Well, if she couldn’t have community, at least she could have communion, her own particular type of it, taking another person’s body into hers. She did a quick scan of the bar for someone she could fuck. Unfortunately, the people who came to a divey Irish pub to get drunk on a Wednesday at lunchtime weren’t exactly the cream of the crop. She pictured herself walking over to the group of slurring retirees in the corner booth, crusty old men in sports jerseys, and pointing to one at random to follow her into the bathroom. She didn’t have high standards, but even she could tell that that wouldn’t make her feel any better.

She took a big swig of her drink and contemplated ordering another. At least nobody ever had to know about this stupid, misguided adventure. She’d show up at the photo shoot tomorrow and try to be the person that Amara believed her to be.

The door to the pub swung open, letting in a businessman on his lunch break who sat down heavily a few stools over from her and greeted the bartender. She’d heard that voice before. When she glanced over, their eyes met. Dammit. Christopher. She could see a similar Dammit run through his mind before he quickly rearranged his expression, trading in a stressed-out grimace for his usual charming smile.

“Claire the playgroup girl!” he said. “This is a funny coincidence. What are you doing here?”

“I work nearby,” she said.

“I do too.”

“So, what’ll it be today?” the bartender asked Christopher.

“I’ll see a food menu,” Christopher said. The bartender raised an eyebrow and handed over a dubious-looking piece of paper with a few lines of text printed on it.

“Ah, yes,” Claire said. “I hear they’re renowned for their food here.”

“Uh-huh,” Christopher said. “I come all the way from the office for their”—he squinted at the menu—“hot dogs and tater tots.” He shook his head, half laughing. “You caught me.” He leaned over to grab the bartender’s attention, and Claire waited for him to ask for a beer, but he ordered a club soda instead. Then he turned back to Claire, a rueful look on his face. “Every so often, when I’ve really been having a day, I like to come to a bar and order a club soda as a reminder that I can control myself in at least one aspect of my life, you know?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Claire said. “I’m a well-balanced person, and I never have to come to bars to deal with my self-loathing in the early afternoon.”

He smiled and held up his club soda. “To self-loathing, that old friend.”

“To self-loathing,” Claire said, and drained the rest of her drink.

“Give her another on me,” Christopher said to the bartender, and moved over to the stool next to Claire’s as the bartender handed her a new glass, covered with beads of condensation.

“Oh, fine,” Claire said. “Thanks.”

Christopher nodded. They sat in silence for a moment, drinking their respective drinks, as a baseball game played on the TV above the bar. He smelled like coffee and something else, something sharper that Claire couldn’t place. Sneaking a sideways glance, Claire noticed a sheen of sweat on Christopher’s neck. He caught her eye. “You won’t mention this to Gwen, will you?”

“What, that you come to bars to drink club soda?” Claire asked. “Somehow I can’t imagine that she’d be too upset about that.”

He shook his head and said, in a voice so quiet that the sounds of the bar almost drowned him out, “Yeah.” He took another deep swallow of his drink, staring into his glass like he was trying to find salvation there.

“Obviously, I won’t tell her about today if you don’t want me to,” Claire said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, the fabric of his suit jacket soft under her palm.

At the unexpected touch, he startled, and then all of the charming, foxy scaffolding around him fell away, laying bare the defeated man beneath. “I’m a screwup,” he said. “I fail her, and I fail her, and I fail her. She’s the one who keeps everything together. She’s the one who has it all figured out.”

Claire laughed then, an unstoppable, gasping laugh, and he looked up at her in surprise. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re treating my misery with the respect it deserves,” he said, raising an eyebrow, and she could see the defeat on his face turning to confused amusement.

“I’m sorry!” Claire said, putting her hand in front of her mouth. “No, it’s not—”

“Very kind of you. Have you considered becoming a therapist?”

“I just— I have a feeling Gwen has made some mistakes too, that’s all. She might be more forgiving than you think.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”

“I forgive you,” he said. “And thank you for keeping my secret.” The way he said it suddenly made her feel dirty, as if what she had thought of as a small omission was actually something much bigger.

“You’ve got it,” she said lightly. “I’m turning into a one-woman secret repository right now. Step right up, world. Anybody else got something for the Claire vault?”

“You’re funny,” he said, still fixing her in his gaze, looking at her as if she had revealed something exciting and strange and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, like she’d just told him that she could speak five languages or that she’d hiked all the way across the country by herself.

“Yeah, I’m thinking of going into stand-up,” she said. “I hear that’s a more stable career than music.”

“It would be a shame if you stopped singing. I didn’t get a chance to tell you at the party,” Christopher said. “But you have a beautiful voice.”

“Thanks,” she said.

He brushed his leg against hers so quickly and lightly that she wasn’t sure if it was an accident. But then he did it again. It sent a tingle of desire up the backs of her thighs and a lump of anger into her throat. She swallowed.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked.

“What?” Christopher said, holding his hands up.

“You’re really going to hit on me right now?” She stood up, grabbed her bag from the floor, and tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar for her drink. “What a pathetic excuse for a person you are. No wonder you’re in here, self-loathing on your lunch break.” His face crumpled into regret, his shoulders sloping forward, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but she didn’t want to hear it. “Get your life together, and go home to Gwen.”

As she walked through the door and back into the afternoon light, she finally placed what he smelled like. Sex.