Chapter 9 Jacks
Jacks
The ice machine was making that noise again. It wasn’t the normal hum of a functioning appliance doing its job. This was a grinding death rattle that suggested imminent mechanical failure and a very expensive repair bill in Mark’s future.
“Come on,” I muttered, jamming the bucket under the dispenser. “Work with me here.”
The machine groaned as ice trickled out in a pathetic stream, maybe a quarter of what I needed.
“Is broken again?” Rod’s voice floated over from the grill where he was plating a burger with the precision of a surgeon performing open-heart surgery.
“I tell Mark three times, buy new machine. He says, ‘Rod, is fine, just needs adjustment.’ Adjustment.” He snorted.
“Machine needs funeral, not adjustment.”
Rod had been the Barbacks head chef since opening day.
Brazilian by birth and classically trained, he possessed opinions about American kitchen equipment that he shared freely and often.
His English was excellent, though heavily accented, and when he got worked up, his syntax had a tendency to rearrange itself in creative, often unintentionally dyslexic ways.
“Maybe if we’re nice to it, it’ll cooperate,” I said, giving the machine a hopeful stroke. “Come on, baby. Ice for me. You know you want to.”
“You cannot sex a machine, Jacks. Is not whore boy. Is metal and sadness.”
“Metal and sadness. How poetic,” I deadpanned, earning a lopsided grin as he placed the bun on top of his work of art.
“I am poet of kitchen. Also philosopher. Also, man who must make food with equipment from nineteen hundred, perhaps before.” He slid the plate onto the pass and dinged the bell.
“Order up. Table six. Extra pickle, no onion, which is crime against burger, but customer is always right, even when customer is wrong.”
I abandoned the ice machine to run the plate out to the floor, banging through the double doors before weaving through our modest Friday night crowd. The bar wasn’t packed, but we were steady. It was the kind of night where we stayed busy without wanting to die.
When I returned to the kitchen, Rod was already working on the next ticket, his hands moving with the unconscious grace that came from decades of practice.
“So,” he said without looking up, “you hear about Benji’s new disaster?”
“Which one? He has so many.”
“The man from internet. The one who collects the toes.”
“Toenails. And yeah, I heard. Multiple jars, apparently.”
Rod shuddered. “This is why I stay married thirty years. Dating now is horror movie. Better to keep wife you have than find new one with jars of body parts.”
“That’s beautiful, Rod. You should write greeting cards.”
“I write cookbook. Publisher say is too angry. I say food should make you feel things.” He flipped something in a pan with a casual flick of his wrist. “You have girlfriend, Jacks? Boyfriend? Someone to keep you from the toe collectors?”
“Nope. Flying solo.”
“Is waste. You are good-looking boy, have job, still have all your toes attached to feet where they belong. You should find someone.”
“I’ll add it to my to-do list, right after fixing the ice machine.”
“Ice machine cannot be fixed. Only mourned.”
I laughed and returned to my battle with the dispenser. After another minute of coaxing, it coughed up enough ice to fill the bucket.
“Got it,” I announced.
“Is miracle. Alert the Pope,” Rod said without looking up from one of his deep-fried concoctions.
“You’re in a mood tonight.”
“I am in mood every night. Is called being artist.” Rod pointed his spatula at me. “Now go. Take ice to bar. Master needs peace to create.”
“Yes, chef.”
“Do not ‘yes, chef’ me.” His spatula waving grew violent, though he smiled as he spoke. “I am not fancy restaurant. I am man making sliders for drunk gays, possibly high, probably both.”
I shouldered through the kitchen door, ice bucket clutched to my chest, ready to restock and get back into the rhythm of the night and shake off Rod’s witticisms.
I made two strides before my entire body froze.
And I saw him.
Skyler Shaw was sitting at the bar.
Alone.
His shoulders hunched as he stared into a whiskey glass like it held the secrets of the universe.
I nearly dropped the bucket, catching it at the last second, ice sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
The kitchen had kept me buried for the last hour, and I’d assumed tonight would be uneventful, a regular Friday that featured neither hockey nor baseball, with a moderate crowd and nothing noteworthy.
I’d assumed wrong.
Finn appeared at my elbow, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “He came in about twenty minutes ago, ordered a Macallan neat and hasn’t said much since. That’s his second one.”
“Jesus. Is he okay?”
“It’s hard to tell. He’s not drunk, but he’s not cheerful either.” Finn glanced at the ice bucket in my hands. “Set that down. Benji and I can handle the floor. Go check on him.”
“Me? Why me?”
Finn gave me a look that suggested I was being deliberately obtuse. “Because he asked if you were working tonight—by name—and because you’re the one he keeps coming back to see.”
“He doesn’t come back to see me. He comes back for the sliders.”
“Jacks.” Finn’s voice was patient in that way that meant he was running out of patience. “Go talk to him. Figure out what’s wrong. That’s an order from your boss, if it helps.”
It didn’t help, but I handed him the bucket and went anyway.
I made my way around the bar, trying to look casual. Skyler didn’t notice my approach. He was still staring at his drink, turning the glass between his palms.
“Hey.”
He looked up.
For a second, something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or relief. It was gone before I could identify it.
“Hey.” His voice was rougher than usual. “Didn’t know if you’d be here tonight.”
“Where else would I be? This place would fall apart without me.”
That got a small, tight smile. “Finn might disagree.”
“Finn’s been in denial about how essential I am since day one.” I nodded toward the whiskey. “Rough night?”
Skyler laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Something like that.”
I waited.
Sometimes people needed space to talk.
Sometimes they needed a push.
With Skyler, I wasn’t sure which one applied, so I split the difference.
“You wanna grab a booth? They’re a lot more comfortable than these stools, and I’m officially on break.”
He hesitated, glancing around the bar like he was checking for paparazzi or teammates or whatever famous people worried about when they were caught looking less than perfect in public.
“It’s also a little more private,” I said, glancing around the same path his gaze had traveled.
“Private, right,” he said. “Yeah, sounds good.”
I led him to a booth in the back corner, the one with the torn vinyl seat that Mark kept meaning to fix. It was tucked away from the main floor, offering a small semblance of privacy that the rest of the bar didn’t have.
Skyler slid in across from me, setting his whiskey on the table between us. In the dim light, he looked tired—not just tired, but the bone-deep kind that sleep couldn’t fix.
“So,” I said. “You want to talk about it, or do you want me to distract you with more Space Duke updates?”
“There are more Space Duke updates?”
“Benji’s been tracking him on social media. Apparently he’s now claiming to have invented a type of sustainable energy that involves glue and battery acid. I didn’t get the details.”
“Of course he has.”
“Also, he may or may not be a secret member of Mensa.”
“Naturally.”
Skyler’s smile was a little more genuine this time, but it faded quickly. He took a sip of his whiskey and set the glass down with more care than necessary.
“I had a date tonight,” he said.
Something in my chest tightened, but I ignored it.
“Yeah? How’d that go?”
“She broke up with me.”
I blinked. “Oh. Shit. I’m sorry, man.”
“Don’t be. She was right to do it. She said I wasn’t present, that part of me was always somewhere else.” He traced a finger around the rim of his glass. “She was right. I’ve been distracted for weeks, and I couldn’t even tell her why because, fuck, I don’t even know why.”
What was I supposed to say to that?
The tightness in my chest shifted into something else, something I didn’t want to examine too closely.
“For what it’s worth,” I offered, “she sounds like a smart person. Most people wouldn’t be that honest.”
“She is smart. She’s great, actually. Funny, successful, beautiful.” Skyler shook his head. “I should have been crazy about her.”
“But?”
“But I didn’t feel a thing. I mean, I liked her. I enjoyed spending time with her, but that thing you’re supposed to feel when you’re with someone you’re dating? That spark, or whatever? It . . . wasn’t there.”
He looked up at me, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe. His eyes were searching, confused, like he was hoping I might have answers he couldn’t find himself.
“Is that weird?” he asked. “To be with someone who’s objectively great and feel nothing romantic?”
“I’m no expert, but I think chemistry is either there or it isn’t. You can’t force it.”
“But why isn’t it there? What’s wrong with me?” He groaned. “I keep asking myself that. Brooke’s not the first, either. The last few women I’ve dated, it was the same thing. Everything looked right and felt fine, but fine isn’t ever enough, you know? Fine is just . . . going through the motions.”
“Maybe you’re worn out. Your season’s long, and you’re under a lot of pressure. It’s hard to have room for romance when hockey’s eating your whole brain.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I don’t know. I feel like something’s off, like there’s a piece missing and I can’t figure out what it is.”
I knew that feeling, the sense of being out of alignment with your own life, like a picture frame hanging crooked on a wall. I’d felt it for years before I figured out what was causing it.
But that was my story. Not his.