“On the rocks.”
“What’s a Negroni?” I hear a deep voice say slightly above my head, which is a place I rarely hear voices. I turn and am looking directly into a clavicle. A very smooth, well-defined clavicle, the color of French roast coffee. It is centered between shoulders of nearly impossible width, and clad in a Bears football jersey, which I recognize as Mike Singletary’s number from back in the day. I look up into a handsome face, square jawed, much like Samurai Mike himself, with liquid brown eyes. His hair is cropped tight to his head, and he is smiling at me with even, white teeth. He looks like Idris Elba and Morris Chestnut had a baby. A really tall, broad-shouldered baby.
God bless Lawrence, he does love to fill these parties with the prettiest boys. Water, water, everywhere, as they say. At least not if you’re a girl. But it does mean that one can flirt shamelessly all night with darling men who tell you how fabulous you are and don’t try to take you home, which is just my kind of scene.
“A Negroni, Mr. Singletary, is equal parts gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. Served either up or on the rocks, with an orange twist or slice.”
“That sounds delicious—make it two,” he says to the bartender. Kyle? Craig? Damn my memory. Kevin?
“I wouldn’t think a lovely mermaid like yourself would recognize me . . . what with no football out there in the ocean.” He is still smiling at me, and with the close proximity I can smell his cologne, something spicy, almost like cinnamon.
“Not even the ocean could protect us from ‘The Super Bowl Shuffle.’” I know it is something of a cliché, but I just adore hanging out with gay men. I get a little bolder, a little wittier; they bring out the best in me.
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
“You’re forgiven.” Our cocktails are handed over, and we clink glasses and take a sip. Whatever-his-name-is knows his business: the bittersweet liquid is perfectly balanced, perfectly chilled, and perfectly delicious.
“I might have a new favorite cocktail. The Negroni. Who knew?”
“You just have to hang out with more mermaids. We have all the best stuff.”
“I don’t doubt it. So, should I call you Madison, or try and make dolphin noises?”
I laugh. “Eloise. Eloise Kahn.”
“Nice to meet you, Eloise Kahn. I’m Shawn Sudberry-Long.” Of course he is hyphenated. His husband must be around here somewhere. Probably equally gorgeous.
He takes my hand in his enormous paw and kisses my knuckles gently. I really wish that straight guys would take classes from their gay brothers on how to make a lady feel like a lady.
“So, Eloise Kahn, are you an actual football fan? I’m impressed you recognized the jersey. Most of the guests here wouldn’t know Mike Singletary from Mike Douglas.”
“Yeah. My uncle and my dad shared season tickets when I was growing up, so I got to go to a lot of games.”
“Anything after October?” This is a total Chicago test. Soldier Field, where the Bears play, is an outdoor stadium. If you go to games in cold weather, that is the mark of a die-hard fan.
“You mean like Christmas Eve Day against the Packers in a blizzard? You are talking to a woman who knows how to layer . . .”
He laughs. “Good girl.”
“I take it you’re a fan?”
“Lifelong. Football in general and the Bears specifically.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“I’ll tell you one thing about these Negronis, they do make a guy hungry. I’ve seen the buffet stations and things are looking pretty delicious over there . . . and I think your lobster isn’t going to cut it for real sustenance, so can I escort you around the nibbles and see what tempts us?”
“Absolutely.” I know what is on the buffets and I’m hungry as a real bear.
Shawn takes my elbow and deftly guides me through the crowd of revelers. Alex has done a great job, as usual, of setting everything up, and all of our prep of the last few days is out in its glory. Mini Chicago hot dogs, with all seven of the classic toppings for people to customize. Miniature pita breads ready to be filled with chopped gyro meat and tzatziki sauce. Half-size Italian beef sandwiches with homemade giardiniera my mom put up last summer. We did crispy fried chicken tenders atop waffle sticks with Tabasco maple butter, and two-inch deep-dish pizzas exploding with cheese and sausage. Little tubs of cole slaw and containers of spicy sesame noodles. There are ribs, chicken adobo tacos, and just for kicks, a macaroni and cheese bar with ten different toppings.
“One thing about Lawrence, he does know how to put out a spread,” Shawn says when we have filled our plates and found a quiet corner to eat in.
“Well, I suppose I should thank you.”
“Why is that?” he says, deftly stripping a rib bone of its succulent meat and rolling his eyes in pleasure.
“I’m his chef.”
Shawn raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m pretty sure I saw some guy in the kitchen barking out orders and sweating over a pan when I got here.”
“Yeah, that’s Alex. Lawrence is very nice about letting me be a guest at the party, so I do all the menu planning, prep, and setup, and Alex executes night of.”
“Be still, my heart, the woman can cook. This mac tastes like love from my aunties.”
“Thank you, that is the best possible compliment.”
Marcy plops down next to me and picks up half of a taco off my plate. “Great food, El, as always.” She turns to Shawn. “Hi, I’m Marcy.” She puts out her hand, showing an epic amount of side boob in the process. She should know better than to bother at a Lawrence fête; she could probably be doing naked jumping jacks and Shawn wouldn’t bat an eye.
“Shawn. Pleasure.” He shakes her hand, but I notice does not kiss it.
“So, Shawn, you’ve been monopolizing my date.”
“Sorry about that. I didn’t realize she was spoken for.” A strange look comes over his face.
Marcy laughs her throaty laugh. “Not date-date—good Lord, no. You know how Lawrence feels about ‘the lesbians.’ Just my bestie and wing girl.” Sad but true, for all his wonderful qualities, Lawrence does seem to have very old-school queeny ideas about lesbians and can let slip little phrases like, “They’re great if you need your landscaping done, but not really fun at parties.” I let it go, considering his age, although it does make me a bit uncomfortable.