“Morning, buddy. How was last night? Did you find anyone else to spend the evening with?” Jodie asks the next morning when I head in for the breakfast crowd. Jodie’s leaning on the counter by the register, drinking a cup of coffee before we open.
“I did actually. He’s a doctor, and pretty damn good-looking. He’s in a relationship, but you know, I took your advice and decided what the hell? Why not just have some fun.”
Jodie rolls her eyes. “It is not normal or healthy for a man your age to have such an addiction to Grey’s Anatomy. Seriously. It’s kind of gross, actually.”
“Not many women would agree with you, sad to say. Or men for that matter.”
“Yeah, lifeless, washed-up ones who have nothing better to do. Why not go out? Live life a little bit? Have your own banging sex instead of just watching it?” Jodie fiddles with the notepad in the pocket of her apron. She tears a sheet of paper out of it, balls it up, and tosses it at me. I roll my eyes.
“Life’s not all a party, Jodie Ellison. Maybe someday you’ll realize that.”
“Doubtful,” she replies.
“Agreed,” I say, heading to the bar to do some tidying up and to unload some boxes from the store room.
Midsummer Nights was my mother’s dream, which quickly became my own. An English teacher who loved Shakespeare—hence my name—but always wanted to open her own restaurant and bar at the beach, she opened this joint to live out her dream. It’s right along the beach and offers an odd mix of Victorian England-style décor and a beachy vibe. My mom was in charge of the decorating, placing wild prints of the Bard himself all around. In some, he’s surfing or wearing floral print shirts. Behind the bar, a quote is scrawled on the rustic paneling: “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” from the play.
Despite the name and décor, there’s not much Shakespearean about the food other than my special drink, Love-in-Idleness. The place offers your typical beachy pub food and has actually become pretty popular over the years thanks to Mom’s hard work.
When she passed away, this place became mine. In truth, it was an easy decision to take it over, even though it was intimidating. I couldn’t imagine someone else carrying out Mom’s dream, and I couldn’t imagine wanting to let it go. I’d already been working here as a bartender, trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to do with my life. Now, there’s no question.
I belong here, surrounded by Mom’s vision and the people who have become my family. I’ve made it my life mission to keep this place going and to keep her dream alive. I think I’m doing a pretty okay job at it.
Still, as I clean some glasses and watch the Saturday morning regulars roll in, Jodie leading them to their seats with a skip in her step, I take a deep breath, looking out the front window into the surf.
It’s a good life, really. It is. I work hard, but I get to see the fruit of my labor here, in this place. Families come together. The staff is a giant family, and I’ve found my absolute best friend here, Jodie. The redhead, who is also an aspiring writer, reminds me to step away from work and to live a little. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
As a few couples wander in, one who has been married for fifty years, I can’t help but feel a pang of what I’m missing. I’ve got a job, a house, and good friends. But still, there’s that one thing lacking, the one thing that Mom would always argue was the most important.
Love. Real, true love, the kind you can build a life on. The kind that you share your dreams and failures with. The kind that fifty years after saying “I do,” you come and eat waffles every Saturday morning together, reading the paper and just enjoying each other’s company.
I know I’m only thirty, and I know maybe Jodie’s right. Maybe I need to calm down, to live a little. Maybe I should stop putting so much pressure on myself and start having a little more fun, let the relationship thing work itself out.
Nevertheless, as the morning continues and Jodie punches out at noon for a hot date of her own, I wipe down the bar. The rag sloshing over the same spot over and over, I stare around at the walls of my mother’s dream turned my own, and wonder: Is this it for me? Is this all I get?
A man could do worse, I reassure myself, but deep down I’m not really feeling any better when I finally leave that evening and head to my empty townhouse yet again.