Good Behavior: Chapter 5

Justin and Charlie are back, but now they’re ignoring us. Great. Ant and I have another day of hard work, but we’re quiet, like we’re trying to wrangle how we feel about things.

I’m a little relieved to drop him off, if only because our individual anger seems to be multiplying in each other’s presence. Instead of going home, though, I turn out of Wild Heart and head back toward town.

The one thing I miss about drinking is the social aspect. Drinking gives you a fun, low-commitment way to be around other people, and I’ve found it difficult to replicate in a nontherapeutic or recovery-related environment. Sure, those environments are great, but sometimes you want to saddle up to a bar and have a beer.

Thankfully, Sandy, the bartender at the Broken Oak, has my back. She’s sassy, but she respects my sobriety. I walk in and head in her direction. Sandy greets me with my usual: an ice-cold Topo Chico with a lime shoved down the neck.

“Thanks, Sandy,” I say, hopping onto the barstool.

“Why so glum, chum?”

“I don’t know if I even want to get into it. It’s been a fucking , and I don’t want to go home to my fashionable tin can and stare at the four walls, y’know?”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. Some days just need a do-over.”

I nod along. “True story.”

She sends me a wink and moves on to the next customer while I return to sipping my mineral water. Just as I’m contemplating the jukebox, a voice I haven’t heard since the grand opening of the therapy center—and now twice in one week—sends a buzz of warmth down my spine.

“Ignacio.”

I turn as Bram climbs onto the stool beside me, his posh scent immediately familiar.

“Wow,” I say, going for the joke. “You’re acknowledging my presence in public.” I press the back of my hand to his forehead. “You feeling okay, Dr. Barlowe?”

We both react to the contact, and I check my hand as though I might find electrical burns.

“I can go if you would prefer,” he says, looking very much like he’d prefer to stay.

I shake my head. “I’m kidding. Sorry, just in the middle of a weird week.”

He eyes the bottle in front of me. “I thought you were sober?” he asks, careful in his phrasing.

I turn the bottle around, showing him the label.

“I am sober. Topo Chico has some of that effervescent thing I like about beer.”

He nods. “Smart. Though…is this the best environment for you?”

“Dr. Barlowe, are you trying to tell me what to do?”

He holds up his hands. “No. Absolutely not. That would be inappropriate.”

I snort, then cover it up by taking a drink.

“And before you ask, Sandy knows I’m sober and never offers me alcohol. It’s just nice to be in the community without having to say the words, ‘Hello, my name is Nacho, and I’m an alcoholic.’”

“Fair.” He nods. “I was going to order a beer, but I can…”

I cut him off. “Order your beer. Being around alcohol is not my trigger. Being around family, on the other hand…”

He chuckles, then orders a Guinness.

“Why do you like that stuff? It’s basically beer sludge. Like drinking a loaf of bread.”

“Ignacio, are you trying to tell me what I can and can’t drink?” he asks, lightly mocking me.

I roll my eyes. “No.”

“Mm. Thought so,” he says, his eyes lingering on my hands before he continues, “Sandy’s one of the few bartenders in this place who knows how to pull a proper pint.”

“So snobby,” I retort, knocking his shoulder.

He stiffens at the contact, and I quickly return to my own airspace. We’re not going to talk about the thing we’re not talking about, so I need to stop testing the waters.

As if in silent agreement—something we’re both good at—we go back to our drinks, nursing them, chatting with Sandy, and generally ignoring each other. After a while, though, he finally looks back over at me. I lift my chin, and he grins at the familiar gesture.

“Sorry to be nosy, but you said you had a weird week. Anything you need to talk about?”

I’m not exactly surprised by his offer—he never could leave well enough alone—but I am surprised by how relieved I am to have his attention again.

He always did give excellent advice.

That’s the story I’m going with, anyway.

“I feel stupid even talking about it,” I start as Sandy replaces my spent Topo Chico.

“You know my thoughts on that, Ignacio.”

I let out a dramatically long breath and imitate his stoic response. “If it makes you feel stupid, then that’s the thing you need to talk about the most.”

“Ah. You were paying attention.”

“Okay, but you’re not allowed to make fun of me for being stupid.”

“I’m not ?” he asks with a knowing brow.

More shivers down my spine.

“Fine. This thing with Charlie and Justin getting married bothers me more than I’d like.”

He bobs his head. “Doesn’t surprise me. I could tell you felt off about it the other day.”

I scratch at the label on my drink. “I know they don’t owe me anything. Hell, Jason and Justin took a big chance with me when they gave me this job. They’ve promoted me and paid me a good wage, and I like what I do. But…

.”

“Just because you’ve been on the receiving end of a well-deserved acknowledgment doesn’t mean you can’t also feel some kind of way about not being included in an important family event.”

“

,” I say, my gesture nearly taking out my bottle. “That’s what Ant and I were talking about. They’ve made us feel like we’re part of the family and that the work we do for their business is appreciated, but—”

I cut myself off with an annoyed grunt.

“Whatever comes after that is the important part. Tell me what comes next.”

Something about the soft command in his voice has me straightening my posture.

God, I’m an idiot.

“

…they don’t involve us in the family stuff.”

“The real family stuff?”

“Like that Sunday dinner they go to. Me and Ant have never been invited. So, like, maybe we’re one kind of family, and everyone else is another kind of family who gets to take part in the big family traditions.”

I swallow quickly, annoyed that I’m actually getting emotional about this. His warm hand lands on my elbow, grounding me.

“Hey, now. You’re not stupid for feeling that way. You already know they can invite whoever they want to dinner. Right?”

I nod.

“But when you’re so included in other ways and not included in this one way, it can be painful and confusing. In fact, I bet if you said something to them, they would be horrified to find they’ve overlooked you and Ant in some of the more important family events.”

“I agree. But then, telling them I feel left out sounds ungrateful and needy.”

Bram is usually good at not reacting before hearing me out, but he’s already shaking his head before I finish.

“It takes courage to point out when someone you love has been inconsistent in their behavior. Especially when you know their reaction will almost certainly be positive, save for the fact that they will feel bad for having missed the mark.”

I wince, and he points at my expression. “This is the real issue. You don’t want them to feel bad about it.”

“Who would want to make the Goodnights, of all people, feel bad? As for Charlie and Justin…they’ve done so much for me, and getting married is a good thing.”

Bram takes a drink, considering his words. Snickering, I reach out and thumb away the bit of foam clinging to his upper lip. I nearly stick my thumb in my mouth to suck off the foam, but we are in public, and I value my sobriety.

Had that been whipped cream, however…

He touches his upper lip, lowering his chin. “Thank you, Ignacio.”

“Of course, Dr. Barlowe.”

We both refocus on our drinks, and Bram continues our conversation as if nothing’s between us.

“Put it to you this way. Ant tells me you’ve been like a mentor to him. If you hurt his feelings, wouldn’t you want to know what you’d done and be given a chance to correct it?”

Scrunching my nose, I think about the hug I’d given Ant earlier in the week and how I immediately apologized when I realized it was the wrong thing to do.

Ugh.

I hate Bram’s stupid reasonable response. He looks down his nose at me, the way he does when he’s about to give me an order. I refocus on my bottle of fizzy lime water.

“Ignacio. Look at me.”

Fuuuuck.

I do as he says, and his pleased smile makes my cock twitch.

“Talk to Justin,” he says, acting like he doesn’t know he’s given me a verbal hard-on. “Don’t wait more than a week to do it.”

I nod, even though I don’t remember what I’m agreeing to. Oh. Right. Talk to Justin.

“Yes, Dr. Barlowe.”

“Good.” He takes a drink of his beer, his hand shaking ever-so-slightly. “Good,” he repeats.

Before I think too much about it, he asks, “Has Ant ever talked to you about our Friday night dinner? It’s our take on a Shabbat dinner.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Shabbat means Sabbath, or day of rest, and Jewish people celebrate it with a traditional meal.”

“I’m not…religious. Like, I don’t believe in God.”

“Neither do I.”

My mouth drops open. “But…you just said you’re Jewish.”

“There are religious, ancestral, and cultural aspects of being Jewish, Ignacio. Levy and I aren’t religious, but we like to honor our family traditions. Like I said. Shabbat, but not.”

“Wait,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Does this mean I’ve been left out of something else?”

“Not left out, I promise.” He chuckles, and I can’t remember if I’ve ever heard him laugh. I like it. “Levy and I have always held a dinner every Friday night, even when it was just the two of us. With Ant, since we’re all living in the same space, it’s natural for us to include him, as well as anyone else who is staying with us. It would be no hardship for you to join us.”

“Well, as long as it’s no hardship,” I snark.

“You know what I mean, Ignacio,” he says, sending me a stern look.

. “Levy and I will be out of town for a few days, but next Friday, we’ll be there. You are welcome, and you should come.”

That doesn’t sound like an invite.

Rolling the bottle between my palms, I answer quickly, “Alright, I’ll go. Is there something I should bring?”

“You only need to bring yourself.”

“Okay.”

I down the rest of my mineral water, catching a bit of tension in his jaw as I go to stand.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything else, Dr. Barlowe?”

He traces his finger around the lip of his pint glass, contemplating. “Like I said, this won’t be the traditional Shabbat dinner, but it is considered respectful to prepare for the meal by bathing and wearing nice clothes that are freshly laundered. Wear shoes you can slip out of and socks to keep your feet clean and warm.”

His understated order is the perfect combination of wine and muscle relaxers, making me wonder if this conversation would be considered a break in sobriety.

“Yes, Dr. Barlowe,” I breathe out, my cock thickening as I slide off the stool.

“Good—” He stops himself. Clearing his throat, he holds out his hand. “Give me your cell phone so I may text you about the menu.”

I tap my lips with my pointer finger, considering him with a teasing grin.

“Ignacio, your telephone. Now.”

My chest rises, and I dig into my pocket, producing the phone. Unlocking it, I hand it to him, our fingers brushing, more electrical burns shorting out my system. Though it’s a toss-up as to whether the contact or his order is increasing my heart rate.

“I’m adding in my information now,” he says, texting himself. “By the way, I’m putting myself in as Dr. Barlowe, but you may address me as Bram at dinner.”

Locking eye contact, I respond, “And you should probably address me as Nacho.”

“Yes. Of course.”

We’re both a little breathless as we stare into each other’s eyes. For a moment, the world around us freezes, and it’s just the two of us, unable to look away from each other. Then the moment passes and the bar around us seems to start up again and go forward in real-time while we’re still shaking off the aftereffects of pausing our orbit around each other.

Taking my phone from his sure grip, I tuck it back into my pocket and send him a wave of acknowledgment as I head toward the door. Despite being stone-cold sober, I’m unsteady on my feet by the time I reach my truck, looking forward to next Friday a little more than I should.