Chapter 8 Finn
Finn
Iwas going to throw up.
And not metaphorically.
Actually throw up all over the polished bar that Mark and I had spent three hours cleaning yesterday.
“You’re doing the thing again,” Priya said from where she sat at the bar, watching me pace.
“What thing?”
“The spiraling thing. The pacing thing. The ‘I’m going to have a panic attack’ thing.”
“I’m not having a panic attack.”
“You’re breathing like you ran a marathon.”
“I’m fine.”
I wasn’t.
It was 7 p.m. on a Friday night.
It was our grand opening.
The doors would open in thirty minutes, and I was convinced that either no one would show up or everyone would show up, we’d be unprepared, and the whole thing would be a disaster that would end with me crying in the walk-in freezer.
The past few weeks had been a blur of activity that still didn’t feel quite real.
After hiring Rod, we’d brought on Jackson—Jacks, as he insisted on being called—a twenty-two-year-old former college football player who’d responded to our barback ad with an enthusiasm that was either endearing or concerning.
I hadn’t decided which yet. He was built like a linebacker, had dimples that could get him out of a speeding ticket, and possessed an earnest quality that made me want to both protect him and make sure he didn’t accidentally break everything in the bar.
Rod found his sous chef—a quiet, efficient guy named Carlos who showed up on time, did what Rod told him to do, and never complained. He was perfect.
The equipment had arrived in waves, first the stove, then the fridge and freezer, then a dozen boxes filled with kitchen equipment Rod had insisted on. I watched him unpack, unsure if I was witnessing the equipping of a kitchen or the arming of a rebellion.
The furniture also arrived. Mark and I spent a week assembling and arranging tables and chairs.
We nearly killed each other in the process.
Mark insisted on hanging every TV himself, which had resulted in one of them being slightly crooked.
He refused to acknowledge this, despite the obvious tilt to his head when he tried to watch a show.
I gave up arguing about it.
Maya—Jackson’s best friend who’d somehow appointed herself our social media manager despite us not actually hiring her—had created an Instagram account and posted a grand total of three times.
Three.
We had forty-seven followers, half of whom were Mark’s relatives.
We invited friends, Mark’s construction buddies, my former coworkers from various bartending jobs, and Priya’s colleagues from the hospital.
But we hadn’t actually . . . promoted to the public.
To strangers.
To the hoard of local gays who might keep us in business.
We’d been so busy building the bar that we’d forgotten to tell people it existed.
“Finn,” Rod called from the kitchen. “You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re never hungry. Eat anyway.” He emerged with a plate of his Stanley Sliders, mini burgers with a special sauce he refused to tell me the recipe for. “Eat. Now. Or I’m telling Mark you’re spiraling again.”
“I’m not spiraling!”
“He’s so spiraling,” Priya piled on.
“You’re absolutely spiraling,” Mark said, appearing from the office where he’d been doing God knows what. “But it’s opening night. You’re allowed to spiral a little.”
I took the plate from Rod and forced myself to take a bite.
“Bloody hell, Rod,” I said through a mouthful of beef and bun. “This is amazing.”
Rod grinned and bowed like he was on Iron Chef, then retreated to the kitchen.
Rod was a wizard.
“What if no one comes?” I asked no one in particular.
“Then we have a quiet first night and try again tomorrow,” Mark said.
“What if everyone comes and we can’t handle it?”
“Then you handle it anyway and figure it out as you go, just like in the ER,” Priya said before sipping her mojito, one made with real goddamn mint leaves.
“What if—”
“Finn.” Mark put his hands on my shoulders, spun me to face him, and looked me dead in the eye. “It’s going to be fine. We’ve got this.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that we’ve worked our asses off for three weeks. I know we’ve got great food, good drinks, and a solid team. I know that whatever happens tonight, we’ll figure it out.” He squeezed my shoulders. “Breathe.”
Just to shut him up, I sucked in a deep breath and held it. He waited until I couldn’t hold it any longer, and air whooshed out as though someone had popped my balloon.
“Good. Now help me make sure we have enough beer on tap.”
At 7:30, we opened the doors.
A trickle of curious men wandered in over the next hour. They looked around, taking in the TVs showing the pre-game show, the polished bar, and comfortable booths.
Some ordered drinks. Others ordered food.
A few looked around, seemed unimpressed, and left.
By 8:30, we had maybe fifteen people total.
The Lightning game was on, and a few of them were watching, but most were just . . . sitting and drinking quietly.
This wasn’t the packed opening night I’d envisioned.
Priya deposited an empty glass on the bar and hopped onto a stool. Jacks grabbed her glass before I could reach it.
“So,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” I said, my voice flat. “Can’t you tell by the overwhelming crowd?”
“It is opening night. People do not know you yet, precious boy.”
“And I didn’t need a doctor to diagnose that problem.”
“Hey!” Jacks deposited Priya’s glass in the bin at the end of the bar and bounded over with that golden retriever energy he seemed to have in infinite supply. “Priya, right? Finn’s told me about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” Priya said, shaking his hand.
“He said you’re a doctor and the smartest person he knows.”
“Well, he can be correct on occasion.” She smirked at Jacks, then tossed me a wink. “This is a great space. Really nice setup.”
“Thanks. Finn’s been obsessing over every detail.”
“I am aware. I live with him.”
A pair of local actors showed up around 9:30 with a group of theater friends, which helped fill the space a little more.
They were loud and enthusiastic and exactly the kind of energy we needed.
One of the men made a big show of ordering the “gayest drink you can make,” which resulted in me creating something blue and sparkly that he proclaimed was “perfect” and “very on-brand.”
But by ten o’clock, the crowd had thinned.
The game was over. The Lightning had won, thank God, and people were starting to leave.
I found myself slouched over the bar, staring at nothing, while Mark stood beside me doing the same.
“I think we forgot to promote the place,” I said.
“No shit,” Mark replied.
We stood there in silence for a moment.
“We should do something,” I said. “Social media, maybe? Maya posted those three times—”
“Three times isn’t going to cut it.”
“We could do flyers. Pass them out in Ybor. Some of the other bars might help us out. I know the bookstore down the street would.”
Mark shrugged. “That sounds kind of old school, but it could work.”
“Or we could—”
The door opened. We both looked up.
A man shuffled in, and I straightened, ready to make this customer feel welcome even if he was only the twentieth person we’d seen all night.
Then my eyes narrowed.
And my brain short-circuited.
The guy was young, late twenties, and was wearing a rumpled blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a loosened tie that was askew like he’d tugged at it throughout the day.
His dirty blond hair stuck up in ways that somehow looked both messy and neat, though I doubted it was the look he was going for.
Something about it screamed “stressed-out hair pulling” more than “stylishly distressed.” Under one arm, he carried a stack of papers that looked one strong breeze away from exploding everywhere.
He looked exhausted.
He looked stressed.
He looked like the man who’d slammed into me on the sidewalk three weeks ago, the lawyer whose name I hadn’t asked, the body-checker with the hazel eyes and the five-o’clock shadow and the adorably apologetic smile.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking around the bar the same way every other customer had—taking in the TVs, the booths, and the general vibe.
For a second, I thought he might turn around and leave like some of the others.
Instead, he headed straight for a booth in the corner, slid in, and started spreading his papers across the table like he was setting up a temporary office.
“Finn?” Mark said.
I didn’t respond.
“Finn.” Mark nudged me. “You okay?”
“That’s him,” I managed.
“Him who?” Priya craned her neck to follow my gaze.
“The guy from the street, the one I told you about. The body-checker.”
Mark’s head whipped up so fast I was surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash. He stared at the blond in the corner booth, then looked back at me, then at the man again.
“Holy shit,” he said. “He’s hot.”
“So hot,” Priya agreed.
“Yeah,” I sighed, sounding like a lovesick puppy.
“Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to go take his order?” Mark nudged my arm.
“I’m going to stand here.”
“Finn.” Priya used her annoyed Indian mother’s voice.
“What if he doesn’t remember me?”
“Then you introduce yourself like a normal person,” Priya said.
“What if he does remember me and thinks I’m a stalker?”
“How would you be a stalker? He walked into your bar,” Mark said.
“Our bar,” I corrected.
“Semantics.” Mark put his hands on my shoulders and spun me toward the booth. He’d become handsy and bossy since becoming my partner. “Go. Flirt. Take his order. Do something besides stand here having an identity crisis.”
“I don’t know how to flirt.”
“You are Irish. Just talk. Your accent will do the rest,” Priya said.
I gave her stank eye. “Said the woman with the curry-flavored accent.”
“He would think I offered him a slushie. You will make him swoon.” She gave me a toothy smile. “Now go before I rain holy murder on your pretty red head.”
Mark snorted behind me.
Traitor.
I took a step forward.
Then another.
Before I knew it, I was walking across the bar toward the corner booth, my heart doing something complicated in my chest, my hands sweaty, and my brain providing zero useful information about what I was supposed to say.
The man was absorbed in his papers, his brow furrowed in concentration, one hand holding a pen that he was using to make notes in the margins.
I stopped at the edge of the table.
“Welcome to Barbacks,” I said, my voice coming out steadier than I felt. “I’m Finn.”
He looked up.
Our eyes met.
And I forgot how to breathe.