JOSIE
When I walk into Carrigan’s Tavern, a bar on Burnville’s west side, I notice her right away. That girl with blue hair is like a strobe light shining in the darkness.
I had dinner at work, in my office-slash-storage room, then stayed until closing. I should’ve gone home, but Grandma texted around nine saying she was going to bed, so I decided to stop for a nightcap. I haven’t had a night out having fun since the night in Pittsburgh that turned into a disaster.
The girl with blue hair is behind the bar, all business. A bunch of men already take up most of the seats around the half-moon bar counter, and she only gives me a glance when I take one of the bar stools at the very edge of the counter, my back to the door.
“What can I get you?” the blue-haired girl asks as she opens a beer and slides it to Mikey, a local who used to work at the factory.
I know half of the people at the bar from growing up here.
Grams used to own a bar, long before my time, before she went away.
Most people know my grandmother, what happened at her bar, whether they believe the official story or not.
“A margarita,” I say. “On the rocks, with salt.”
The bartender tosses her head, making her blue braids swing over one of her shoulders.
Mikey nods to me. Todd, on the other side of the bar, waves. He’s wearing a flannel over a T-shirt with paint splatter. He works construction, so a flannel over work clothes is a way to dress up for the night.
My phone dings with a message notification. It’s my friend Savannah from Pittsburgh.
Savannah: How’s life in the deep country, babe? When r you coming back?
I wish I knew. I wish I were coming back. But that would mean—
Me: Don’t know.
She sends a sad smiley in response. She knows that my coming back would mean my grandmother is gone.
And I don’t want to think about that. I wish Grandma would get better, go into remission.
If she did get better, I wouldn’t know if I’d even have the guts to leave her on her own—not that it’s a possibility since she refuses treatment.
This is why my conversations with all my Pittsburgh friends are more seldom these days.
I don’t like being reminded of what I left and why I’m here.
The bartender sets the drink in front of me. “Give it a try, let me know if you like it. I can tweak it,” she says, all businesslike.
She’s a bit taller than me. Slimmer too. I notice that she has triple piercings in both her ears. Her wrists are adorned with leather bracelets and charms. Neon nail polish. Jeans. Noon Goons T-shirt over a black long-sleeved shirt. Surfer? Skater? Musician? I want to know more.
She arches her brow. “You gonna try or you gonna stare?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I take a sip, and there’s no argument—it’s undoubtedly the best margarita I’ve ever tried in Burnville. “It’s good.”
“Yeah? Enjoy.”
“You’re not from here,” I say, but she turns away and asks a woman at the counter if she wants a refill.
When she brings the woman’s beer, she curtly responds, “No,” to me, then walks away to the other side of the counter.
She’s busy. The next time she walks by, I try to start a conversation again. “Where’s Michelle?”
Michelle and Julie have been the only bartenders in the two months I’ve been coming here.
I went to school with Michelle. She’s now divorced, with two kids, a mortgage on a small house somewhere in the boonies, and a court case fighting her ex for child support—the ex we all went to school with. Yeah, this is Burnville.
“She’s off,” the bartender says passing by.
“I haven’t ever seen you here,” I say.
She’s about to walk away, but she stops, sets her hands on the counter, and leans in, her eyes locked with mine. “No shit, Sherlock.”
She walks away again, leaving behind a trace of her woodsy incense. I wonder where she’s from. No one around here can braid hair like that, and judging by the intricate pattern at her scalp, with blue strings woven into it, she didn’t do it herself.
Someone starts playing music on the jukebox. Meat Loaf—it must have been Mikey. For some time, I absently sip my drink, watching the new girl. It’s either her or the sports channel on the TV hanging in the corner, or having the same old conversations with the old-timers I know.
When my drink is empty, I order another one, making sure to talk to the bartender again.
“So where are you from?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t walk away this time.
“Florida.”
“Oh, nice. What are you doing in Burnville?”
“Hiding,” she says with a smirk.
Aren’t we all?
I lose her again and sip on my second drink that tastes even better. I should slow down. I’m driving. In this town, the police don’t stalk bars, but I don’t want to take a chance.
Except the drink is delicious, and I can’t take my eyes off the new girl. She looks like a city girl, which makes me cheer on the inside that I’m not the only one who slid down the wrong path and ended up in this area.
The door opens behind my back. When the man walks past me, his expensive cologne makes me sniff on reflex and turn my head. Dark hair, dark eyes, sharp features. He’s wearing a gray knee-length coat—a clear giveaway that he’s not a local. A neat V-neck cashmere sweater underneath it. Black jeans.
Two months in Burnville, and my eyes are already trained to spot the out-of-towners or visitors. Foreigners are rare. Handsome men especially.
So I do what the other people sitting at the bar do—I stare. Mind you, it’s not a crime in small towns, it’s a trouble-detector.
The door opens again, and I hear the familiar “Hey, you.”
I turn to see Andy, a guy I’ve chatted to several times. He’s from the city, moved here for a job. Fresh blood, as they say.
Andy notices all the occupied chairs next to me. “Wanna come hang at one of the tables?” he offers.
“In a moment.”
Disappointment crosses his face, but then he waves to someone at one of the tables and walks off. Good.
Though he’s handsome, tonight I’m in the mood to find out more about the new girl.