Chapter 8: Service Questions
The amber liquid in his pint glass was warm, the head long dissolved into a sad, flat circle. Thomas traced a finger through the condensation on the table, the wood sticky with decades of spilled beer. Eddie’s was quiet for a Thursday, the pre-weekend crowd not yet descended. The air smelled of lemon-scented cleaner trying and failing to mask the deeper, fungal scent of old hops and damp wood. A neon Schlitz sign flickered erratically by the restroom hall, casting a nervous pink glow.
He was early. Devin was always late. It was a law of nature. Thomas felt the strange, new quiet in his own head, a stark contrast to the usual frantic hum of self-consciousness. For the first time in maybe forever, he wasn’t mentally rehearsing the conversation, worrying about what to say, how to sit, whether he was taking up too much space. The memory of Chloe’s weight against him, the smell of her in his sheets, the raw sound of her climax—it all sat inside him like a warm, heavy stone, anchoring him to the world.
“Get you another?”
He looked up. The server, a woman with sharp, dark eyes and a tattoo of a sparrow peeking out from her sleeve, gestured at his dead beer. She’d been working the other side of the bar when he came in.
“I’m good for now,” he said. “Waiting for a friend.”
She nodded, but her eyes didn’t immediately dart away. They held his for a beat too long, a small, professional smile playing on her lips. “Just holler if that changes.”
As she turned to wipe down a nearby table, Thomas watched the easy swing of her ponytail. Was that a flicker of something? An extra second of eye contact? A slight lean-in? A week ago, he would have dismissed it as basic courtesy, or worse, imagined it was pity. Now, the possibility felt… plausible. The stone of confidence inside him warmed a few more degrees. He wasn’t just imagining the shift. The world was reflecting it back.
The door swung open, cutting the dim room with a shaft of dull afternoon light. Devin stood silhouetted for a moment, his chef’s pants stained at the knees, his jacket slung over a shoulder. He scanned the room, spotted Thomas, and loped over, sliding into the opposite booth with a groan.
“Man. The grill was a beast today. I think I sweat more oil than the fries.” He flagged down the server. “Two of whatever’s coldest on tap, please.” He finally looked at Thomas properly. “You look different. Did you get a haircut?”
“No.”
Devin squinted, then shrugged. “Weird. You just seem… I don’t know. Chill. Did you finally finish unpacking?”
“Not even close,” Thomas said. The server brought the two fresh pints, the foam cresting perfectly over the rims. Devin took a long, grateful pull.
“So what’s up? You never text for a mid-week beer. Something happen with the new place? Rats? Weird neighbor?”
Thomas took a sip of his own beer, the cold bitterness a perfect counterpoint to the warmth spreading through him. “I, uh. I’ve been seeing someone.”
Devin’s eyebrows shot up. “No shit? Who? How? Did you finally download one of those apps? I told you, the key is to look aloof in your pictures, but not, like, serial killer aloof.”
“It wasn’t an app.” Thomas traced the rim of his glass. “Her name is Izzy. She just… showed up at my door.”
Devin choked, sputtering beer onto the table. “She what? A random woman just knocks on your door and you let her in? Dude, that’s how you end up on a true crime podcast.”
“It wasn’t random,” Thomas said, a slow smile forming. He explained, haltingly at first, then with growing ease, about Izzy’s arrival, her directness, the note, the single, mind-altering night. Devin listened, his jaw gradually unhinging.
“You’re telling me,” Devin said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “that a smoking hot woman gave you a… a free trial? And it was… good?”
“It was more than good.”
“Holy hell.” Devin sat back, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “That’s… that’s legendary. I’m stuck searing salmon for boomers who send it back because it ‘looks too fishy,’ and you’re getting divine intervention at your doorstep.” He shook his head in bewildered admiration. “So, what, that’s it? One and done?”
Thomas took a breath. This was the part that had been circling in his mind since Chloe left. “Not exactly. A few days ago, another one showed up. Chloe. A friend of Izzy’s.”
The bewilderment on Devin’s face solidified into something more complicated. “Wait. Another one? Same deal? Just… showed up?”
“Izzy sent her. Said she’d ‘put in a good word.’”
Devin was silent for a long moment, studying his friend. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a slow, dawning calculation. “So let me get this straight. Izzy comes over, has a life-changing experience, and then… what? Pimps you out to her friends?”
The word landed like a physical blow, harsh and crude in the quiet bar. “It’s not like that,” Thomas said, but the protest sounded weak, even to him.
“What’s it like, then?” Devin pressed, his tone not unkind, but intensely curious. “She’s referring clients, man. She’s building you a… what did she call it? A circle?”
“She said it could be good for both of us.”
“I bet it is,” Devin said, a wry smile touching his lips. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. Hell, I’m jealous. It sounds like a fantasy. But you’re the new boutique product everyone’s talking about. You sure you’re okay with that? Being… distributed?”
Thomas looked away, toward the pool table where two women were setting up a game. One of them, a redhead in a leather jacket, glanced over at their booth. Her eyes met Thomas’s, held for a second, and then she smiled faintly before turning back to her game. It wasn’t an invitation, just a simple, uncomplicated acknowledgment of his existence. A week ago, he would have been invisible.
He thought of Chloe’s awe, her whispered you’re perfect. He thought of the server’s lingering gaze. He felt the solid, unshakeable truth of the confidence thrumming in his veins.
“I don’t know if I’m okay with the packaging,” Thomas said finally, turning back to Devin. “But the product itself… it feels pretty damn good.”
Devin laughed, a loud, genuine bark that turned a few heads. “Well, shit. When you put it that way.” He raised his glass. “To the newest, hottest commodity on the block. Just… be careful, man. This kind of thing, it can get complicated.”
“I know,” Thomas said, clinking his glass against Devin’s.
They drank, the conversation shifting to work, to Devin’s latest roommate drama. But Thomas was only half-listening. His attention was pulled back to the pool table. The redhead was lining up a shot, bending over the felt. She missed, and her friend laughed. The redhead stood up, mock-scowling, and her eyes swept the room again. They landed on Thomas.
This time, the look was more deliberate. A slow, appraising scan from his face down to his hands wrapped around the pint glass, and back up. There was no faint smile this time. It was a look of open, frank curiosity. It was the same way he’d looked at a line of code just before he figured out how to solve it.
She held his gaze for three full seconds before turning away, a new, different smile on her face.
Thomas felt it then, not as anxiety, but as a current. A transfer of power. He wasn’t just being seen. He was being considered. The world wasn’t just reflecting his confidence back at him; it was opening up, presenting options.
Devin was still talking about his landlord. Thomas nodded along, but his mind was elsewhere, racing ahead.
He was no longer just a participant in this strange new game. He was starting to understand the rules. And for the first time, he was thinking about how he might bend them.