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big swig of wine that should be savored. But this is getting awkward.
    Apparently he doesn’t agree. He climbs onto the seat next to me. “Yeah, I was in Richmond for a few years.”
    “Richmond’s a nice city. I lived there for four years growing up.”
    “Oh?” he says. “Why did you leave?”
    “My dad’s job.”
    “Do you miss it?”
    “No,” I say, remembering some pretty not-fun middle school years. Though that likely shouldn’t be blamed on the city.
    He smiles. “Well, I do. I loved it. But...” His chest expands. He swallows more beer. “Well, shit happened, and it made sense to come home.”
    Silence. My nail digs into a little knot in the wooden bar. He flops the coaster some more.
    “So, are you from around here?” he asks, squinting as though he knows it might be a stupid question.
    “No, I’m a senior at Poe University. The Fightin’ Black Birds!” I crook my arm in exaggerated school spirit.
    “Passion and Purpose.” He recites the school motto. “Anyway, I figured you for a student, but the wine threw me off. Aren’t undergrads supposed to drink Natty? Smirnoff for special occasions?”
    “No.” I roll my eyes in feigned exasperation. “It’s Miller High Life, the champagne of beers, for special occasions.”
    “Oh, yeah, of course,” he says. I get a little lost looking into his amber lager.
    A woman across the way laughs this high-pitched sort of maniacal laugh. It’s so loud, we both turn.
    “She’s been here before,” I explain. “Every time I hear her, I want to go Wiiiiiiipe Ouuuut.” I laugh to myself mostly because I’m not sure he’ll get it, but then he starts humming the rest of the surfer song. I stop gripping the edge of the bar.
    We discuss the best surfer songs, from the Beach Boys to Weezer. We decide we’re both authorities on the subject because, even though we haven’t surfed, we have been to the beach and we agree that the best beach meal is peanut butter and jelly with French onion chips and a Coke. I’m close to finishing my wine, having taken too many quick swigs. “Want another one?” He’s already signaling to Sally.
    Mandy is across the bar, deep in conversation with Zachary. Her forehead is wrinkled and she isn’t smiling. But her concerned look isn’t so severe it would warrant a rescue. I don’t see anyone else I know well enough to latch on to. I look back to Luke.
    Sally smirks as she places two fresh drinks before us.
    “You going to let him pay for this one too?” she teases. I shrug and say sure. “Good girl,” she says. It’s not condescending; she treats all her favorite customers like they’re her favorite pets. “Have you told Luke about the beer you and Conrad made? Luke loves himself a good lager.”
    Before I can respond, she’s off pouring shots.
    Luke leans into me. “You made a lager?” He smells like mowed grass and smoke. Not nicotine smoke, s’mores smoke. His breath is in my ear. Hair stands at the back of my neck and my lips part.
    “Yeah, I made a lager,” I say, once I’ve gathered myself. I should add the caveat that I am more like Conrad’s sous chef. I’m there for moral support and to help him with tasks that are easier to do with two people, like bottling.
    “That’s cool,” he says, as though there’s a permanent ellipsis on the end of his slowly drawn words.
    The two glasses of wine, along with the pre-party drinks Mandy and I had, bubble in my head. Rashid bumps in my brain. He’s a serious sort of guy. The kind you want your parents to meet and you can imagine, possibly, way down the line, being with in a field on a checkered blanket, a boxed diamond ring tucked away in the picnic basket.
    But Luke is raw and real and present. And he comes with a grade-A Sally endorsement. He’s the kind of guy I should mess around with. The kind of guy who it isn’t cruel to flirt with. I mean, he’s a townie. I’m just some college girl to him.
    So that’s why I ask, “Do you want to try