14
Josh
I find an eighteen-year-old bottle of Dalmore open on top of the bar, along with two glass tumblers that look like they’ve been filled and then emptied of their contents. There are no other signs of Sherry—or anyone else—in the bar this morning, but I can hear low voices that grow louder as one of the doors to what I think is a storage closet opens and two people emerge. The first is Sherry, with her hair pulled back like yesterday, dressed in jeans and a light-blue T-shirt with the Bronze’s logo embroidered over her heart. I recognize it only because it matches the T-shirt I stole from Fletch’s closet this morning. She spots me, and we make brief eye contact, but she otherwise ignores me as she holds the door open for a middle-aged man with a beer gut and an impressively thick beard. He’s carrying a large aluminum ladder. His shirt says Larry’s Lighting in thick black letters, which I read as he sets the ladder down next to the bar and helps himself to a second, very generous glass of Scotch. I presume Sherry didn’t offer this one, which I have deduced solely from the low growl coming from Sherry’s throat that’s aimed in Larry’s direction.
“I’m glad you’re fixing the lighting.” I attempt to make pleasant conversation. “It was getting tough to see in here.”
Her growl, which is now very much aimed at me, grows louder. “You’ll have to learn to live with the lights we have, seeing as I just sold Larry our ladder.”
As if illustrating Sherry’s point, Larry sets his now-empty glass down with a clink, picks up the ladder in question, and throws us a friendly wave before carrying it out the front door.
“Dickhead,” Sherry mutters under her breath.
“Why’d you sell him the ladder, then?” I ask, and immediately regret my question as Sherry shoots me a glare that I swear I feel all the way through to the back of my rib cage.
“Because he paid fifty dollars for it.” She ducks under the bar and reaches for the open Scotch bottle to screw the lid back on.
I shake my head, still confused.
“Lights are useless when you can’t pay the electric bill, Fletch.” Sherry rolls her eyes, as if disappointed that she has to explain further. “You know how I feel about useless things.” She makes no point of hiding the fact that this time she means me. And although I know she’s trying to make light of the situation, I can’t ignore the familiar churning in my gut.
I’d bet that if you asked her right now, Sherry would insist that the two of us have nothing in common. But I’ve stood in her metaphorical shoes. The ones where you make the choice between paying your water bill or your waitstaff. There’s never an easy option.
Sherry comes out from behind the bar, weaving the same path to the front door that Larry took only moments ago.
“Where are you going now?” I call after her.
She stops but doesn’t turn around. Instead, she sighs. “If the Lord spent a little less time on your looks and a little more on your brains, my life may have turned out differently. I’m going to pay the electric bill. God knows why though. This place might actually make some money if you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”
“Is there anything you want me to do while you’re gone?” I offer. “We’ve probably ruled out anything involving a ladder, but otherwise, I’m pretty decent with my hands.”
Sherry turns around. Her left eyebrow is making an impressive arc. “I think it’s probably better for everyone if you keep your hands to yourself. Just don’t burn the place down while I’m gone, okay?”
She’s gone before I can promise I won’t.
I stand for a few moments, just staring at the empty bar.
The place has its flaws. It’s dirty and dimly lit. There is actual graffiti on some of the walls, and it’s not the intentional this place is edgy kind.
Anyone walking in would say it is a lost cause, and yet…
The giant U-shaped bar in the center is crafted with the type of precise woodworking you just don’t see anymore. There’s a great mix of beers on tap—a few local crafts alongside the big brand names that everyone loves. The liquor selection isn’t too bad either. Some top-shelf bottles. A few others that will get you drunk for cheap. All of them are mixed together on the same shelf, just hanging out.
This place could be so much more with a few small adjustments.
Before I fully realize what I’m doing, I find myself ducking behind the bar to find a rag. I rationalize it by telling myself that I owe Sherry for room and board, and I’m making up for it with hard labor.
The dust and watermarks are easy enough to tackle. It takes half a bottle of Bar Keepers Friend and some serious elbow grease, but whatever genetic trait my dad had that made him compulsively wipe down his bar has clearly been passed to me because two hours later, it’s gleaming so beautifully that my dad would be proud.
I find a storeroom under the stairs with some cleaning supplies, a few extra kegs, and a big sink, where I rinse the rags and clean my hands. When I get back into the main area of the bar, there’s a blond woman sitting at one of the barstools, waiting.
“Sorry, but we’re closed,” I call to her.
She turns her head. “I’m tight with the bartender. We crossed a space-time continuum together. It’s bonded us in weird and wonderful ways.”
Her words and her voice crash together inside my brain in a too-familiar way. “Brynn?”
She swivels the rest of her body around to face me.
It’s Brynn, for sure, but she looks different. Her dark, wild hair is gone. She’s wearing makeup, I think. Everything about her is perfectly polished.
“You’re blond.”
She rolls her eyes as she reaches down to adjust one of her high-heeled shoes. “And you need to work on your compliments.”
I shake my head, all the right words currently escaping me. “Sorry, I didn’t expect…What happened? What did you do to your hair?”
She fingers the strands, the smile from before slipping from her lips, and once again, I regret my word choice.
“It’s called a makeover, Josh. Or you might be more familiar with the more colloquial term glow-up. You know? A radical transformation to highlight what was hidden in there all along?” She slides off the barstool and begins to walk toward the door. Halfway there, she spins back around and holds up a single finger. “Actually, that’s not even why I’m here. I came to tell you that I saw Sheldon this morning.”
My pulse spikes.
“What did he say? Did he tell you anything important?”
Color rises in her cheeks. “I was getting my hair done. I couldn’t get to him in time. He was there in the salon one minute, and then he took off before I could talk to him.”
“Where is he now?”
She glances at the door. “That’s the million-dollar question. I looked in every single shop on my way over here, but the dude has vanished. He’s a sneaky little fu…uhhhh.” She groans.
We need to find him. “We should keep looking. Come on.”
I grab her hand.
We walk back out onto Main Street. It’s another beautiful blue-sky day. The grocer is watering his vegetables again. The woman is walking her goldendoodles.
The picturesqueness is almost irritating.
My eyes scan the street. The pharmacy. The fudge shop. Even the ladder where a pair of town workers are adding giant plastic crustaceans to the lamppost with the Ms. Lobsterfest banner.
No sign of Sheldon at all.
Until I spot a blond busker outside the general store.
“Over there,” I tell Brynn and run toward him.
“I’ll catch up,” she yells. When I turn around to see why she’s not following, she holds up one of her high-heeled feet. “It’s like walking on two toothpicks. The best you’re going to get from me is a brisk walk.”
I abandon her and sprint across the street, but just as I reach the spot where I saw Sheldon, I realize that in the brief moment I shifted my gaze to Brynn’s footwear, he somehow managed to disappear.
“Where did he go?” Brynn reaches me a moment later, her breathing shallow and labored.
“I don’t know.” I scan the street one last time. “He couldn’t have gotten far. Maybe he ducked inside?”
The bell above the door to the general store chimes as I open it. There is a man with a mustache behind the counter, ringing up the items of a tall female. Neither of them look up as we walk in, so we head to the back, walking the length of the frozen-food section, checking each of the aisles.
There’s no one down the first two, and when I check the third and fourth, they’re also empty.
“We could ask Mr. Wilder.” She nods toward the front. “He’s the guy behind the counter.”
We start to move down the aisle toward the front, where the man with the mustache is now bagging the woman’s groceries. Their heads are bent low in conversation. But as she leans across the counter, I catch a very clear “It’s about time that place was dealt with,” and something about the tone of the woman’s voice makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
I stop. Brynn does as well, tilting her head toward me with a curious glance as I crane my neck to hear them better.
“That place has been an eyesore for years,” the woman continues. “I, for one, will be happy to see it go.”
Mr. Wilder shakes his head. “Yeah, but that Sherry Scott is a good woman. She just never seemed to be able to get people in there after the accident. It’s sad. I can’t remember the last time a business went under in this town.”
Sherry.
They are talking about the Bronze.
I get that sickening feeling of acid crawling up the back of my throat.
I know the Bronze is not Buddy’s.
It’s not even a real bar.
But it still feels like the past is repeating, and once again, I can’t stop it.
Brynn places her hand softly on my forearm, almost as if she can sense the turmoil going on in my head.
“Do you know what they’re talking about?” I whisper, suddenly needing to know more. “The accident he mentioned. What happened?”
She nods slowly. “I think they’re talking about season five.” Brynn’s eyebrows draw together to the point where they almost touch. “Every season, Carson’s Cove always seemed to have this one tragic episode. It was usually a veiled PSA about the dangers of underage drinking or drug experimentation. The setting was usually at some wild, out-of-control party. Some minor character would wrap their car around a tree or drive off a cliff, and the rest of the cast, who were usually drinking as well, would all learn a valuable lesson about the dangers of alcohol or drugs. In season five, the cast went to the Bronze with fake IDs, and even though Fletch knew they were underage, he served them alcohol. This one guy…I can’t even remember his name, but he got into his car, even though Spencer told him not to drive, and he killed an innocent extra on his way home.”
My stomach twists. “What happened after that?”
Brynn pauses as if thinking. “To be honest, nothing, really. Everyone was understandably upset for the rest of the episode, but then it ended, and everyone was over it by the next one. Fletch was given some community service. There was a scene with him in a jumpsuit collecting trash, but that was it. But now that I think about it, there really weren’t any more episodes set at the Bronze after that.”
And now the place is going under.
Rationally, I know it’s not my fault. I wasn’t there. I’m not really Fletch. It happened on a fictional television show. But this place is messing with my head. And for some reason, I feel this sense of responsibility.
“Are you okay?” Brynn’s fingers lightly brush the inside of my wrist.
“Yeah.” I shake my head. “I just wish there was something I could do.”
“I wouldn’t stress too much.” Brynn glances at the counter. “Mr. Wilder is a bit of a gossip, and even before the accident, the bar was pretty run-down. It’s one of those things that’s unfortunate but probably inevitable.”
That doesn’t sound like much of a happily ever after.
“We should probably go.” Brynn inclines her head toward the front door.
I nod, suddenly needing air.
We walk toward the exit, but as Brynn reaches for the handle, the door swings open before she touches it.
“Spencer, hey!” Brynn freezes in place as Spencer steps inside.
“Hey, Sloan. Wow!” His eyes comb the length of her body. “You look beautiful. Is that a new dress?”
Brynn spins around, the bottom of her skirt billowing out around her in a circle.
“It is. And thank you for noticing.” She throws me a look, as if saying See? That is how you’re supposed to compliment a woman. Whether she intended it or not, it brings Spencer’s focus to me.
“Oh, hey, Fletch. Didn’t see you there. Are you two going somewhere?”
Brynn shoots a panicked look in my direction. “No…I mean, yes…I mean, no, I’m not going anywhere with Fletcher specifically, and yes, I was shopping for…” She picks up a package of double-A batteries. “These.”
“Batteries?” His brows knit together in confusion.
Brynn looks down at the package in her hands. “Yes. I was changing out all of the batteries in my flashlights. You never know when a storm is going to blow in.”
Spencer nods as if he agrees. “You really don’t.”
He starts to take the batteries from her hands but pauses. “Did you do something different with your hair? Whatever it is, I like it.”
Brynn twists a loose lock around her finger. “Yeah, I went and saw Lois at the salon. I was in the mood for a change.”
He smiles at her. “It suits you.”
He shoots a glance in my direction before returning his attention to her. “Hey, do you remember the old observatory up on the hill?”
Brynn’s breath catches. “Yes, of course.”
“Well, I was thinking of heading up there to check it out. Would you maybe want to come with me? Just the two of us.”
I can’t see Brynn’s face, but I notice her voice shifts up an octave as she says, “Um, yeah. I would love that.”
Again, he looks in my direction. “How about tonight? I can pick you up at seven.”
I watch the back of Brynn’s head as she nods. “Seven is great.”
He holds the front door open for her. “Great. It’s a date.”
She walks through, abandoning both me and her batteries. “It’s a date.”
I stand for a moment, alone in the aisle, until the guy behind the counter clears his throat. “Fletcher. Don’t usually see you in here. Is there anything you need help with?”
My eyes scan the shelves. For a moment, I consider picking up Brynn’s batteries, but there’s a box of industrial string lights beside them that are marked down on clearance.
They give me an idea.
What did Brynn call it? A glow-up? A radical transformation to highlight what was there all along. I don’t know if I can manage radical, but then again, I have nothing but time right now.
I hold up the box. “Just these.”
When I get back to the Bronze, I head straight to the storeroom, where I find the cleaning supplies.
By one o’clock, I have the floors swept and washed. By three, all the windows are clean. By five, my arms are killing me and I definitely do not smell like Cedar Lumberjack, but I have managed to clear out almost all of the stage, leaving enough space for a band.
It’s far from a miracle makeover, but the place looks exponentially better. I get to work next on the string lights I picked up from the general store, stringing them back and forth from the rafters until there’s a full canopy of tiny lights.
It looks like a blanket of stars, casting a soft orange glow over the bar that makes the whole place look warm and inviting. I’m so engrossed in my project that I don’t hear Sherry come back until she’s standing right behind me.
“What the heck happened in here?”
I jump, yet again, at the sound of her voice.
“Do you sneak up like that on everyone? Or is it just me?”
She ignores my question and instead does a slow 360-degree survey of the bar.
“I had nothing I needed to do today,” I attempt to explain. “So I started to clean the bar, and then I just kept on going, I guess.”
She draws a long, deep breath in through her nose. I’ve yet to determine if she’s angry or pleased.
“Are you on drugs?” she finally asks.
Great question. “Definitely still a possibility, but I don’t think so.”
I get a slow nod and another full turn. “Well…it looks good in here. Who knows? Maybe a few more will wander in now that you can actually see what you’re drinking. I guess we will find out on Friday.”
Friday. Right. I noticed when I was cleaning the windows that the posted hours are only Friday and Saturday nights.
Maybe it’s seeing how far I’ve come today, or maybe it’s the comfort of being in someone else’s life, but I have this sudden urge to see what this place is capable of.
“Is there a reason you’re only open on the weekends?”
She turns to the bar, grabs the Scotch from earlier, and pours herself a shot. “I only have the energy to wrangle you into working Friday and Saturday, Fletch. By Sunday, I’m too old and too tired.” She downs the shot in a single gulp.
“I know it’s Sunday, but what if I opened up tonight? Just to see if anyone does show?”
She looks around the bar and then shrugs. “Fill your boots. Just don’t expect too much.”