I went to Ian’s apartment for the first time on Saturday.
Ian has a lot of roommates; he lives in this cramped four bedroom apartment that’s the size of a two bedroom. And his while his room is nothing awful (desk with laptop, full bed, closet and dresser), the bathroom is a horror show. Beard trimmings and ring around the bathtub and grout that hasn’t been cleaned in never ever ever. The toilet bowl is threatening to turn black, and the clear shower curtain is not clear, it’s white. And opaque.
He made me dinner, the only thing he knows how to make: spaghetti with bratwurst, and those hard, packaged chocolate chip cookies for dessert. It was, um, interesting.
I didn’t stay for long.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said to him, as he walked me out. I wanted to kiss him, but Ian had put about twelve cloves of garlic in the spaghetti sauce. I kissed him on the cheek and he frowned.
“You’re sure you won’t stay?”
Honestly, the idea of even sitting on Ian’s bed squicked me out. I needed to do a sweep with a blacklight before I was going back to his apartment.
“Um,” I said, and before I could think of something else to say as an excuse, his phone rang.
Ian turned his back and walked a few steps away, and then when he hung up, he walked back to me and said, “Do you want to come with me? My brother’s in a bar, drunk.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Dominique apparently went over to his place, and took the rest of her belongings.”
“Oh,” I said again. Poor Boss. “Of course. Let’s go get him.”
We were silent most of the car ride to this bar in Belltown, where fancy, rich people go to get stinking drunk. I couldn’t think of what to say about Ian, or his apartment, or what to do about him going to Portland. Plus, I kept thinking about Boss, depressed and drunk at some table all alone in a bar.
But when we got into the bar (after paying an annoying cover of twenty dollars, even though we explained we weren’t staying) (Ian paid, which made me cringe, since he has no money), we saw Boss at the table with three women in tube tops giggling and caressing his shirtsleeves.
“Hey,” Ian said as we walked up to him.
“Heyyyyyy, little brother!” Boss slurred back. “And hellooooo, purrty lady!” Boss said looking at me. He stood up and took my hand. “Do you wanna sit here?” Then he sat back down, patted his lap and pulled me into it. I started blushing, but worse, my insides were going crazy–tingling and butterflying and electrifying all at once. I was sitting in Boss’s lap.
Ian was standing next to us with his posture suddenly very straight and stiff. His mouth was a tight line, and he said to his brother, “Let’s go.”
“Nah, stay,” Boss said. “I’m having fun.” Boss put his hand on my hair, and that’s when I got up and rushed back to Ian’s side, still flushed. I grabbed his hand quickly, but Ian pulled it away from me. Then he went over to his brother, pulled him up, and dragged him out of the bar. I can’t believe Ian could even do this, as Boss looks like he bench presses every day, and Ian looks like his limbs are made of angel hair pasta. But it worked, and soon Boss was in the front seat of Ian’s clunker and I was in the back, and Ian wasn’t talking to either of us.
When we reached Boss’s condo, we walked Boss up to his place and then when we got to his door, I said I’d go back and wait in the car for Ian, and Boss leaned over and kissed me sloppily on the mouth, and slurred, “Aust3n, you’re so lovely.” Then he started laughing. Ian shoved Boss into his condo while I slunk back to the parking garage.
Ian didn’t speak to me the whole way back to my place, and he hasn’t bothered to even text me, which is not like him. But it’s not like I instigated any of this.
And Boss? Boss came in to work this morning smiling at me, apparently not remembering a thing. But I remember, and now I’m more stuck than ever.