6. Zak
No one recognized Zak after five short years, which must have been a testament to how invisible she had been in high school. Sure, she’d gone from a size eight to a size ten, gotten some ink, and learned how to apply makeup better, but overall, she looked the same. Others had transformed from shy and bullied to confident and corporate. Or hot and popular to a dismally average parent of one-point-five, rolling up in a Honda Odyssey.
Starting from rock bottom had its upsides, and so did having an unmemorable face. Mainly, it spared her from becoming entrapped in small talk and scrutinized by people who had nothing more exciting to do with their lives.
All the stress that had been compounding since she accepted Janet’s offer melted away after the first fifteen minutes. Zak”s primary objective post-graduation had been to put those eighteen years in the rearview mirror and disappear into the LA clamor. Achieving that goal was a nice consolation prize, considering her lifelong dream of producing a platinum album—the second checkbox on her list—had imploded.
Nobody knew who she was, and nobody cared. By the end of the night, they might briefly recall a girl with zero customer service skills and unusually twitchy eyes. Her co-worker Mary, an aspiring Hollywood makeup artist, had caked on the staff’s glitter eyeshadow with zero regard for the functional advantages of having clear vision.
The ballroom had been decorated to fit the theme of disco desert oasis, complete with light-up saguaro cacti, a neon disco ball, sand art centerpieces, and an open bar dubbed The Watering Hole. Electric red, orange, and yellow light bathed every square inch of space as if the sun were still setting outside at nine p.m. At the karaoke station, an inebriated former cheerleader chirped along to a Spice Girls song while her friends intermittently stumbled on stage and chimed in.
Zak passed out hors d’oeuvres and cocktails without making eye contact or snide remarks. She collected dirty dishes without breaking them and dropped them off in the correct bin. She arrived on time to all her bar rotations and skimped every single partygoer on the booze. Although, the last one had less to do with keeping her job, and more to do with the fact that she couldn’t stand these people. They didn’t deserve extra tequila for free.
If Janet were here, she would probably make a comment about being more friendly or something, but Janet could shove it because Zak was a bartender for crying out loud. Not a kindergarten teacher.
At this rate, she’d make employee-of-the-month by August.
She was a woman on a mission. A model service worker. Nothing could detract from the mental image of her next paycheck, ticking higher by the hour.
Nothing except for the rowdy group of ex-jocks near the welcome table, and the name they were now shouting: Fucking. Chase. Payton. She gritted her teeth and threw a mental prayer into the void as she turned around. This was a severely intoxicated bunch. She might have misheard them. They might be hallucinating.
But no.
There he was. The one person she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, could pick her out of a line-up. In a city the size of a small country, they had defied the odds by sharing nearly every class from elementary school to senior year. She would need a full facial reconstruction to escape him, and right now, that seemed worth robbing a bank to afford.
She wanted to hurl the tray of tiny plates she was holding against the wall, an instinctive response to watching that cocky, carefree expression take over his face like some sort of douchebag disease. But causing a scene would be counterproductive when the last thing she needed was for him to spot her.
She tugged the brim of her straw hat lower to cover her face, debating how quickly she could tuck her hair beneath it and swipe a pair of sunglasses, but it was already too late. Chase caught her eye with the efficiency of a hitman zeroing in on his target, and the spark of recognition settled in on impact.
Someone handed him a passion fruit margarita on the rocks, and he took a sip as he nodded to his buddies, still looking at her in that bold way only people who knew they were gorgeous could get away with. Because hell, he was. Distractingly attractive but also devastatingly dull—the kind of guy sent to Earth for the sole purpose of schmoozing parents. But Zak didn’t have parents anymore and was hence immune to Chase’s clean and harmless brand of beauty.
What was he doing here anyway? Didn’t he have babies to kiss? Charity galas to attend? Sports Illustrated covers to pose for?
The room suddenly felt as smoldering as it appeared. Zak wore heels religiously, so her 100-meter dash time would probably be the same with them on as it was without—unimpressive—but either way, she couldn’t outrun a professional hockey player.
Her next shift at the bar was in ten minutes, so she determined her best bet to avoid him was to head over early and hide behind the counter if he approached.
How’s that for punctuality, Janet?
She mixed drinks for half an hour, inwardly mocking the stilted conversations taking place around her as she lulled herself into a false sense of security.
Chase probably had just as little interest in talking to her as she did him. She was a lowlife. He wouldn’t want to be seen within five feet of her, let alone waste the last two hours of this party catching up with the yearbook’s “Most Likely to Cut Class” when he could be grandstanding.
But the next time she went to fill a cup with tonic from the soda gun, there he was. Waiting with a smirk, an empty glass, and her name floating out of his lips like a melody.
“Zak Parker. Wow. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
His tone made it clear he wasn’t just surprised to see her at their high school reunion. He was surprised to see her silently serving drinks in a sheer gauze minidress behind a chrome and faux-grass tiki hut. But a second look at his gray-blue eyes—sparkling like rain from the multicolored lights reflecting off the bar top—told her maybe he was only entertained.
A ruthless epiphany smacked Zak over the head: she had peaked in high school.
She stole a sip of the Bloody María someone else had sent back, a twist on the classic with tequila and a halved poblano pepper instead of vodka and a celery stick. Bitterness, acid, and spice coated her throat. When she met Chase’s gaze again, she felt unwisely confident about the decision to ruin her streak of upstanding behavior.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here, either. Nice of you to make time in your busy celebrity schedule to mingle with us common folk.”
His expression went blank as he reached for the base of his empty glass and swiped it to the side. “I heard about your friend.” He paused. “It felt weird to start with ‘How have you been?’ considering the situation. So, I’m sorry for your loss.”
That wasn’t the greeting she had been expecting, since, as far as she knew, Link had never met anyone from her old high school.
She must have looked visibly confused because Chase followed up with, “I overheard someone at Jerri’s Blues House talking about it. They said you guys used to play there. Said Link was extremely talented.”
There was no way she had imagined the pompous tic to Chase’s jaw when he talked about her band. Whatever his problem was, he could take the snobby attitude somewhere else. She wasn’t about to put up with it. “He was. But some of us just have the talent. Not the luck.”
There was that look again. Like he didn’t understand what she was saying. Years of performing, practicing, and listening to electric guitars with the volume cranked up had undoubtedly deadened her hearing, but still, she didn’t think the music was that loud.
“What?” She planted a fist on her hip. “Did you think I’d be nicer after Los Angeles beat the shit out of me for a few years?”
Chase gave her a humored look. “I take it you don’t follow sports?”
“I can barely afford rent. I’m not paying extra to upgrade from the thirty-eight-channel plan just to watch hockey.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this the part where you remind me what a hotshot you are? Where you act like I should know about all the glamorous achievements you’ve won over the last five years? If that’s the case, piss off, Payton. I didn’t come here for the thrill of listening to how everybody else’s life turned out better than mine, so I’m not in the mood to hear about your trophies and fancy cars and—”
He stepped back and rolled up the left leg of his acid-washed jeans, and it was then Zak realized how definitively she had fucked up. Chase Payton, Magna Cum Laude graduate, professional hockey player, and equally credentialed thorn in her side, was standing before her on a metal ankle and shin.
He was an amputee. And she was, once again, a moron.
“I don’t get out on the ice much these days,” he said, as if to seal the thoroughly rattled expression on her face.
His admission pulled the lever on some internal slot machine in her brain filled with every possible response, spinning at ninety miles per hour.
Wow!
That’s terrible.
I’m sorry.
I had no idea.
What happened?
She should have waited for it to land on something better, but instead, she let slip a panicked, “Whoops.”
Jackpot.
She should shut her mouth. Or blink like a functioning person.
“Whoops” was for spilling drinks and walking out of the house with a shirt on inside-out. It was not for making multiple digs about someone’s ruined career and dredging up their medical trauma within the first ten seconds of speaking to them. No matter how much she didn’t like the guy, that was a new low for her.
Fuck it. Zak downed the rest of her stolen cocktail and nibbled on the pepper to keep from grinding her molars into dust. She was willing to get fired again if it meant feeling ten percent less awkward.
She grabbed a clean glass. “What can I get you to drink?”
Chase’s entire face lit up in a laugh so bright it seemed accidental. Like he had been trying to hold it back before it exploded.
Her responding smile felt more like a grimace.
He nodded to the highball glass she had guzzled down. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“A Bloody María?”
“Sure.” The corner of his mouth twisted up as he pressed his lips together. She hoped he’d keep them that way. No hockey player deserved to make it out of the pros with perfect teeth. “A Bloody María.”
She finished pouring the tomato juice as the emcee’s voice came over the sound system again, calling, “Chase Payton? Your song is up.”
Now it was his turn to be confused. He gave the karaoke stage a hesitant glance. “But I didn’t—”
“I did.”
Zak wasn’t closely acquainted with Chase’s sister, but she knew of her. Everyone did. Lydia had been in gifted classes across the board, taking high school math in sixth grade and probably curing cancer or some shit by junior year. It was only fitting that she and her brother should have above-average intellect to match those ridiculous genes that blessed them both with tall, lean bodies, shiny golden waves, and a complexion that somehow freckled and tanned but never burned.
“Oh, hey Zak!” Lydia said after a brief stare-down with her brother. “Nice to see you again.”
It was a shallow pleasantry when they’d spoken a cumulative total of ten words to one another. Ever. But right now, it truly was nice to see Lydia. Because Lydia was about to provide her with a convenient exit from the world’s most disastrous interaction.
“You, too.” She waved to Lydia, then handed Chase his drink. “Sounds like that’s your cue to leave?”
The intro to Aerosmith’s “Crazy”blasted through the speakers as Lydia dragged her reluctant brother through the crowd. He sucked down the cocktail through a highlighter-yellow bendy straw in less time than it had taken Zak to pour it into the glass. As much as she wasn’t looking forward to listening to Chase butcher a song by her favorite band, anything that kept him away from her was a good thing.
She finally had room to breathe again without his presence taking up all the space between them. Time to move along and get back to work. But as she reached to wipe up a spill, her stubborn, curious eyes found their way back to him.
Some latent part of her was pleased to be remembered. Even if it was Chase, of all people, who remembered her.
He tripped over the rubber threshold to the karaoke stage and gave an uncharacteristically insecure smile to the crowd of partygoers who wouldn’t care what he sounded like anyway because they were too far gone. Then, as though he knew how harshly Zak was about to critique this performance, Chase picked up the microphone and stared past her. Like he was about to dedicate this one to the bottle of Fireball above her shoulder on the second shelf.
Though they’d witnessed each other’s gawky adolescent years, she had never seen Chase’s self-assurance waver like it did now. A lapse in bravado wouldn’t have been enough to humanize him on any other night, but the shit show she instigated minutes ago had already done the heavy lifting.
“C’mon, brother! I hear you sing it in the shooow-errrr!” Lydia waved a lighter around as if she were in the crowd at Live Aid. That had to be a fire hazard with how much air in the room was comprised of hairspray and cologne particles.
Chase shook his head in disbelief, but there was a different glint in his eyes when he picked up the microphone. It was the same one he had when he saw her: the look people gave old friends.
A screech blurted through the speakers as he cleared his throat.
He had already missed the first two lines, but he hit the third right on time without the slightest glance at the teleprompter. His voice wobbled and cracked before settling into this rich, silvery tone that shot chills up Zak’s spine.
If someone asked her to, she could pinpoint the exact moment he let go of whatever uncertainty he had carried up there.
His posture loosened. The volume of his voice ramped up tenfold. He stopped controlling the way his face contorted as he belted out the chorus. The muscles along his neck and collarbones flexed under the vibrant lights. Every movement, every word, every immaculate grin was no longer constrained by nerves or modesty.
She waited for him to mess up, clutching her empty glass tight enough to shatter it, but Chase’s voice kept getting better until eventually she wasn’t listening to him here and now. She was imagining him singing other songs, her songs. Hearing his powerful voice in the place where Link’s had grown distant and weak.
As the music faded away, the rest of the world faded back in. An impatient group had gathered around, slurring their drink orders at her, but Zak couldn’t bring herself to care about them, about where she was, or if she was screwing up her hundredth second chance at this job. About if Chase noticed her, noticing him.
She didn”t know how she was going to do it. All she knew for certain was she needed to convince him to join the band.
The Chase she saw out there tonight—someone she hardly believed was the same person she used to know—belonged behind a microphone more than he ever belonged behind a hockey helmet. And by a rare stroke of fate, he was out of a job, just like Saint of Spades was without a lead singer.