Chapter 6
WILLOW
Sunday evenings are slower than molasses. The lunch rush after church is busy but light on bar work, so I spent most of that time helping Olivia. I’m nowhere near the waitress she is, but I can run food when Ilene dings her bell.
Now, as the clock on the wall approaches six, I’m beyond bored and desperate for something, anything to do because I can see my own reflection in the bar after the number of times I’ve wiped it down.
“Unc, what can I prep for this week? Or need me to deep clean anything? Sort the paperwork into the file cabinet?”
He looks over from the table where he, Richard, and a guy who introduced himself as Doc are sitting and drinking a beer.
As I suspected, neither of the guys paid, but Unc doesn’t seem to mind the loss of revenue to friends.
Richard is nursing his first Miller draft, Doc’s on his second Budweiser can, and Unc has another bottle of that craft beer he prefers.
“Willow, you’ve been buzzing around like a hopped-up bee on crack. Sit down and relax, for God’s sake. You’re making me jumpy.” He pushes out the fourth chair at their table in invitation.
I perch on the edge of the chair, still wanting to work, but as soon as I stop moving, the tiredness washes through me and I feel just how heavy my feet have become.
“I just want to help, earn my keep, you know?” I tell Unc. “It’s one thing for the owner to sit around on his ass, another for an employee to do it when she’s on the clock.”
Richard smiles, flashing his slightly yellowed teeth.
“Hey, Olivia, whatcha doing?” he calls over to where she’s sitting in a booth with her feet up and crossed at the ankles.
She can see the front door, but we haven’t had a real customer in almost an hour and she’s already done all her side work, stuffing sugar packets into the bins on the table, filling salt and pepper containers, and deep cleaning the coffee machine.
She lifts her eyes from her phone to answer, “Talking to Hannah. You need something?” She makes zero move to get up.
Richard shakes his head. “Nope, you just proved my point. Thanks.” To me, he says, “See, Olivia’s on the clock and she’s chitter-chattering away with her girl. She look anxious about that?”
I glance over and see that Olivia is smiling at her glowing screen at something Hannah said, not a care or concern in the world with doing that while she’s supposed to be working.
Unc lowers his voice, leaning in to me, “Ain’t her fault we aren’t busy. She’s guaranteed forty hours and she works ‘em, whether I need her or not. Sure as shit, someone comes in, she’ll hop up and take care of ’em like she’s s’posed to.”
I know he’s right. I’m just used to buzzing around, being busy. Being in the city, there’s always something going on. This slower pace of life is . . . different.
I like it, I think. It’s just going to take me some time to get used to.
Doc drops his beer can to the table with a thud. “I got a question. Hank tells me you take pictures and sell them on the interwebs, but not portraits and such. I ain’t never heard such a thing. People pay for pictures that aren’t their kids or their dogs?”
I laugh. It’s a generational thing. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.
I do photography—portraits and commercial stuff when I get a client.
But mostly, I get paid from my social media account, which is monetized because of the number of followers I have.
For that, I take random shots of my day, usually close-ups with short captions, and post them.
People check in and see what I’m up to.”
Three sets of scrunched brows meet my explanation so I try again.
I pull out my phone, click into my social media app, and show them. “See, here’s today . . . my morning cup of coffee, a stoplight over Main Street, the parking lot out front, and a shot of the neon reflecting off the spotless bar.”
I click into each picture, pointing out the number of hearts and comments. “The more people who look at the pictures, like them, and comment, the more money I get.”
Doc moves his glasses down his nose and leans in closer to focus on my phone. “That’s a job? Those pictures are real nice, I guess, but you can’t even see you in them. Or anyone. It’s . . . a cup of coffee.” He shrugs, and I can’t help but giggle a little.
“I know, it’s different. People are curious creatures by nature.
We like to see what other people’s lives are like, so I show them mine.
It lets me do photography, stay anonymous, and make a living.
Well, that plus ‘working’ behind the bar.
” I do air quotes around the ‘working’ as I look at Unc because I’m still sitting on my butt, talking instead of helping.
The sound of gravel crunching out front breaks up my TED talk on creative ways to turn hobbies into careers. I hop up, pointing at the three guys, asking if they want another round, but they all decline. “Nah, we’ve got a game to get to. Sunday night poker. Hank’s turn to host.”
“Don’t go too hard on him, fellas. Payday’s coming and I’ve got my eye on a new lens filter for my camera.” I smile and swoop behind the bar as Olivia pockets her phone and goes to greet the next round of customers.
The dinner rush is more of a trickle, but it gives me something to focus on as I make drinks for Olivia.
I add a couple of cherries and a dash of grenadine to some Sprites for a family with two little girls, delivering their Princess Punch to delighted giggles.
A few beers here and there, but mostly, I pull soft drinks and sweet tea to accompany the food the few tables order from Ilene.
Unc leaves with Richard and Doc, heading to their weekly game. I’m glad he’s got friends, and now that I’m here as bar backup, they can play earlier because I can close up. It’s the least I can do, but I’m willing to do so much more. Anything I can to help him.
The door opens, and I automatically look over to see who our latest customer is. I find . . . Bobby Tannen filling the doorway.
Whew, boy, he looks good! Good and . . . determined.
He’s got on a black T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps, dark-wash jeans slung low on his hips with a black belt laced through the loops, and black cowboy boots that look like they’ve seen a lot of dance floors and very few pastures.
I realize something . . . he’s dressed up, like for a date. This is fancy Bobby.
A stone settles in my stomach, knowing I’ll have to watch him have dinner with whoever he’s going out with tonight. Maybe she’s still outside? Or he’s meeting her here?
But I’m not surprised. A guy like that must go on dates every night of the week, probably with a different woman each time, judging by how many were throwing him come-hither looks.
And fine, also by the fact that even I almost fell for it, wanting to meet his kiss when he moved in closer.
Luckily, sanity reigned supreme because that whole ‘you’re special’ thing was straight out of ‘How to Hit on Chicks at Bars 101’.
In other words, no thanks, Bucko. Any interest I’d harbored had floated away like smoke.
Until I see him standing in the door and that sour taste climbs the back of my throat. Jealousy? Of his potential date?
Yeah, that’s what that feeling is. On the bright side, maybe I can get an up-close look at what a guy like him goes for. I’m thinking a pretty, blonde, cheerleader type. I don’t say that to be bitchy, more like my observations of life have led me to believe that’s how it always works.
And that’s what I expect . . . right up until the moment he walks over to the bar and sits down. Right in front of me.
Oh, I might be in trouble here.
Olivia is dancing around behind Bobby, eyes huge and mouth silently screaming ‘yessss!’ and ‘get him, girl!’ while she does some version of a pelvic thrust I think is supposed to be sexy but mostly just looks like she’s humping empty air.
I drag my eyes back to Bobby, who’s smirking like he can guess exactly what I’m looking at behind him and gives zero fucks. “Hey, Willow.”
Grit and gravel, no honey to smooth the roughness of his voice. I swear it vibrates through my skin and muscles and straight to my core.
“Hey, Bobby.” See? Playing it cool here. No big deal. Just another customer, like any other. “What can I get ya? Jack? Or is it a beer night?”
“Sweet tea, please.”
Hmm, unexpected and interesting.
I set a glass in front of him, watching as he fishes out the lemon wedge and squeezes it into the drink. “Dinner?” I ask, holding a menu between us like a shield. “Or are you waiting on someone?”
I lick my lips, wishing I could chase those words back and swallow them down. Why did I ask that? It makes me sound needy, like one of his groupies. Which I’m not. Nope, not a bit.
“Yep. What time’s your dinner break?” he drawls out slowly. But it’s not casual. If anything, the speed makes his intention clearer.
Me? Me. He really is here for me. He’s dressed up like walking sex for me. The very idea is almost laughable.
“Oh, I don’t really get one. I’ll grab something later.” That’s the truth, but also, I’m trying to put some distance between us. I’m not sure what to do with him, with this intensity, with this directness.
I wipe down the spotless bar aimlessly, quiet and waiting. He came here for a reason and will spill eventually. I can be patient.
He watches me again, eyes tracking me closely. After a solid five minutes of silence, which feels like an eternity, he looks over his shoulder. “Hey, Olivia?”
She’s been watching from a booth with some folks she must know because she’s sitting down with them, all four sets of their eyes on Bobby and me too. “Yeah?”