But Captain? Nope. He still seemed as confident as ever.

I hesitated on the drink invitation for a moment. On one hand, interacting with the opposite sex was at the bottom of the barrel as far as things I wanted to do. On the other hand, my other option was going home, drinking wine, and crying as I played Taylor Swift and looked at old photographs of Mario and me while reading old text messages.

“Oh, Cap.” I walked over to him and patted him on the back. “Let me buy you a drink. You need it more than I do.”

2

Aaliyah

His drink of choice was whiskey, which made me think he was a lot older than he looked. What guy my age drank straight whiskey? Most guys I knew were drinking beer or the cheapest shots they could find. My drink was a Long Island because I was a wild child. When I reached into my purse to pay for said drink, he’d somehow already had the bartender put it on his tab.

“Hey!” I argued, shooting him a stern look.

He shrugged. “Sorry. Where I come from, the man pays for the pretty lady’s drink.”

He called me pretty, and I pretended not to notice. “You came from like 1918, sir. Times have changed.”

“So you know your Captain America trivia.”

“I’m a comic book nerd. On top of that, I went through a Chris Evans phase—which, honestly, I’m still in.”

“I can’t blame you. Have you ever seen that man’s butt?”

“That’s America’s ass,” I joked, lifting my drink. “Thanks for this, but just so you know, just because you bought me a drink doesn’t mean I owe you anything. Not my time, not my attention, and not my body.”

He laughed and nodded. “Thank you for making that clear. Would that go both ways if you bought me a drink?”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “You would have to give me your time, your attention, and your body.”

“That seems ass-backward.”

I shrugged. “I don’t make the rules. I just follow them. By the way, how old are you?”

“Twenty-five. You?”

“Twenty-two. I could tell you were old because you’re drinking straight whiskey.”

He laughed. “I’m only three years older than you.”

“A lot can change in a person’s life in three years.”

“You’re not wrong there. Three years ago, I probably wasn’t drinking whiskey, but somewhere along the way, I started making business deals with older gentlemen who poured me expensive glasses. So, I’ve adapted.”

“Do you actually enjoy the whiskey, or is it just something you were told to enjoy?”

“Ah, the old question of what’s truly a person’s choice, and what was chosen for them based on their surroundings.” He tapped his pointer finger against his chin. “I think I like it because I like it.”

“I guess it’s possible to grow into things society introduced you to, too.”

His eyes narrowed, and he looked at me as if trying to uncover some secrets about me. He blinked and turned away to lift his drink, then his stare came back to me. For a moment, it felt as if we were the only two standing in the middle of the packed bar. I lost myself in his eyes for a moment—up until Big Bird bumped into me, bringing me back to reality.

“You want to find a table to drink these together?” he asked, very attentive. Even when the bird bumped me, he didn’t look away. He stayed focused on me, making it easy for me to return my attention to him.

“If you’re able to find a table in this packed place, I’ll have two drinks with you,” I joked, knowing it was damn near impossible to find a vacant table in any bar on Halloween night.

He cocked a brow and gave me a mirthful grin. “Challenge accepted. Follow me.”

I did as he said, and we circled the bar not once, not twice, but three times. Each lap was unsuccessful. We ended up standing by a staircase that led upstairs to where the bar kept their inventory. Captain clapped his hands together, walked over to the staircase, and took a seat. He patted the step below him as a clear invitation for me to join him.

“This isn’t exactly a table,” I said, sipping at my Long Island. “Which means you failed the challenge.”

“What makes a table a table exactly?” he urged. “It’s a made-up concept that some man or woman created in their mind, and then they told everyone about it.”

I laughed. “If you look at it that way, everything is just a made-up concept.”

“‘There are no facts, only interpretations.’ Nietzsche said that.” He gestured for me to sit, and I did because honestly, I found this guy amusing. I hadn’t felt amused in weeks. All I’d really felt was sad and lonely. It felt good to feel something different for a short period.

“Are you big on philosophers?” I asked. He seemed surprised that I knew he was referring to Friedrich Nietzsche, but he didn’t say it out loud.