Chapter 13
Finn
Iblinked at the ceiling fan. It was seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. I should’ve been sound asleep, enjoying a lazy moment’s peace. Instead, all I could do was stare with the unfortunate knowledge that I wasn’t going back to sleep.
Possibly ever.
My brain was spinning faster than the big wheel on The Price is Right, running through lists, thinking through things to check or prep, fussing over every minute detail that could go wrong.
By the time I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen, Priya was already dressed in her scrubs with her white lab coat draped over the back of a chair.
She stood at the counter, coffee mug in one hand, phone in the other, sipping as though the burned bean water was the only thing keeping her upright.
“You look how I feel,” she said without looking up from her phone.
“Thanks.”
“That was not a compliment.” She glanced at me over the rim of her mug. “Big day?”
“Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.” I grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured myself coffee. “What if no one shows up?”
“Then you will have a quiet Sunday and try again next week.”
“What if everyone shows up and we can’t handle it?”
She set down her mug and gave me a look. “Dear one, you are spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling. I’m preparing for multiple scenarios.”
“That is spiraling with extra steps.” She set her mug in the sink, stepped around the counter, and grabbed her lab coat.
“Finn, listen to me. You have done the work, Mark is scattering the flyers, and you have Rod making amazing food. You have assembled a solid team; now you must trust in your planning.”
“I’m not good at trust.”
“I had no idea.” Her eyes rolled as she donned her coat and grabbed her brown bag lunch. “Just breathe and enjoy the day. Whatever happens, happens.”
“That’s terrible advice.”
“It is excellent advice and you know it.” She headed for the door, then paused and looked back. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
Her smile grew wide. “You’ve got this.”
Then she was gone, leaving me alone in the apartment with my coffee and anxiety and six hours before the Lightning game started.
Six hours.
What was I supposed to do with six hours?
I checked my phone. 9:04 a.m.
Mark had spent hours shoving flyers under windshield wipers last night. He and Jacks were planning to hit the streets again this morning, but they weren’t meeting until 9:30.
Rod wasn’t due at the bar until eleven to start prep and finalize his special menu.
The bar didn’t open until two—earlier than our usual 4 p.m., but still so many hours away.
“I should go to the gym,” I said to the television I hadn’t turned on. “Work off some of this nervous energy, lift weights until my arms are too tired to shake.”
I pulled up the gym’s hours on my phone.
It opened at 6 a.m.
I could be there in twenty minutes.
I stared at the screen.
Then I put my phone down and drained the rest of my coffee.
Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to the gym. I was going to the bar, because sitting in my apartment for three more hours would drive me insane.
At least at the bar I could do something.
I could check things, prep things, make sure everything was perfect even though it was already as perfect as it was going to get.
I was out the door by 9:15, travel mug in hand, keys jangling in my pocket, and a gajillion scenarios playing on loop in my head.
The bar was silent.
Empty.
With only me, morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sound of my flip-flops smacking against pavement.
I unlocked the door, hit the lights, and stood in the middle of the floor.
What now?
The TVs. I should set up the TVs.
I grabbed the remotes and started turning them on, one by one, making sure they were all tuned to the right channels.
Pre-game coverage was already starting even though the game wasn’t until three.
Talking heads discussing line-ups and predictions and whether the Lightning could pull off a win against the Panthers.
I adjusted the volume on each TV, making sure they were loud enough to hear but not so loud they’d drown out conversation.
Then I checked the angles.
Then I went from booth to booth to make sure every seat in the bar had a clear view of at least one screen.
I moved behind the bar and started checking stock.
Beer was cold in the coolers—check.
Liquor bottles were all full—check.
Garnishes prepped—check.
Jacks had done his job. Glassware was clean and stacked—check.
Everything was ready.
Which meant I had nothing to do.
So I wiped down the bar, straightened the coasters, and adjusted a stack of napkins.
When the napkin tower was perfectly straight, I stepped back and checked my phone.
It was 9:47 a.m.
I’d been here for seventeen minutes and already run out of things to do.
This was going to be a long morning.
I strode over to the windows and looked out at the street.
A few people were walking by—couples heading to brunch, families with strollers, one lone guy doing the “walk of shame,” heading home from a bar he’d closed down—or, more likely, staggering home from his latest hookup.
The guy’s shirt was half untucked, so I guessed it was the latter.
It was the usual Sunday morning Ybor crowd.
None of them looked at the bar.
None of them seemed to notice we existed.
My stomach twisted.
What if the flyers didn’t work? What if no one came? What if we’d spent money we didn’t have on printing and promotion and it was all for nothing?
I checked my phone again. 9:48 a.m.
From the back, I heard a door creak open. Then Rod’s voice called out, “Finn? You here?”
“Yeah,” I called back, walking toward the kitchen. “You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d come in, get a head start on prep.” By the time I stepped through the kitchen door, he was already tying on his apron, surveying his station with the focused intensity of a general preparing for battle. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” Rod pulled out a cutting board and started laying out ingredients. “Go do something. You’re making me nervous just standing there.”
“I don’t have anything to do. Everything’s ready.”
“Then go reorganize the liquor bottles by height or count the ice cubes or something. Just stop hovering.”
I was being dismissed from my own kitchen in my own bar.
I went back to the floor and stared at the liquor bottles. They were already organized. Alphabetically. By type. Mark had done it last week, and it was perfect.
I checked my phone. 9:52 a.m.
This was torture.
A knock on the front door made me jump.
I looked up to find three guys standing outside, peering through the glass. They looked to be in their early twenties, maybe. One was wearing a Lightning jersey, another had a Bolts cap, and the third was just smiling and waving like a friendly golden retriever.
People.
There were actual people.
At 9:52 in the morning.
I walked over and unlocked the door. “Hey, sorry, we don’t open until noon—”
“We know!” Lightning Jersey said, his enthusiasm as immediate and overwhelming as the gust of hot Tampa air blasting through the doorway. “We saw the flyers. Lightning watch party, right? We wanted to get here early to snag good seats before it gets packed. You guys do Sunday brunch, don’t you?”
“Packed,” I repeated, the word not quite computing. I’d completely missed the Sunday brunch question.
“Yeah, man. Your flyers are all over Ybor. Everyone’s talking about it.” Bolts Cap grinned. “Plus, we heard the food here is insane. So we figured, why not come early, get brunch, camp out for the game?”
Brunch.
We weren’t planning to serve bunch. Or even lunch.
Rod was in the kitchen prepping for the 3 p.m. game and the 8 p.m. watch party, not for people who wanted to eat at ten in the morning.
“Uh,” I said eloquently. “Come in. Let me—I need to check with the kitchen, see if they can whip something together.”
They filed in, gravitating toward a table with a perfect view of the main TV, our one super-large screen that consumed an entire wall. The guys were loud, talking over each other, laughing, and radiating the kind of energy that made the empty bar feel less empty just by their presence.
I speed-walked to the kitchen.
Rod was at the stove, working on something that already smelled incredible. He looked up when I came in, one eyebrow raised.
“Three guys just showed up,” I said. “For brunch. Can we even do brunch?”
Rod blinked. “Uh, Finn, you know we don’t even have a brunch menu, right?”
“I know, and I told them that. They said they wanted to get here early for the game.” I was talking fast, my heart doing something complicated. “They saw the flyers and . . . Rod . . . they’re excited! Can we feed them?”
A slow smile spread across Rod’s face. “Holy shit. The flyers worked.”
“Maybe? I don’t know. There’s only three of them so far—”
“So far.” Rod turned back to his prep. “Yeah, I can do brunch. Give me fifteen minutes to adjust timing on the specials. In the meantime, we’ve got the regular menu.
Burgers, wings, apps. Tell them that. You’ll have to go get eggs if they want breakfast dishes.
I won’t have enough for brunch and the rest of the day. ”
“Okay. Okay, yeah. Eggs. Got it.” I was backing toward the door. “Thank you.”
“Finn.”
I froze.
“This is good,” Rod said. “People showing up early? That’s a good sign.”
I wanted to believe him.
I went back to the floor, ready to tell the three guys about the menu options—
And stopped, jaw open, eyes blinking rapidly at something my brain failed to comprehend.
Two more guys had come in.
They were a couple, maybe mid-thirties. I assumed they were together because they’d settled into a booth and were holding hands across the tabletop while looking around with the curiosity of people discovering something new.
“Sorry,” one of them called out. “The door was unlocked. You’re doing brunch, right?”
“Hell, yeah, they are,” Lightning jersey called from across the bar.
“We—” I looked at the three guys already seated, then back at the couple in the booth. A quick peek at my watch said 9:58 a.m. “Yeah, absolutely. Best brunch in town, coming right up!”
The couple smiled.
The three Lightning fans cheered.
And I stood there in the middle of the floor, baffled, excited, and wondering if maybe—just maybe—the flyers had actually worked.
Five people.
We had five people in the bar before 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning, more than five hours before the game even started, four hours before our scheduled opening.
My phone buzzed.
Beard of Knowledge: Finished with flyers. Heading back. How’s setup going?
Me: 69 69 69 69 69 FUCKING 69!!!
Beard of Knowledge: Oh shit, what happened? The bar didn’t burn down or anything? We have insurance, but still . . .
Me: We have people. In the bar. Wanting food.
Beard of Knowledge: It’s not even ten o’clock.
Me: I know! There’s five people, one group of three and a couple. They’re here for Sunday brunch and the game.
Beard of Knowledge: Sunday brunch? Did you add brunch to the schedule while you were asleep last night?
Me: No! But Rod says he can do it, so we’re doing it. Fuck me. We’re doing it!!!
Beard of Knowledge: THAT’S AMAZING.
Me: Rod needs eggs. Grab some on your way in?
Beard of Knowledge: Eggs. Got it. Be there in 15.
I pocketed my phone and looked around the bar.
For the briefest moment, a hint of pride poked like rays of sunlight through stormy clouds. I felt myself grinning as I walked over to the first table—Lightning Jersey and his friends—and pulled out my notepad.
“Welcome to Barbacks,” I said, and this time, my smile felt genuine. “We don’t have a brunch menu yet, so we’ll have to play it by ear. What can I get you guys?”