Everyone's Boyfriend

The bar was dim in the way that tried to pass for cozy. Low music hummed under half-heard conversations. A television mounted behind the bar cycled through a muted sports channel no one seemed to be watching. The place smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and old beer. Roy had chosen it because it was anonymous. No coworkers. No expectations. Just a place where a man could be invisible without effort.

That invisibility had followed him his whole life.

He lifted the glass and drained what was left, the burn familiar now, almost comforting. The bartender noticed and slid him another without asking. Roy nodded his thanks without looking up.

It had been a bad day. Worse than bad, really. The kind of day that quietly rewrote the future while pretending to be just another Friday.

Tom Burgess' face floated back into his mind uninvited, as it had been doing all evening.

They had known each other since high school. Same graduating class. Same town. Same orbit, somehow, for more than two decades. Roy had never liked Tom, and Tom had never pretended otherwise. Even back then, Tom had been sharp-edged, competitive, always watching, always measuring. Roy had been softer. Quieter. The kind of boy teachers liked and girls overlooked.

At the tech company where they now both worked, those old dynamics had calcified into something uglier.

Roy was a department head. Trusted. Respected. The kind of manager executives liked to point to as proof the system worked. He delivered results without drama. He didn't play politics. He didn't ask for attention. He just did the job, and somehow that had put him next in line when a senior director role was rumored to open.

Tom hated him for it.

The confrontation had happened mid-afternoon, in one of the small glass conference rooms that were never quite private enough. Tom had closed the door carefully, deliberately, and smiled in a way that had made Roy's stomach tighten before a single word was spoken.

Tom had documents. Printouts. Emails. Approval chains.

Forgery, yes, but clean. Thoughtful. Plausible.

It looked like Roy had signed off on things he never had. It looked like he had quietly approved ethically questionable data handling practices, maybe worse. Things that would make compliance officers salivate and executives recoil. Things that would end his career so thoroughly that there would be nothing left to salvage.

Tom had not raised his voice. He had not threatened explicitly. He had simply laid everything out with the calm satisfaction of someone explaining gravity.

One month.

Thirty days to resign quietly, citing personal reasons, and never contradict the narrative Tom would feed upward. If Roy complied, this would all stay internal. Regrettable. Sad. A promising leader who had lost his way.

If he didn't...

Tom had shrugged then, almost apologetically. The shrug of a man who already knew the outcome.

Roy had walked out of that room knowing, with cold certainty, that he was trapped. Legal battles took time and money. Internal investigations destroyed reputations regardless of innocence. The evidence was too neat. Too believable. Tom had planned this for a long time.

Roy took another drink.

Forty years old. Short. Soft around the middle. His hairline beginning to surrender. He had learned to dress neatly, to keep his face cleanly shaven, to compensate where he could, but the truth was simple: he had never been the kind of man women noticed.

Work had been safe. Work had rewarded him. Work was where he made sense.

Now even that was being taken.

He glanced around the bar, not really looking for anyone, just passing the time. Couples leaned close together. A group of younger people laughed too loudly near the dartboard. A woman sat alone at the far end scrolling through her phone, uninterested in the room.

Then the door opened.

Roy noticed her immediately, and hated himself a little for it.

She was tall, with long legs that moved easily beneath a dark coat she shrugged off as she stepped inside. Her brown hair fell loose over her shoulders. She looked to be around his age, maybe a little younger, dressed in a way that suggested confidence rather than effort. Not trying to impress. Just comfortable being seen.

She paused just inside, letting her eyes adjust, and Roy felt an old, familiar ache bloom in his chest.

Not desire, exactly. Something quieter. A wish without edges.

He knew better than to stare, but his eyes kept drifting back anyway. She laughed at something the bartender said when she ordered. It was easy, unguarded. The sound settled somewhere deep in him. A message from the universe, reminding him of his place. She was not for him. Women like that never were.

Roy turned back to his drink, the glass cool in his hand. He took a long swallow and felt the warmth spread through him, loosening something tight and brittle inside his chest.

Under his breath, barely audible even to himself, he murmured, "I wish I could be the kind of guy women went for."

It was not a prayer. It was not a demand. Just a tired admission.

And then, just for a brief moment, something strange happened. The hair on his arms lifted. A faint, electric awareness crawled over his skin, like the air just before a storm breaks. Roy straightened slightly, heart skipping, and glanced around, suddenly alert.

Nothing had changed.

The bar was the same. The noise, the light, the smell. The television flickered. Someone laughed.

The feeling faded almost immediately, leaving behind only embarrassment. Roy snorted softly at himself and took another drink.

Then he felt eyes on him.

He looked up.

The woman from the door was looking directly at him, smiling.

Not politely. Not absently. The kind of smile reserved for someone you were genuinely pleased to see.

Before Roy could look away, she picked up her drink and walked over.

She stopped beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume, something subtle and warm. She set her glass on the bar and slid onto the empty stool at his side with an ease that made it feel inevitable.

"Rough day?" she asked.

Her voice was calm, familiar. As if this was a question she had asked him before.

Roy blinked. His mind scrambled for explanations. A mistake. Someone else. Pity.

"Uh," he said. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. You could say that."

She turned toward him fully now, resting her elbow on the bar, studying his face with open interest. Not appraisal. Interest.

"I'm sorry," she said, softly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Roy stared at her, words failing him. No one had ever sat this close. No one had ever looked at him like this without an agenda or a joke waiting behind it.

"I don't even know your name," he said finally, because it felt like the safest thing to say.

She laughed, gentle and warm. "Oh, are we doing a little role play tonight? Sure, I'm game," she said, shaking her head fondly. "Hi, I'm Charlotte. You must be Roy."

His eyes went wide. She knew him?

"Anyway, I'm glad you came out tonight," she continued, as if everything about this made perfect sense. "You look like you needed a drink."

Roy's heart hammered in his chest. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Frantically, he ran through his memories trying to place the woman, but for the life of him he had no idea. Even the name, Charlotte, was new to him. Yes, he'd known it in the abstract, a name that a woman could have, but he'd never met one before.

"I, uh, yeah. The drinking helps," he said. "What are you having? Can I, um, buy you one?"

She looked at him and rolled her eyes.

"Since when do you buy me drinks, babe? I'm the trust fund brat, remember? If you want to contribute, I'll pick up the tab, you pick up the cab."

Babe?! Somewhere, far beneath the confusion and disbelief, a dangerous thought stirred. Was this real? Had someone somewhere heard his wish?

If it was real how long would it last?