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The Man Everyone Warned Me About

A Joe Liene Story

That sounded like advice I ought to take. I did take it, technically. I heard it, filed it away, and then ignored it in the one way that mattered. Because when Joe finally walked into the liquor store where I worked, sauntered over to a small display, then ended up carrying a bottle of bourbon he didn't seem particularly interested in buying, I understood right away why so many people had made the mistake of thinking he might be different with them. He was a striking man. There is no gentler way to say it, and I have never been very good at pretending a handsome man is merely “pleasant to look at.” Joe had wild red hair that looked as if the wind had been arguing with it all afternoon, a broad, athletic build, and green eyes that caught the light even under the store's unforgiving fluorescent tubes. He wore jeans and boots, and no shirt, which would have been a ridiculous thing to wear into an air-conditioned store if he hadn't somehow made it look like the obvious choice.

He stood there in front of the bourbon shelf, pretending to study labels. I was behind the counter, pretending not to study him. We were both doing a poor job of pretending.

“Looking for anything in particular?” I asked.

He turned around. “Depends. Are you included in the question?”

Well. That was a fast start.

I looked at him over the top of my glasses. “I'm not on the shelf.”

“That's a shame,” he said. “You look like you'd be a premium selection.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. It came out louder than I intended, and the customer by the cooler glanced over. Joe grinned like he had just won something, which was probably because he had. I was already smiling at him, and he knew it.

“I'm Joe,” he said, walking toward the counter with the bourbon tucked under one arm.

“Geoff. Geoff Bailey,” I said, correcting myself when he raised an eyebrow. “I mean, that's my whole name. Geoff Bailey. I don't usually introduce myself like I'm being called up to receive an award.”

“I'm glad you clarified. I was about to ask if I could call you Geoff Bailey.”

“You could. I might even answer.”

He set the bottle on the counter and rested his forearms beside it. There was a thin scar near the knuckle of his left hand. I noticed it because I was trying not to notice everything else. His body was close enough for me to catch the smell of sun-warmed skin, leather, and some cologne that was probably expensive but not obnoxious. I rang up the bourbon. He paid. His fingers brushed mine as I handed him the receipt. That was likely accidental. It may not have been. I decided it did not matter, which was my first mistake.

“Do you work here every day?” he asked.

“Most days.”

“Then I have a reason to come back.”

“You have a reason to buy bourbon.”

“I have several reasons now.”

He left with that grin, and I watched him cross the lot to a pickup truck that looked like it had hauled more than a few fence posts. I watched him get in, too. There is no dignity in being caught staring at a stranger's shoulders through the front window of your workplace, but luckily I was alone at the counter. I even waited until he pulled onto the road before I gave myself the little shake of the head that was supposed to bring me back to reality.

“Don't start,” I told myself. “You know what they say about him.”

It was good advice. I ignored it again.

He came back three days later, this time for a bottle of rye whiskey. He wore a faded gray T-shirt, which I found disappointing in a way I probably should not admit. I asked how the bourbon had been. He said it was excellent, but he had been distracted. I asked by what. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “You.”

I raised both eyebrows. “You don't waste time, do you?”

“Why would I? We have a finite number of Tuesdays.”

“That's a strange thing to say.”

“It's the truth.” He shrugged. “Besides, I can tell you like me.”

“Can you?”

“Your ears went pink.”

“They did not.”

He leaned closer. “They did.”

I could feel the heat climb up my neck, which was an inconvenient way for my body to confirm his accusation. “Maybe the store is hot.”

“Maybe.” His eyes flicked down to my mouth, then back up. “Maybe you're just enjoying the view.”

He was right, and I hated that he was right. I rang up his whiskey and told him to have a good night. He asked if I wanted to have a good night with him. I told him I was working. He said he would ask again when I wasn't.

The next time, he did. He asked if I would get a drink with him after my shift. I said no, because I had already heard the stories and because I did not want to become one of them. He said that was fair. Then he smiled and asked if I would let him buy me coffee instead. I said coffee was not a drink. He said he would buy me whatever I wanted, which was exactly the sort of answer I should have expected from him.

I told him I would think about it.

“That's not a no,” he said.

“It's not a yes either.”

“I'll take the suspense.”

He left again, and I spent the rest of my shift telling myself that he was simply having fun. He flirted with everybody, didn't he? He was practiced at this. He could probably do it with his eyes closed. I wasn't special. I wasn't being singled out because he had noticed anything particularly wonderful about me. He was just used to getting a reaction, and I was providing one.

That reasoning worked until the following Saturday, when he showed up at closing time with two iced coffees and a bag of pralines from the bakery down the road. One coffee was black with a little sugar. He had remembered from the one time I'd mentioned how I liked it. That small detail irritated me more than the grand gestures would have, because grand gestures are easy. Remembering is harder.

“I told you I'd think about it,” I said.

“And I thought you might have finished thinking.”

“You don't get to decide that for me.”

“No,” he said, and his smile softened. “I don't. I brought these because you like coffee and because I was already going past the bakery. You can take them or not.”

I took one. That was how it started. Not a date, not a promise, not even the kind of thing I could complain about later. Just coffee outside the store, under the buzzing light by the side door, while the night held onto the heat of the day. We talked for forty minutes. He told me he did small carpentry jobs and helped his uncle manage a patch of land outside town. He said he liked being outdoors, hated formal dinners, and had never learned to leave a conversation before he wanted to. I asked if that last part was a warning. He said it could be.

He asked about me. I told him I managed the store, that I had been doing it long enough to know exactly which customers would claim not to recognize the wine they'd bought three times that week, and that I had a dog at home. I told him about a relationship I'd had that ended after 3 years. I told him I have a huge amount of caution concerning who I did go out with. I told him I don't like being burned. I told him I had lived in the area for years and had gotten used to people knowing my business before I did.

“Do you know mine?” he asked.

“I know your reputation.”

He nodded. “That one gets around.”

“Is it accurate?”

He took a long swallow of coffee and looked out toward the lot. “Mostly.”

I respected that more than I wanted to. “Mostly?”

“I've dated men. I've slept with men. I've left men. I've also been left. People tell the stories that make them feel better about how things ended.” He glanced back at me. “But I'm not going to pretend I've been looking for a husband. I haven't.”

There it was. Not a lie. Not a denial. A clean statement, placed between us like a fence post.

I should have thanked him for being honest and gone inside.

Instead, I asked, “And what are you looking for now?”

He looked me over without bothering to hide it. “Right now? Another coffee with you.”

“That sounds manageable.”

“Good. I'm trying to seem less dangerous.”

“Not working yet.”

“Then I'll need to keep trying.”

By the time we finished the coffees, the sky was dark and the parking lot empty. He walked me to my car, asked if he could text me, and waited for my answer. I gave him my number, but I said, “I am not agreeing to anything just by doing that.”

“Understood.”

“And I know about you.”

“I figured.”

“And I'm not looking to get hurt.”

“Neither am I.”

That answer did not reassure me. It probably wasn't supposed to. He wasn't telling me he'd never hurt me. He was saying he had his own bruises. I understood that. I did not know what to do with it.

He texted me the next morning. “Coffee was good. The company was better.”

I replied, “The pralines carried their share.”

“Then I'll bring more next time.”

I put the phone down, picked it up again, read the message twice, and then shook my head at myself. I had done this before. I had mistaken attention for intention. I had mistaken chemistry for compatibility. I had allowed a handsome man to occupy a surprising amount of space in my head because I liked the way he looked at me. I knew what was happening. I knew the warning signs. And I liked him anyway.

I did not have to pretend he was the love of my life. I did not have to pretend he was going to change. I could enjoy a flirtation. I could go on a date. I could have a fling with a gorgeous redhead and let it be just that. I told myself this often enough that it began to sound like a reasonable plan.

The first date was his idea, though he asked it as if the question were mine to answer. “Dinner Thursday?” he texted. “You pick the place. I pick you up, or we meet there, or I come get you and we drive around until you decide where you want to go.”

“Do you always offer this many options?” I wrote back.

“Only when I want to see someone.”

That made me smile, which was the trouble. I chose a small Mexican restaurant where I knew the food was good and the lighting dim enough not to make me feel like I was sitting under a dentist's lamp. I told him I would meet him there. He asked if I wanted him to pick me up. I said no. He replied with a thumbs-up, which seemed like a surprisingly respectful answer from a man whose flirtation could be described as insistent.

He arrived ten minutes early. I was already seated, so I watched him come through the door in dark jeans and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was less wild than usual, though it still looked as if it had opinions of its own. He scanned the room, saw me, and smiled. I swear the whole restaurant brightened by half a degree. It may have been the candles. It may have been him. I am not a reliable witness where Joe Liene is concerned.

“You look nice,” he said when he reached the table.

“Thank you.”

“I was going to say handsome, but I thought you might accuse me of laying it on too thick.”

“You've already established that you lay it on thick.”

“Good. I like to be consistent.”

He pulled out my chair. I sat down before I could make a joke about it. He sat across from me, and for once he did not immediately reach for my hand or start complimenting my mouth. He asked about my week. He listened while I told him a customer had tried to return an empty bottle because he claimed it had tasted “wrong.” Joe laughed at that, but he also asked what I had done. He remembered the names of my coworkers. He asked how long I had managed the store, whether I liked the work, and if I had ever thought of doing something else.

It was all very ordinary. That was what made it dangerous. A man can say you're beautiful and have no intention of remembering anything else about you. Joe had said I was beautiful, but now he was asking what I wanted to do with my life and actually waiting for the answer. I had to keep reminding myself that pleasant conversation was not evidence of permanent affection. It was evidence that he could hold a conversation. Still, it was nice to be asked.

Over dinner, we talked about music, bad movies, and the strange things people buy when they are nervous. He told me one man had once purchased three bottles of tequila because his date had said he liked “a man with options.” I asked whether the date worked out. He said, “It worked out for the tequila.” I laughed and he looked so pleased with himself that I accused him of fishing for approval.

“I'm not fishing,” he said. “I'm catching.”

“Do you have an answer for everything?”

“No. But I have a line for most things.”

“And you know that's not the same as having a personality.”

He put a hand to his chest as though I had wounded him. “Geoff Bailey, you are a cruel man.”

“I've been told.”

“You haven't.”

“I have now.”

We lingered over dessert even though neither of us was hungry. Outside, the night was warm and there was a low bank of clouds gathering in the west. Joe asked if I wanted to walk around downtown for a while. I said yes. We walked slowly, not because the distance was long but because neither of us seemed eager to get to the end of it. He kept his hands in his pockets, which I noticed, and did not try to grab mine. At one point our shoulders brushed. Then again. On the third time, I decided it had to be intentional.

“Are you trying to get me to hold your hand?” I asked.

“I'm trying to see if you will.”

“That sounds like a test.”

“Then I should have phrased it better.”

“Probably.”

He looked at me, and for a moment the flirtation dropped away. “Would you like to?”

I did. I let my hand slide into his. His fingers closed around mine, warm and a little rough from work. That was all. No fireworks. No orchestral swell. Just a hand in mine while we walked under the old downtown lights. It felt better than I expected. I had enough experience to know better than to take that as a sign. I took it as a nice moment, which was what it was.

After the walk, he offered to drive me back to my car. He kissed me there, beside the passenger door, but he did it slowly enough that I could have turned away. I did not. His mouth was warm. His hand rested at my waist. He smelled like cedar and the last few minutes of the day. I felt the kiss deepening and put my hand against his chest to pause him. He stopped at once.

“Sorry,” he said.

“You don't have to apologize. I just want to go home with the first date still being a first date.”

He smiled. “I can respect that.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised by a lot of things. Mostly by how much I want to kiss you again.”

“That's not the same as respecting it.”

“No,” he said. “But I can do both.”

He kissed my knuckles, opened the car door, and let me go. I drove home feeling pleased and foolish in equal measure. I was pleased because the date had gone well. I was foolish because I had already started replaying his hands, his eyes, the way he had stopped when I asked him to. I knew the way people build a whole future from a single good evening. I have done it myself. I was determined to build no future at all. Just a pleasant little fling. That's what I wanted, I told myself. A few dates, some good sex, maybe a couple of weekends. No vows. No moving in. No elaborate daydream in which a red-haired man became the answer to a question I had not asked.

Joe texted when he got home. “Thank you for tonight. I liked hearing you laugh.”

I stared at that message. It was too sincere to be one of his lines, or maybe he was very good at lines. I replied, “I liked making you work for it.”

His answer came almost immediately. “I would work for it all night.”

I rolled my eyes, but I grinned, too. “Goodnight, Joe.”

“Goodnight, Geoff.”

For the next few weeks, we built a rhythm. Not a relationship, I insisted. A rhythm. Joe would text me after work. I would answer when I felt like it. We met for drinks, dinner, coffee, a walk along the river, once for a drive out to see the land he helped his uncle maintain. The drive was when I saw the sunset image in my mind for the first time: the low hills, the old barn, the gravel road, the sky all orange and gold like it was trying to show off. Joe parked the truck near a fence and we stood there looking out across the field.

He had put his hand on my shoulder while telling me something about a stubborn gate that wouldn't stay shut. It was an easy, affectionate gesture. He was talking, and I was watching his mouth move, not listening to every word. When he noticed, he gave my shoulder a squeeze.

“Are you listening?”

“I was until you put your hand there.”

“Would you prefer I remove it?”

I considered this. “No.”

“Then I don't see the problem.”

“You're very confident.”

“I'm standing next to a beautiful man in a field at sunset. Confidence is the least of my concerns.”

He leaned down and kissed me. I kissed him back. The last light caught his hair and turned it almost copper, and his eyes were bright green, and for one irrational second I felt as if we had stepped into a scene someone else had written. Then a mosquito landed on my neck and I slapped at it and we both laughed. There. Reality. Much better.

I did not ask whether he had brought anyone else to that field. I did not ask if he had kissed someone else before driving out there or planned to meet someone after dropping me off. I wanted to know, of course. I wanted to know because I liked him. But I had no claim to the answers. We had never promised exclusivity, and I had been explicit about not wanting to rush. I could not tell him I wasn't his and then resent him for acting like I wasn't his. That would be unfair.

So I asked the only question I thought I had the right to ask. “Are you seeing anyone seriously?”

He looked at me for a moment. “No.”

“Anyone casually?”

He took a breath. “There have been people. There may be someone else on a different night. I'm not making you promises I haven't offered.”

The honesty stung more than a lie would have. I appreciated it. I also hated it.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Do you want me to stop seeing other people?”

“That's not what I asked.”

“I know.” His hand stayed on my shoulder, but it felt heavier now. “Do you want that?”

I did not know. I wanted him to want that without me having to ask. I wanted him to choose me because he had realized he wanted to, not because I had put him in a corner. I wanted to be the kind of man who could enjoy this without wanting more. What I actually wanted and what I thought I ought to want were not in agreement.

“I don't know,” I said. “And I don't think I have any business asking you to be exclusive when I'm still trying to convince myself this is just a fling.”

He nodded. He did not push. He just brushed his thumb over the seam of my shirt. “Then let's be honest with each other as we go.”

“That's a dangerously reasonable suggestion.”

“I have those sometimes.”

The first time we slept together was not planned, though I suspect both of us had been thinking about it for a while. We had dinner at my place after I had worked a long shift, and I made pasta that was a little too salty. Joe ate two servings and told me it was perfect. I told him not to lie to me in my own kitchen. He said he was not lying, he was being appreciative. I said those were often the same thing.

We sat on the couch afterward, a movie playing that neither of us could have summarized if offered money. Joe's hand was on my knee. He had asked permission before he put it there, which made me laugh. “You don't have to ask every time you touch me.”

“I do if I'm not sure.”

“And are you sure?”

“I'm sure I want to touch you.”

“That wasn't the question.”

“Then no. I'm not sure you want it.”

I turned toward him. The television flashed blue and then red across his face. “I do.”

He kissed me. There was no hurry at first, which surprised me. He was the one people said was insistent, and he was. He flirted as if he had a personal quota to meet. But he did not make me feel pushed. He paid attention. He noticed when I leaned in, when I pulled back, when my hand moved up his arm. His mouth was patient. His fingertips traveled from my knee to my hip, paused there, and waited. I leaned into him. That was my answer.

I won't give you an inventory of every button and belt and piece of clothing that came off. I don't remember the order, anyway. I remember his hands. I remember that he made me laugh when I was trying too hard to be smooth. I remember the way he said my name, like he liked the taste of it. I remember asking him if he had condoms, and him saying yes, of course, and asking if I had any boundaries he should know about. I remember telling him I did not want to be rushed, even though my body was doing its best to contradict that statement. He said, “We go at your pace,” and then he did.

The rest was tender and hungry at the same time. Joe was an attentive lover, almost annoyingly attentive. He listened. He watched my face. He asked me what felt good and paid attention to the answer instead of treating it as a line in a script. He was playful, too, and confident enough to make me feel safe without making me feel managed. He knew when to kiss and when to slow down, when to touch and when to hold me still. I will say this once and only once: the man knew exactly what he was doing.

And when it was over, he did not roll away and reach for his phone. He stayed. He pulled me against his chest and ran his fingers through my hair. We talked quietly in the dark about nothing important. He told me the scar on his hand came from trying to fix a fence when he was sixteen. I told him I had once tried to assemble a bookshelf without looking at the instructions and had ended up with two shelves left over and a very unstable bookcase. He laughed so hard he shook the mattress.

I had expected him to be good in bed. It was almost a cliché at this point. What I had not expected was for him to be gentle afterward. That turned out to be the part I remembered the next day. Not the heat, not the thrill, not the fact that I had finally given in to the thing I had been trying not to want. I remembered him asking if I was all right, then bringing me water, then kissing my forehead like it was a natural thing to do.

I woke before him. His red hair was a riot against my pillow, his face softened by sleep. I watched him and felt affection. That was a problem. I did not want a problem. I wanted a man, a bed, some laughter, and no expectations. I wanted to be able to walk away when it was done. Here he was, sleeping in my bed, and I was looking at him as though I might miss him when he left.

“Don't,” I whispered to myself.

He woke a minute later and caught me staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That's not a nothing face.”

“You don't know my nothing face.”

“I will.”

That was an innocent thing to say, but it landed like a promise. I rolled onto my back. “You don't have to learn all my faces, Joe.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“Maybe you say that to everybody.”

His smile faded a little. He sat up. “I don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Say it to everybody.”

I believed he meant it. That did not mean I trusted the future. A person can be sincere in the moment and still be unreliable in the long run. I knew that. I reminded myself of it while Joe got dressed, kissed me once more, and said he would text me later. He did. He asked if I wanted breakfast. I said I had work. He said he would bring me coffee. He did, too.

The fling was lovely. It was. I know how this ends, and I still want to say that it was lovely while it lasted. Joe brought me food when I was tired. I learned how he took his coffee, how he complained about a bad song, how he talked to dogs as if they understood every word. He learned I liked my eggs sunny side up and that I hated being called “buddy” by a man who was flirting with me. He was a good kisser and a better listener than I expected. He could be silly. He could be quiet. He could stand in the sunlight and make a man forget all the warnings he had been given.

And the warnings remained. They were there every time his phone buzzed and he turned it face down. They were there when he got a text and stepped outside to answer it. They were there when a man at the bar called him “trouble” and Joe winked at him as if he had been given a compliment. They were there when one of Joe's former lovers stopped me in the store and said, “Enjoy him, Geoff. He doesn't stay.”

I said, “I know.”

The man gave me a sad little smile. “No, you think you know. That's different.”

I did not like him for saying it, but I could not call him wrong.

I asked Joe about him that night. Joe told me they had dated for a few months years before and the breakup had been messy. He said the man had wanted more than Joe could give. I asked whether that was true. He said, “Probably.” Then he reached for my hand across the table. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“Wanting that and being able to prevent it are two different things.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He did not answer right away. “I'm trying.”

It was the most honest thing he could have said, and it was not enough to make me feel safe. But I was not asking to be safe. I was asking to be careful. I was the one who had chosen the fling, after all. I could not keep telling myself that if I wanted something else. I was responsible for my own heart. Annoying, but true.

I told myself I was doing fine. I kept seeing him. I just didn't plan too far ahead. If he mentioned a Saturday trip, I did not ask whether it was a real plan or a flirtation. If he kissed me goodbye at my door, I did not ask when I would see him again. If he said he missed me, I said I missed him too, then made a joke so the words would not sound like they mattered.

They mattered anyway.

The first time I realized that I was not as casual as I wanted to be was when Joe canceled on me. We had planned dinner at a place outside town, somewhere quiet, a little drive, the sort of thing I had once said I liked. He texted two hours before we were supposed to leave and said he was sorry, a job had run long and he was exhausted. I told him it was all right. It was not all right. But it was not a crime either. He had work. People cancel plans. I knew that.

I ate leftovers and watched television. I did not text again. I did not ask who he was with. I did not search his social media or call his friends. I did not. I was very proud of myself for not doing any of those things.

At 11:30, he texted, “I wish I were there.”

I answered, “You could have been.”

He wrote, “I know. I'm sorry.”

I wanted to ask what he was doing instead. I didn't. I wanted to tell him I was disappointed. I didn't. I put the phone down and tried to sleep. In the morning, I felt ridiculous. I was allowed to be disappointed. I was also allowed to say so. I texted him, “I know you were tired, and I understand. But I was looking forward to it. Please don't make a plan with me unless you mean to keep it.”

He called me. I nearly let it go to voicemail, but I answered.

“You're right,” he said. “I'm sorry. I thought I could finish the job and still make it. I should have told you sooner.”

“Thank you.”

“I wasn't with someone else.”

“I didn't say you were.”

“I know. I just wanted you to know.”

“Okay.”

There was a pause. Then he said, “Can I make it up to you?”

“You can plan another date.”

“Saturday?”

“Saturday.”

He kept the plan. He picked me up, took me to dinner, and then drove us out to the land. There was no dramatic apology, no bouquet, no grand speech. He had thought to bring a blanket because he knew I got cold after the sun went down. We sat in the truck bed and watched the stars come out, listening to the night bugs buzz in the grass. He had his arm around me, and I leaned against him.

“I like this,” I said.

“Me too.”

“I like you.”

He turned his head. “I like you too.”

“I don't want you to tell me anything you don't mean.”

“I won't.”

“And I don't want to be one of five men you tell that to.”

“You're not.”

“How many men are there?”

He breathed out a laugh. “You are determined to make this difficult.”

“I thought it was already difficult.”

He was quiet. Then he said, “There's no one else I'm seeing right now.”

I believed him. Maybe that was the night I started hoping. I have to be honest about that, even if it makes me look foolish. I was not completely swept up. I kept my guard, my questions, my reminders. But some part of me began to wonder if maybe the reputation was old, or if Joe was ready to change, or if whatever he felt for me was different from what he had felt for the others.

That is how hope works. It does not kick down the door. It slips in through a crack, carrying a little box of excuses.

For another month, we were happy together. We did not call it a relationship, but we acted enough like one that I started to wonder if the name even mattered. We spent time together. We had sex. We texted through the day. He came to my place. I went to his. He introduced me to his cousin and I met his uncle. He put his hand on my shoulder when he talked to me, as though he liked knowing I was there. He called me Geoff, not sweetheart, not baby, not some nickname that could be handed to anyone. Just Geoff. I liked that more than I should have.

Then the cracks showed again. He went out with friends one Friday and did not respond to my texts until the next afternoon. That was not a crime. He had a life. I had a life. But it felt different from the way things had been. I asked if everything was okay. He said he had fallen asleep at his cousin's place. I said fine. He asked if I was mad. I said no. I was not mad. I was wary. I was always wary, even in the good moments.

A week later, I saw him at a bar with another man. They were standing close, heads bent toward each other, and Joe had that look on his face, the one I knew so well: amused, attentive, magnetic. The other man was handsome, young, and wearing a shirt that showed off his arms. Joe put a hand on his lower back. It looked intimate. Maybe it was. Maybe it was nothing. I did not know, and I was tired of trying to solve a puzzle that had never been promised to me as a puzzle.

I walked over. Joe saw me and smiled. “Hey, Geoff.”

The other man turned. Joe did not introduce us. That told me more than I wanted to know.

I said hello, got a drink, and went to stand with someone else. I did not make a scene. I did not have the right. Joe came over later and asked if I was all right.

“Are you seeing him?” I asked.

He hesitated. Just a second. Long enough.

“I've been talking to him.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

“I kissed him last week.”

I nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Geoff—”

“Are we still seeing each other?”

He looked genuinely pained. “I want to.”

“That is also not what I asked.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “I don't know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me the truth. Are you still sleeping with other men?”

He looked down at the drink in his hand. “I haven't slept with anyone else since we started seeing each other.”

I took that in. “But you kissed him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I was being stupid.”

“That doesn't sound like a reason.”

“It isn't.”

The music from the bar seemed to get louder. People laughed nearby. The other man glanced over, saw us, and then turned away. I felt calm, which was surprising. I had prepared myself for this possibility from the beginning. What I had not prepared for was the small, sharp feeling beneath my ribs.

“I like you, Joe,” I said. “I told myself this was just a fling because I didn't want to ask you for more than you were willing to give. But I don't want to keep standing here pretending I'm fine with being one option while you flirt with the next man in front of me.”

“You're not one option.”

“Then what am I?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

That was answer enough. Maybe not the answer I wanted, but an answer. I had not been his boyfriend. I had not asked him to be mine. We had been two men enjoying each other, with different expectations carefully hidden beneath the same word: fling. I had said the word out loud, but I had started to hope it would become something else without requiring either of us to say so. That was my part of the mess. Joe had been clear, mostly. I had listened selectively.

“I think we should stop,” I said.

He stared at me. “Right now?”

“No, Joe. I mean we should stop seeing each other.”

“I don't want that.”

“Then maybe you should have acted like it.”

He flinched. “You're right.”

“I don't want to fight with you. I don't want to make you a villain. I knew who you were when I started this.”

“Maybe you didn't.”

“Maybe I knew enough.”

He reached for my hand, then paused. “Can I?”

I looked at him. I wanted him to touch me. That was the humiliating part. Even then, even while ending it, I wanted to lean into him and let him tell me it would be all right. But it would not be all right just because his hand was warm. I moved mine away.

“Not tonight.”

His face changed. He nodded. “Okay.”

I left the bar without another drink. I drove home and sat in my car in the driveway for a long time, engine off, hands on the steering wheel. I thought about the first time he had come into the store, pretending to study bourbon. I thought about the coffees, the pralines, the first date, the kiss by my car, the sunset out by the field. I thought about the way he had held me after we slept together, and I wondered whether any of it had been fake.

I decided it had not. That did not make the ending hurt less.

Joe texted me the next day. “I am sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel like you were disposable.”

I read it several times. Then I wrote, “I don't think you meant to. But I felt that way.”

He replied, “I wish I had done better.”

“So do I.”

“Can we talk?”

I stared at the screen. I could have said no. I could have blocked him. I could have let him fade away into the same collection of old stories that everyone had told me about him. Instead I said, “We can talk. But I don't want to start over.”

We met at a coffee shop a few days later. He looked tired. I probably did too. He wore a plain black shirt and jeans, no boots, and his hair fell across his forehead. I wished he looked less handsome. I wished I did not notice. I wished wishing did anything useful.

He apologized without a speech. He said he had liked me from the first day, that he had liked being with me, that he had not set out to hurt me. He said he knew his reputation and had tried not to become it with me, but he had not known what he wanted badly enough to be careful with what he had.

“That's not a very good defense,” I said.

“I know.”

“Do you want a relationship?”

He looked down into his coffee. “I don't know.”

“Then you don't want one with me.”

He looked up. “I didn't say that.”

“You also didn't say you did.”

He rubbed his thumb over the cup's paper sleeve. “I care about you.”

“I believe that.”

“I don't want to lose you.”

“Then you should have figured out what you wanted before I had to ask.”

“I know.”

He said it again and again, “I know,” as if the words might build a bridge between what he had done and what I needed. They did not. He was not a bad man. He was not a monster. He was not a villain written in red hair and green eyes. He was a man who loved attention, liked the thrill of being wanted, and did not know how to stay when staying required him to give something up. I had known that. I had hoped I could be the exception. I was not.

We talked for an hour. We laughed once, at a ridiculous story about a customer who had tried to pay for a bottle with a coupon from a grocery store. We sat with the sadness after that, because laughter does not erase sadness; it only gives it a chair beside you. At the end, Joe walked me to my car. He looked at me as though he wanted to kiss me. I wanted him to. He did not ask. I did not offer.

“Goodbye, Geoff,” he said.

“Goodbye, Joe.”

It was not the kind of goodbye that makes a movie. There was no rain. No one ran after anyone. No one shouted from across a parking lot. He went back inside the coffee shop, and I went home. I sat in the quiet and let myself be sad.

For a while, I missed him in the small places. I missed the sound of his truck in my driveway. I missed the way he stole the last bite of my food and then acted offended when I pointed it out. I missed his hand on my shoulder, the weight of it, the easy familiarity. I missed the way he looked at me when he wanted to kiss me. I missed him in the morning most of all, which was unfair because he had only been there a handful of mornings.

Then, slowly, I missed him less. The habit loosened. The phone stopped feeling like a door I expected him to walk through. I stopped wondering whether a red pickup in the lot belonged to him. I stopped rehearsing what I might say if I saw him with another man. I learned that a fling can be brief and still matter. I learned that something can be good without being good for you forever. I learned that honesty does not prevent hurt; sometimes it just lets you see it coming.

A few months later, Joe came into the store again. He was wearing a faded blue shirt this time, his hair tied back, and he looked exactly as handsome as I remembered. Maybe more so, because I no longer had to spend all my energy pretending not to notice.

“Hey, Geoff,” he said.

“Hey, Joe.”

He picked up a bottle of bourbon. I rang it up. We did not flirt. We did not reach for each other's hands. He asked how I was. I said I was good. He said he was glad. We both knew the conversation could have gone on, but it did not need to.

“Take care of yourself,” I said.

“You too.”

He left with the bourbon, and I watched him cross the lot. This time, I did not stay at the window to see which way he turned. I had work to do. There were bottles to stock and customers to help and a long afternoon still ahead of me. Life is full of practical things, thank goodness. If it were all heartbreak and sunsets, none of us would get anything done.

I still remember the first time he put his hand on my shoulder. I remember the warmth of his palm and the way he looked at me as if I had become the most interesting thing in the field. I remember the first kiss, the first date, the first morning. I remember the end, too. I remember feeling stupid for hoping, then less stupid once I realized hope is not a crime. It just needs to be handled carefully.

Joe Liene was exactly the man they had warned me about, and he was also more than the warnings. He was charming, and careless. He was tender, and restless. He was an excellent lover, and a poor promise. I can say all of that now without needing one part to cancel out the others. I liked him. I was attracted to him. I let myself have the fling I had told myself I could handle. And when it was over, I walked away with a bruised heart, a few good memories, and enough sense to know that wanting someone is not the same thing as being wanted in the way you need.

Would I do it again? I used to say absolutely not. Now I don't know. Maybe I would, if I could remember that a gorgeous redhead is still just a man, no matter how golden the sunset makes him look. Maybe I would, because a good night is not nothing just because it doesn't last. Or maybe I would do the smarter thing and keep my distance.

Then again, if Joe walked in tomorrow, leaned against the counter, and asked me if I was still looking for a reason to see him, I might smile before I had a chance to stop myself.

That is probably the whole story, really. I knew the warnings. I heard them. I even repeated them to myself. And still, for a while, I let Joe Liene put his hand on my shoulder and make me feel like the world had narrowed down to the two of us. I don't regret that. Not completely.

I just don't confuse it with forever anymore.