Private Account
Lex
5 Years Ago
The back door of the bar swings open. Jay’s smiling face greets me, and I can’t deny the small joy it brings me. I haven’t worked with him in two weeks, and tonight is my last shift. We’re not friends, but he’s been one of the best bartenders I’ve worked with these past few months, and I’ll miss him. He pulls me into a warm hug. He already smells like the kitchen. I wrinkle my nose but return the embrace.
“I heard your last shift was coming up. Was worried we wouldn’t get to say a proper goodbye.” He says.
I push out of the hug. I’ve never been an overly touchy person. I offer a small smile.
“I would’ve come back to say bye if I didn’t get the chance while we were working.”
He steps aside, holding the door so I can walk in. The bar is empty and not open for business for another few hours. Even so, the air is thick with the aroma of old cigarettes, spilled beer, and something else I’ve never been able to pinpoint but always kid myself is the scent of regret.
Jay makes his way back to the bar and resumes polishing the cups. I gotta give the guy credit. The place is a dump, but he takes great pride in what he does. I am pretty sure he’s the only bartender that polishes the shitty old glassware. I am super early, and the bar has no policy against employees drinking, so I grab a seat. I have some forms to complete for my new job, which I start next week, and this is the perfect opportunity to get them done. When I get settled, Jay stops what he’s doing.
“What’ll it be, little lady?” He asks in his best Western accent.
I laugh. He’s a good guy. Young, in college. Cute.
“Gin and soda, if you have the time.”
He gives me an incredulous look that says, ‘For you, I always have time,’ and spins to grab the top-shelf gin he knows I like. While I wait, I open my laptop and scroll through my email. I have had many jobs but still haven’t figured out how to do tax forms correctly.
They really should teach this shit in school.
Jay sets the glass before me but doesn’t return to his polishing. I type for another minute before looking up at him. He stares intently.
“Jay,” I start, “what’s up?”
He fidgets slightly— is he nervous?
“So, that guy from the last shift we worked together?”
I don’t need more than that. I know exactly who he’s talking about. I refuse to let anyone know that Adrian’s been on my mind, so I raise an eyebrow, pretending not to remember who he’s referring to. “The big hockey player. He sat at the bar with you after that girl puked all over the floor.” Pretending it clicks, I nod and ask, “What about him?”
Jay grabs a glass and looks down at it. He replies, “Well, he came back the next night.”
Returning patrons isn’t uncommon. I’m unsure why this seems worth mentioning, but his tone makes me uneasy. I give Jay a motion that relays, ‘and?’
“Well, he came back looking for you.”
My eyes widen a bit. “What? What did he say?”
“He asked for your full name and phone number.” His tone is pensive. I’ve never seen Jay like this. He is typically very self-assured and confident.
“Jay, please, for the love of god, tell me you did not give that beast of a man my information.” My tone pleads. I do not need to be another statistic when he shows up at my apartment.
“Fuck no. I told him we don’t give our employees information out. If you wanted him to have your name and number, you would have given it to him.”
Relief washes over me and, simultaneously, a strange twist in my belly. Disappointment? I return my attention to my laptop, continuing my attempt to fill out the tax forms without inadvertently committing tax fraud.
Waving my hand, I say, “Good riddance. I’ll never see him again, Jay.”
He turns his back to me, and instead of collecting more glasses to polish, he returns with a slip of paper. He hesitates a moment as if second-guessing giving it to me at all.
“Yeah. Also, though, he left this for you.”
I take the piece of paper and unfold it.
Adrian Liberty
555-8361
My fingers tighten around the paper.
Why does seeing his name make my stomach twist?
I scrunch the paper into a ball and throw it into my backpack, returning to my laptop.
“Thanks, Jay. Again, Good riddance.”
Jay is quiet for a moment, long enough that I lift my eyes to see him still staring at me.
“Jay. What!” My tone conveys my irritation.
“Lex, something about that guy. He makes me uneasy. I don’t think that’s a good person—beyond just an annoying hockey bro. Something about him feels very off. I was going to throw the paper out, but that didn’t feel like it was my right to do.”
I’ve never seen him truly worried before. I take a deep breath. It’s not his fault that Adrian Liberty left an impression, for better or worse.
“Jay, don’t worry. I am not calling him. You didn’t give him my name, right?”
Jay nods enthusiastically.
“I will never see him again.” I hold my fingers up as if to suggest Scout’s honor.
Jay relaxes a little and lets me know he is going to search for more glassware to polish. When he is out of sight, I reach into my bag, pulling out the slip of crumpled paper. Jay’s warning should’ve been all the confirmation I needed to forget about the stranger with those intense eyes.
He’s just some guy—a stupid, cocky hockey player.
But curiosity has a way of ignoring logic. Instead, I pull out my cell phone and record his name, just in case. I put the paper on the bar.
When Jay returns, I push the paper toward him.
“Do me a favor and chuck this, please. I don’t need it.”
I return my focus to my laptop, hoping Jay doesn’t pick up on how my cheeks flush with the lie. I met him once, and he already has me lying to a kid who’s always treated me respectfully and kindly.
Great .
While Jay finishes setting up for the day, I grab my cell phone and Google search, Adrian Liberty Hockey. He was playing some level of hockey that had strangers approaching him to comment on games.
The first result is for the Bushy Beavers. I pause, rereading the name. Of course. Because a group of grown men playing beer league hockey wouldn’t settle for anything less than juvenile.
The link opens Instagram to the team page. I blanch when I see they have over a million followers. The bio on the page states they’re a Cup-Winning Beer League team.
Whatever the hell that means.
I look through a few posts. With the sound muted, it mostly looks like hockey players chatting with each other on the ice, but the comments suggest the content is humorous. Eventually, I come across a team photo. Each guy is wearing a white jersey with big beavers on the front, fluffy with fur. Bushy Beavers. I can’t help but snort a laugh.
Okay, it’s kind of funny.
The photo is tagged, and the caption calls out the roster of players.
I spot the teenage rapist first. His account has a decent following count and is filled with selfies. I return to the team photo, seeing him.
There’s no mistaking him.
My stomach flips.
Fuck .
I click the tag, and his account opens. It’s private. The profile photo is of a guy wearing hockey equipment on the ice. I would assume it’s him. There are a few hundred followers and a straightforward line for the bio. “Forward and Assistant Team Captain for the Bushy Beavers.”
My finger hovers over the follow button, but before I click it, I realize the access the action would give him. My profile is under my full name. Not Lex, but Alexandria Donnelly. I quickly close the app, as if being on his profile too long could relay that information.
He lives across the country.
I’ll never see him again.