2
Josh
A dude in a baby-blue dress shirt flips his sunglasses onto his head, takes a long sip of the aforementioned mojito, and in turn pushes the half-drunk glass across the bar.
The bartender serving him is maybe twenty years old and has been working here at Devil’s for less than a week. Nice enough guy, but definitely still learning the ropes. He takes the glass, dumps it into the sink, and starts to look in the fridge for the mint that we don’t typically use, seeing as we are primarily a vodka soda type of establishment.
Sunglasses, annoyed that his drink is taking a moment, throws up his hands, muttering “Fucking idiot” loud enough to be heard above the thumping techno base. He catches my eye and holds out his hands as if saying, Am I right? Or am I right?
I grab a highball glass from the back of one of the high shelves. “Why don’t I take this one?” I say to the new guy, who nods with a “Thanks, man” before turning to serve what is hopefully a far more amicable customer.
I place the glass on the bar, grab a few sprigs of mint from the back of the fridge, stir in the pre-prepped mint simple syrup he got served the first time, and stir. “You’re right. This place seems to be full of idiots tonight.” I scoop three cubes of ice into the glass. “They’re letting anyone through the doors these days: real assholes, guys that never learned the life lesson that it’s in your best interest to be kind to the person pouring your drink. Never know what can happen when you’re not looking.”
I smile, pulling out what is now his fully made drink from behind the bar and placing it in front of him. He glances down at it, suddenly uneasy.
“Enjoy.” I push the glass toward him. “That will be eighteen-fifty.”
He stares at me with a half-open mouth.
I take the credit card out of his hand and run it through the cash register before he can find a new reason to complain. I hand him the bill but not the pen, knowing full well I’m not getting tipped on this one.
The brunette beside him, who’s been watching the entire exchange, smiles at me as he shoves the crumpled bill into his pocket, picks up the still-untouched drink, and storms off, letting a few choice F-bombs go in his wake.
She leans in, her long, dark hair spilling over her shoulder. “Bet he won’t make that mistake again.”
“Sadly, he probably will.” I wipe the spot in front of her with my rag. “What can I get you?”
She places her credit card on the bar top. “One vodka shot.” She pauses. “Actually, better make it three. I’m in the mood to make a few mistakes tonight.”
I pull out three glasses and pour her order. She pulls two shots toward her and then pushes the third toward me. I smile and lift it to my lips. But as she tips her head back, I toss the cheap vodka over my shoulder, with her none the wiser.
She slams her empty glass onto the bar and picks up the last untouched shot.
“Maybe I’ll see you around later?”
She’s a beautiful woman. I have been at this job long enough to understand exactly what she’s got in mind for later and learned long ago that my best response is a kind but firm “Enjoy your evening.”
I basically grew up in a bar and have been pouring drinks since the tender and legal age of nineteen, which means I have been one of those favorite mistakes more times than I care to count.
It usually plays out the same way.
A woman comes in, she smiles and flirts. Sometimes she even buys me a shot. Then we go home together. Maybe we even go on a date or two. But when my work schedule has me unavailable most evenings and weekends, she suddenly wants a boyfriend who can take her to brunch or head up north on a Friday night for a cottage weekend with her friends. It fizzles out as fast as it started. Even without this job, I’ve never been a flowers-and-candlelight kind of guy. And although I tell women this up front, and they claim that’s not what they want, they eventually show back up here on the arm of a new investment banker boyfriend who has a standing Friday-night reservation at some trendy place downtown. I’m nothing more than a memory of a night that got too wild.
The crowd in front of the bar shifts and a new body squeezes through. It’s another beautiful face, but one that I’m used to seeing fast asleep on the couch when I get home late or exhausted and hungry as she comes home from a long day at her agency job, passing me on the stairs as I head out to work.
“What’s up, Brynn? How’s your night going? I didn’t expect to see you here.”
I don’t know Brynn all that well, but she does not strike me as a Devil’s kind of woman. She’s more the early-to-bed, early-to-rise, comfortable-sneakers type, though I will say she has no trouble pulling off the tight skirt and heels she’s wearing tonight.
“Yeah, I’m very much regretting my life choices right now, which means I need to ask you a teeny tiny favor. I know we don’t normally, um…” Her voice trails off as she breaks eye contact. “Any chance I could borrow five bucks?”
It’s not the question I expected, but I turn to the tip jar next to the cash register, pull out a fiver, and hand it to her. “Yeah. No problem. Everything okay?”
She gestures to the group of women she came in with. “I just can’t do that anymore, and my purse and phone are missing. If someone tries to open a tab on a Brynn Smothers Visa card, I don’t know…maybe confiscate it or something?”
She looks tired. Not just the kind of tired that comes with a late night out. The kind of tired that settles into your soul, leaving your eyes just a little dimmer and knocking the bounce out of your walk.
“No worries,” I say, then point at the five in her hands. “But how are you going to get home with that?”
We live in Leslieville. It’s east of the parkway, a thirty-dollar ride home. Thirty-five with a tip.
She shoves the money into her skirt pocket. “I’m just going to take the streetcar. Although, now that I say it—how much is it for your cheapest tequila shot? I also need to borrow whatever that is. I was kidding myself when I bought these shoes.”
Instead of reaching for more money, I grab a glass and pour a generous shot of the Casamigos Reposado we reserve for staff and the odd connoisseur who knows enough to ask. I slide it toward her. “For your feet. On the house.”
She throws the tequila back and winces, then tips the empty glass toward me in a cheers. “You saved my feet, Joshua Bishop, and I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
With that declaration, she turns to head toward the door, but as she does, an uneasy feeling settles in my gut.
“Hey, Brynn,” I call after her. “Can you wait, like, five minutes?”
She turns back around slowly, her eyebrows knit in confusion.
“I’ll come home with you,” I explain. “The streetcar is sketchy this time of night and I don’t think they really need me for much longer.”
She waves me off, hobbling a few more steps toward the door. “It’s fine. It smells a little like Doritos, that’s all. I’m not worried.”
I nod at my manager, who’s standing at the end of the bar, surveying the club. “Let me talk to my boss quickly. Two minutes tops.”
She looks annoyed but nods. “Fine, but if they play the Beibs, I will self-destruct.”
I can’t help but smile. Although I love being a bartender, this place isn’t exactly my hangout of choice either. I prefer some place more laid-back where the vibe is chilled out and unpretentious, where you might get up to dance if a great song comes on, but it’s more about the company. And also the beer.
I glance at the single draft tap and the big-name Belgian brand.
It’s a very real reminder that the whole point of working at Devil’s is that it isn’t my own place. No stakes. No expectations. No reminders of all the things I’ve fucked up and lost. All that’s expected of me is to pour drinks and run tabs, and as long as I show up for my shift on time, I’m pretty much a star employee.
Until now.
I approach my boss, rubbing the back of my neck in a lame attempt to look pained. “Hey, man. Not feeling so hot. Mind if I head home early?”
He checks his watch before eyeing the bar. “I guess the new kid is doing okay on his own. No tips if you leave mid-shift though. Company policy.”
My tip-out is probably close to $400 tonight. Maybe even more. It sucks to lose out on the money. But the city’s been doing road work on our street for the last two weeks. They’ve shut off power to the streetlights. It’s a dark walk. On top of that, one of our female bartenders was mugged walking home the other night. The idea of Brynn alone on the streetcar, then walking, doesn’t sit well with me.
“I’ll come in early tomorrow and make it up to you.”
He slaps me affectionately on the back as I head to the staff room to grab my phone from my locker. I don’t plan on checking my messages, but there’s a notification from my mom that has me quickly swiping open my voicemail and pressing my phone to my ear.
She doesn’t usually call this late.
“Hi, sweet pea.” She sounds normal. Soft voice. Tender and even. “So sorry to call so late, but I wanted to let you know that they set a date for the auction.”
My heart double-beats at the word auction.
“I know you said before that you’re not interested in trying again,” her message continues, “but the bank is listing the place at a great price. Everyone would be delighted to see you come home. Now that things are settled with the estate, you should think about it. You have lots of time. The auction isn’t until June twenty-first at seven. At least come up and check it out. You could stay the night, and we could have breakfast at Nana’s in the morning. Call me if you want to talk about it. Okay?”
The voicemail ends with a soft click, but my heart stays lodged up in my throat.
My dad’s old bar is up for sale again. Clearly, the new owners couldn’t make it work any better than I could. I shove my phone deep into my pocket as if the action will also banish all the unwanted thoughts now swimming around in my head. For a brief second, I consider going up there. I haven’t been back to Orillia since we sold the place. That bar has some of my best memories and a whole slew of my worst. But any plans I may have been making in my head stop when the door to the staff room swings open, bringing with it one of the barbacks and a chorus of female voices singing, “Baby, baby, baby, ohhh!”
Shit.
Brynn.
By the time I get back out to the main bar, she’s barreling toward the coat check. I catch up just as she reaches the front door. Little Chuck gives me an approving fist bump as we exit onto the steps. I should probably explain that although I’m taking her home, I’m not actually taking her home. Instead, I watch the spectacle that is Brynn, gripping the railing with both hands, visibly wincing as she slowly makes her way down the steps.
“Why did you buy those shoes if they hurt your feet so much?”
She straightens at the question, as if trying to prove that she’s not in that much pain. “I ordered them online. They were on sale. And I thought they looked cute, and then I was too lazy to take them back, and then my thirty-day return period was up, so I convinced myself that I could make them work.” She stares down at her feet. “But I’m learning that mind over matter can only take you so far.” She glances at the long length of the alley out to the street. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
The way she winces as she shifts her weight says otherwise.
Without thinking, I snake my hand around her waist and scoop her into my arms. She stares up at me with wide eyes, blinking.
“Um, what are you doing?”
“I could not even tell you the last time I’ve been home before midnight,” I explain. “I have my heart set on a solid eight hours of sleep, and at the pace you were walking, we wouldn’t be home until dawn.”
She relaxes a little, letting her cheek press against my shoulder.
“My inner feminist really wants to object to being carried like a paperback heroine right now, but after the day I’ve just had…” Her voice trails off.
“Rough one?”
She looks away, avoiding my eyes. “More like a rough year.”
“Anything I can do?”
She shakes her head. “Not unless you have a magic wand. Or an excellent therapist?”
I laugh. “I could probably use both of those things myself.”
She wraps her arms around my neck as I make my way out of the alley and down the three blocks to Queen Street. Her head bumps against my chest with every step. She doesn’t say anything else until I come to a stop to wait for a traffic light.
“Is this something you do often or am I your first?”
I stare down at her, confused.
“Carrying women home in your arms?” she clarifies.
I hoist her up a little higher, adjusting my grip. “I can say with confidence that this is the first time and most likely the last.”
She tips her head to the side. “So, Josh Bishop is not a romantic?”
“He is not. In fact…”
I set her down on her feet, then promptly take her hands and haul her up and over my shoulder, transforming her from—What did she call it? A paperback heroine?—to a sack of potatoes.
“This is more my style.”
“What the—” she screams.
My arms tighten around her legs. Her body stills as she realizes she’s not about to fly face-first into the pavement.
“You okay up there?”
Her arms dangle for a moment. “More of a warning would have been nice, but otherwise I’m good.” She taps my back. “Giddy up, buttercup.”
I carry her a few more blocks to the streetcar stop. When I finally set her down, she lingers momentarily with her hands on my chest, then leans in and sniffs the spot where my neck meets my collarbone.
“Why do you smell like a forest?” She tilts her head back and looks up at me. “It’s like a mix of mint and pinecones and something else. I’ve been trying to figure it out for the last block and a half and it’s driving me crazy.”
I’m not entirely sure how I’m supposed to answer this question. “I’d like to claim that it’s my natural man smell, but I think you might be referring to my deodorant. It’s called Cedar Wood Lumberjack.”
Her jaw drops. “Actually?”
“Swear to god. I saw it and bought it based on the name alone. Clearly, it did not disappoint.”
She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something else but is interrupted by the arrival of the red-and-white streetcar, which opens its doors, flooding us with a wave of warm, body-scented air.
She holds up her hands as if she’s proving a point. “I can say one thing. It’s a definite upgrade from Doritos.”