant has a certain sophistication he didn't pick up on through his phone screen. Mostly tables. A few booths. Hardwood floors. Black-and-white photographs of the old Bethlehem steel factory on the walls. Exposed beams on the ceiling. The gender-neutral restrooms are an affirming and promising touch.

As they bring him behind the bar, he takes in the view. This will be his stage for a while. His home base. He likes it instantly.

A little later, channeling all his energy, he puts on a big smile for the whole staff once they've filed in, and Martin introduces him up on the small stage.

"Hey, everybody. I'm Greg. Some of you may know me by my TikTok handle, but here it's just Greg," he says. There are a few polite smiles and nods from the group. "Martin thought it would be a fun idea for me to do a little cocktail demonstration for you all." He motions to the table in front of him.

Up on the small stage, he isn't nervous at all. He doesn't get stage fright, probably because he's done hundreds of live streams at this point. His voice is animated, and his smile never slips. No sweat.

That's until his flow gets broken by the door flying open. A dude, about five foot eleven with a lean build and chestnut brown hair flopping down in sweaty tendrils, stands in the doorway with a green backpack sagging off his shoulders. Even at a distance, Greg notices small silver hoops in the man's ears. There's a striking, lanky handsomeness to him.

But then the man moves with an uncomfortable-seeming gait to a nearby chair, and Greg calls the room back to attention with his voice. He doesn't want this lanky, handsome, earring-wearing man to be uncomfortable.

He scans the crowd as he speaks about gin and ice cube ratios, which he could practically do in his sleep. The makeup of Martin's staff is varied and diverse, but the latecomer looks to be about his age and has the same general awkwardness Rufus had when they were kids. Greg has always gravitated toward more introverted people. Maybe it's an opposites-attract instinct. Maybe he just likes bringing people out of their shells. Some unknown voice inside his head sings out that this man might be his best bet for a work friend.

"Now, who wants a taste?" Greg hears himself asking while producing his premade samples and handing them out. People sip and smile and chat about the flavor profile, and it's all going well until he stands before his hopeful new friend who won't even look at him as they talk.

Greg recognizes this man's avoidant eyes as a protection instinct because he's used it before himself. Whether it's out of shyness or something else entirely, Greg can't say, but he ramps up his charm to ensure this guy knows he's got an ally in him if he wants it.

Despite Greg's offhand poison joke and his affable insistence, the man refuses to even take the cup, which pokes a hole in Greg's confidence. Somehow, the guy's iciness feels more like a rejection of Greg than the drink itself. He's never met someone so instantly immune to the TikTok-approved Harlow charm.

He doesn't get a moment to harp on the offense, though, because the man commits another, worse offense shortly after by standing abruptly.

The tray Greg is holding tips, and the last few cups of cocktail rain down the front of his shirt. He's soaked. Even through the thin fabric of his shirt, the ice cubes cut a chill across his skin.

The man, looking shocked, mutters a half-assed apology before fleeing. Greg has sincerely never seen someone move so quickly outside of an Olympic track-and-field event. A younger guy who watched the whole unfortunate scene go down rushes over with some bar napkins that do little to fix the situation.

"Clean up on aisle you," the younger guy says in a high-pitched voice. His hands are soft, and his fingernails are painted black. "I'm Braydon."

"Hi, Braydon, I'm soaked," Greg jokes with a jovial laugh to lighten the mood, despite his embarrassment.

"I see that," Braydon says, openly checking him out.

Greg doesn't usually mind such blatant admiration, but the longer he stands there in front of everyone covered in cocktail, the more uncomfortable he becomes. Like his skin is shrinking.

"Oh gosh," Augustine says, appearing at his side with even more napkins. "Why don't you head back to the lockers and get yourself cleaned up? I'm sure we can find you a dry shirt to wear for tonight."

Greg nods, heading past the bar, a little upset his grand introduction ended on such a sour note. Even more upset that he somehow made a bad impression with Mr. Lanky Scowl. Was it something he said?

When he sees the man sitting on a bench by the employee lockers, he almost asks that question, but the man's head is hung in his hands, and he kind of wants to...hug the guy?

The bathroom is just beyond the bench. In three steps, Greg could be inside with the door closed, shucking off his shirt and wiping himself down so he doesn't feel so messy, but instead he stops and says, "Everything okay?" Because even at his lowest and stickiest, he'd rather put someone else's comfort over his own. He senses this man's hurt too acutely to not help if he can.

The man's head snaps up. His hair is even more unruly than Greg had originally noted. It has an untamable wave to it that's exacerbated by his sweatiness. Self-consciously, he brushes it down, but Greg weirdly wishes he wouldn't. He's struck to find he likes it like that. Wild. Natural.

"Good. Yeah. Okay," the man says, erasing every smidge of distress from his face with a swipe of his hand. Greg wishes he wouldn't do this, either. He doesn't like when people try to mask their emotions because he knows how draining that can be.

"Are you su—" he starts to ask before he remembers the withheld truths about why he came to the Lehigh Valley in the first place filling up his back pocket. Those plastic cards grow heavier by the day in his wallet. He shouldn't push for answers to questions he's not willing to answer. "Sorry," he mutters uncertainly while sliding by.

In the bathroom, he tries and fails to clean himself up. Sure, he could stop the drain, fill it up with water, and soak the shirt, but it's designer. The fabric is delicate, probably wouldn't work. Plus, he doesn't even have any detergent. Just a half-empty canister of hand soap. And he can't bartend shirtless. This isn't New York City or Provincetown or DC. He can't have his body on full display in an eating establishment.

There's a gentle knock on the door behind him. "Just a second," he calls, though he's certain it'll take him more than a second to figure this one out. He should've brought a change of clothes. That would've been smart. But he's not the best at thinking ahead. That's partially why he's here.

Another knock. "It's me. From before."

Greg recognizes the gruff tone, unlocks the door, and cracks it an inch. He sees Mr. Lanky Scowl holding out a black button-down to him like an olive branch.

"I always keep a spare in my locker. I'm not sure it'll fit, but it's yours if it does."

Mr. Lanky Scowl doesn't smile when he says this, but Greg does as he takes it from him. "Thanks. A small shirt is better than no shirt," he says, swinging the door open a little more.

Greg notices the man noticing him. Tracks his eyes as they scan down and up quickly. Charts the course of the man's immediate blush. His jokes and drink didn't capture Mr. Lanky Scowl's interest before, but his body certainly has. He leans slightly, letting his width fill the doorframe, giving Mr. Lanky Scowl the full show.

As the obvious blush spreads, Greg chuckles a little, which makes his stomach muscles flex, which makes the man look down again before getting completely flustered and backing off.

Unlike with Braydon, he kind of enjoys Mr. Lanky Scowl's attention. It's...different. A sort of admiration without expectation.

"I can take your shirt and clean it," Mr. Lanky Scowl says.

"You don't need to do that," says Greg.

"I made the mess. I'd like to clean it."

Greg nods. "If you insist," he says and hands him the shirt, wrung out but still damp.

"See you out there," Mr. Lanky Scowl says, turning away.

"Wait," Greg calls out. "I didn't catch your name."

Mr. Lanky Scowl pauses for a moment almost as if he's trying to remember it, but then he says, "Julien Boire."

Julien Boire. That's the kind of name you could savor.

It's got a classiness to it. A name that's fun to say and tastes like a boulevardier—Campari, sweet vermouth, and bourbon. Tart with a sting. A perfect fall drink. Greg makes a mental note to add it to the specials menu.

"That's a nice name," Greg says finally.

For the first time, Mr. Lanky Scowl becomes Mr. Lanky Smile. Dazzling. His teeth are crisply white, and his lips reveal their true fullness by staying plump even as they spread wide.

Those lips could be savored, too.

"Greg here," he says before smiling back, smooth flirtation bouncing off his every movement, but then he remembers his goal. A friend. The last thing he needs is to be known as the staff playboy. He doesn't want anyone getting the wrong idea about him. So he dials it back and offers his hand for a shake. "Nice to meet you."

Their hands touch for a second—the swiftest of shakes—and then Julien is turning around and marching off.

Greg stays behind in the bathroom, outfitting himself in the too-small shirt which he can only button part of the way. With most of his furry chest exposed, he looks in the mirror and decides that maybe this will be an adventure after all.