Chapter 4
I know. But I am.
I stared at him. He stared back.
He had curiosity in his eyes. I knew that look.
I'd seen it in too many men's eyes, including the eyes of the deadbeat asshole who'd told me he loved me a week before he flew to Phoenix.
That look didn't belong to me. That look was a wager somebody else was placing without my permission, and I wasn't interested in being a horse in this race.
“What are you playing at? What are you doing here? What are you hoping to gain from this?”
He raised both hands off the bar. "Whoa. All at once? Slow down, sweetie."
I frowned. "Don't call me that."
"Fine. I won't." He set his hands flat on the bar again. "And to answer your question—I'm not playing at anything. Just thought I'd get a drink from the best bartender in the city."
Now I was worried.
He was giving me compliments. Compliments. What does this man want? What does this man, whose foundation has my daughter on a list, want from me right now after his father just collapsed in his arms in the middle of a wine—
A customer raised a hand at the second stool.
I turned. "What can I get you?"
"Bourbon, neat."
"Brand?"
"Whatever's open."
I poured the bourbon. I set it on a coaster. I took the card. I rang it. I came back.
Beau was watching me the whole time. He hadn't moved. His elbow was still on the bar, his eyes still on me. The corner of his mouth lifted as I came back into his line of sight. I tried not to notice.
"I was here first," he said. "Won't you take my order?"
I set my elbow on the bar across from his and gave him my sweetest smile. "I'm only attending to serious customers, sweetie."
His mouth twitched. "Touché."
"Are you ready to place your order, Mr. Cross?"
"I'll take a—"
I glared at him.
He stopped mid-word. He looked up at me—right at me, not at the bar between us, not over my shoulder, at me—and laughed.
His head went back. His throat moved. The laugh came out of him loud enough that the woman two stools over turned her head with the offended look of a person trying to enjoy her chardonnay in peace.
He brought one hand up between us, palm out to me, in surrender.
The other hand he pressed against his chest like the laugh had hit him there.
He shook his head once and dropped both hands back to the bar.
"Whatever you recommend."
"Smart man."
I made him an old fashioned. I made it well, because being a professional means you make the drink correctly even when you'd prefer to send the customer home with food poisoning. I slid it across.
He picked it up, took a slow sip, and his eyebrows moved up.
"This is excellent."
I didn't comment.
I watched him take the second sip. Shadows under his eyes. Faint stubble on his jaw. The same shirt, the same loose top buttons, no tie. He hadn't been home.
"How's your dad?"
The question was out of my mouth before I'd decided to ask it.
He paused mid-sip.
He set the glass down very carefully. For half a second, he stayed exactly where he was. Then he came back.
"He's still in the hospital."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
He nodded.
"Yeah. Thanks." He picked the glass up again. He held it. "But enough about me. Tell me, how long have you been a bartender?"
"That's not what's going on here, Mr. Cross. We're not having a conversation."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to."
"Well." He took a sip, slow. "I want to. I want to talk to you all night."
I wiped my hands on the bar towel. I didn't look at him. I was running out of reasons not to look at him.
"Will you shut up if I make you another drink?"
He nodded.
I made him a second old fashioned. I slid it across. I went down the bar to take a Manhattan order from a woman three stools down. I rang her up. I came back to the speed rail and started restocking the wells, and I let myself believe, for half a minute, that the second drink had bought me peace.
"I'll take a guess."
I closed my eyes for one second.
"Five years."
"What?"
"Bartending. Five years."
"Mr. Cross—"
"Eight, then."
My eye twitched. I felt it. Why won't this man just leave me alone?
"You said you'd shut up."
"Isn't it customary for bartenders to listen to their customers' troubles? I insist that you listen to mine. Maybe you'll have a solution for me."
I caught Kit's eye at the end of the bar. He was wiping down a coaster he'd already wiped, watching me, and not pretending well. Don't come over here, Kit. I swear to God, if you come over here I'll have words with you that we will both remember.
I turned back and asked, "Okay, fine. What's the problem that needs to be solved?"
"Could I have another drink first?"
"Mr. Cross."
"It's just—it's really good. The drink. Addictive, even."
I made him a third. I slid it across.
He took it. He took a slow sip. He set the glass down. He raised one finger off the bar and curled it toward himself.
I held still for a beat. I wasn't going to. I was absolutely not going to. I was going to wipe down this section of the bar and walk away, and he could ask his question to the air for all I cared.
I leaned in.
I leaned about an inch. He held his eyes on mine without moving the rest of his face.
He smelled like whiskey and the same expensive aftershave he'd been wearing at the auction.
He smelled like a man my mother would have warned me about and my father would have liked.
The bar was a foot of zinc between us, and the foot of zinc wasn't enough.
He didn't speak.
He waited.
I leaned closer.
"How do you get someone to stop hating you?" he whispered.
I straightened and stared at him.
His mouth was open a quarter inch. His eyes were on mine and didn't move.
"I don't hate you," I replied, flatly.
A customer at the back end of the bar raised a glass at me. I went down to take the order. I felt Beau's eyes follow me along the bar as I went.
"Really?" He said it from his stool, not loud, not quiet, pitched to carry the length of the bar without raising his voice. "Because you sure do act like it."
I took the order. Made the drink, and delivered it.
He was still in the same stool when I came back. His hands were still flat on the bar. He hadn't moved an inch.
"I don't hate you," I said, quieter this time and closer to him. "I told you. I don't."
"Good." He smiled. The smile was small, but it was there. "So can we be friends?"
I didn't answer.
I had a feeling, Sabrina, don't you dare. Don't even let yourself look at it, Sabrina. I had a feeling he was going to want to be more than friends, and having that feeling was a problem, because it implied I'd been thinking about it.
My phone rang in my pocket.
I pulled it out. Bonnie.
I held up one finger to him. “Excuse me.”
I caught Kit on my way to the back. “Cover for me. I have to take this.”
“Yeah.”
I pushed through the swinging door into the back hallway and pressed the phone to my ear. “Bonnie? Baby, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Mommy.”
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“I want chicken nuggets.”
I stopped in the hallway. I leaned my forehead against the wall.
“Bonnie.”
“Mommy, can I—”
“Have you had dinner?”
“I had dinner.”
“Then why do you want chicken nuggets?”
“Because I want chicken nuggets.”
“Baby. Baby, ask Mrs. Park. I’ll be home at one. I love you. I love you. Eat the chicken nuggets if Mrs. Park says yes. Don’t if she says no. Good night.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
“I love you, baby.”
I hung up. I leaned my whole back against the wall and slid down it half an inch. That child is going to give me a heart attack before her heart gives her one. I deserve a medal. I deserve a parade. I deserve a chicken nugget myself.
I came back through the swinging door.
The first thing I noticed was Beau. The second thing I noticed was that Beau was no longer the man I’d left.
He was leaning on the bar at a crooked angle that seemed to defy physics. He had a drink in front of him I hadn’t made. There were four empty glasses lined up in front of him I had also not made. His eyes were almost closed. He was smiling at the bar.
I turned to Kit.
Kit was at the speed rail with his back to me, doing absolutely nothing as obviously as he could.
I smacked his shoulder.
“Kit.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?”
“He asked nicely.”
“Kit.”
“He kept asking.”
“Kit.”
“I cut him off after the fifth one, in my defense.”
“The fifth one?”
"He asked nicely, Sabrina."
I turned back to Beau.
He was lifting his head, very slowly, like the head was heavier than he'd budgeted for. He squinted at me.
"Sabrina."
"Mmm…"
"Sabrina."
"I'm here."
"On the phone."
"What?"
"You said baby. On the phone."
"Mr. Cross — "
"You. Said. Baby."
"Mr. Cross, drink some water."
"Is that—Sabrina, is that your boyfriend?"
I laughed.
It came up out of me before I could decide to let it. He blinked at me with his squinty drunk eyes, mouth slightly open, waiting on the answer to the question of who Baby was.
"Boyfriend?" I said. "What are you talking about?"
"You said baby…on the phone. I heard you."
"Mr. Cross—"
"What's his name?"
"Whose name?"
"Boyfriend."
"Mr. Cross."
"What does he do?"
I shook my head and didn't answer. He was very drunk, and answering was just going to give him a launching pad.
He didn't stop.
"Where does he…live?"
I poured him a glass of water and set it in front of him. He stared at it like he was trying to remember what water was for. He picked it up. He drank some. He set it back down.
"What's…his…name?"
I went back to Kit. "He can't drive."
Kit crossed his arms. "Obviously."
"We need to get him a car."
"Where does he live?"
"I don't know."
"Ask him."
I went back to Beau. I leaned on the bar in front of him. I tried to make eye contact. His eyes weren't really doing focusing as a service.
"Mr. Cross, where do you live?"
"What?"
"Address?"
"What?"
"Where. Do. You. Live?"