Chapter 6
SIX
Zachary
The second to last customer leaves at quarter past twelve.
Technically we're open until two a.m. on weekdays.
The regulars know this. Karl, the most regular of regulars, knows this, he's been sitting at the end of the bar every Monday night since the second week we opened Highwater two years ago.
Not once has he had to be asked to leave.
And he won't be asked tonight. No matter how much I want to.
"Something happen tonight?" he says, as I start wiping down the bar.
"What makes you ask that?"
He drums his fingers on the bench. "I dunno, something to do with how I can set a clock to the sighs you keep letting out every five minutes."
I chuckle. I hadn't noticed I was doing that, but I guess it hadn't escaped Karl.
"Nah." I throw the tea towel over my shoulder and grab the bottle off the shelf to top him up. "Just tired."
He doesn't look convinced, watching me tidy up as he lifts the glass to his lips.
In another life Karl was undoubtedly a bartender.
He sees more from his seat at the end of the bar, staring into his glass, than I do some nights from behind it.
Such as tonight. He quickly finishes his drink, stands, reaches for his wallet.
I wave my hand. "That round was on me. You having an early night?"
He gives me a nod of appreciation and tucks his wallet away. "I think everyone could do with an early night."
I wait to see if he'll elaborate, but he just grabs his coat off the back of his stool.
"Need a cab?" I ask, mostly out of habit.
"Nah, it's a nice night. Gonna walk tonight."
I've taken that walk with him enough times to know it's only around the corner and safe enough.
"Okay, well, thanks for coming in tonight," I say, walking him to the door.
He twists the scarf around his neck, scrutinising me for a moment. "Whatever it is? You'll sort it out, kid. Of that, I'm sure." A pat on the shoulder as he walks out the door I'm holding open.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" I call after him.
He lets out a low laugh and throws me a wave without turning around.
By twelve-thirty the kitchen's clean, floor shiny from mopping. Normally I'd worry about it being empty this early, but it's the dead of winter, and things'll pick up later in the week.
I stare at the pile of paperwork waiting for me at the end of the bench, the pile I should've gotten to, considering it was a quiet night.
It stares back, challenging me to tackle it.
I know if I don't, Crew, my day shift manager, will give me pointed looks tomorrow.
But for once, I decide one of the perks of being the owner is that the stock reports can wait, and Crew can look all he likes.
I turn off the lights. Lock up.
And make my way home. Early. For the first time in years.
The house is dark when I get home. Other than the sensor light above the front porch, which Marcus installed bright enough to land a Boeing 747, and the LEDs I insisted my liquor cabinets absolutely needed, every other light is out.
Which, while not unheard of, is a little strange.
The guys aren't the perennial night owls I am, but it's pretty common for one or all of them to be awake when I get home anywhere between two and five a.m. I drop my keys in the bowl and hang my jacket on the hook, noting Alexia's burgundy woollen coat with silver buttons on the last hook.
I peek at Rhys's room, down the hall from mine.
There's dim light under the door, he's probably reading in bed.
Marcus's room is on the other side of the house, and if he were awake, we'd all know it.
Either from the music blaring from his speakers or the sounds of whoever he has in there with him.
But tonight, there's nothing. I know he's been working extra hard lately and probably passed out the minute he got home.
I walk past Leon's room. Now Alexia's. At least for the week.
I try to pretend my eyes aren't straying to the crack under her door, that my ears aren't straining for any sound of her.
When there's nothing, I pass off the disappointed feeling grating in my chest as what I'd told Karl. I'm just really tired.
Truth is, I'm not really surprised she's hidden away in her room.
After checking that everything was okay with the plumbing issue we had at our bar Undertow this morning, I'd come home and taken a nap.
I'd thought I might see her before leaving for work this evening, but she wasn't home even when I left at 6:30 p.m., later than usual.
When Leon asked in the group chat how she was settling in, Marcus texted that she'd come home around 9:00 p.m., already grabbed a bite with colleagues, and gone straight to her room.
My guess is she is doing her best to take up as little room as possible.
And, as a side quest, avoid crossing paths with me as much as she can.
And here I am, leaving later for work, coming home early, in the hopes that I might—
Might what, Zachary?
I shake my head. Not. Going. There.
I make it all the way to my door when I hear it, a soft sound from the kitchen, a cupboard opening, muffled murmurings. I peer around the corner to see her.
She's up on her toes, reaching for a mug on the top shelf, one hand braced against the counter for a few extra inches of height, the other stretched up, her strappy, white crop tank riding up with the movement, a strip of skin peeking out above the waistband of her striped blue pyjama pants.
I stand in the doorway watching for longer than I should before I cross the kitchen, coming up behind her as I reach over her for the mug.
For the shortest of seconds, my body presses against hers.
It's sheer and utter torture to move back.
She startles but doesn't say anything as I hold the mug out to her.
Her long wavy hair is bundled into a messy bun, a pen sticking haphazardly out of one side. She's wearing her glasses. Somehow they make her eyes even bigger as she looks up at me.
I press the mug into her hand as she stands there, almost as if she'd forgotten what she was doing in the kitchen at one in the morning.
"Oh," she says, her hand closing around the mug, and I try to ignore the way her fingers graze my palm. "You're home?" Half question, half "ugh, I was hoping I'd be long gone by the time you got back."
I try to focus on the question part.
"Er, yup. Earlier than usual. Quiet night." I move to the other side of the bench, putting it between us. "You're up late."
"First day," she says, turning to fill the kettle, and I track every movement, the shift of her weight, her bare feet quiet on the tiles, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear as she peers at the buttons on the kettle base.
"Good first day or bad first day?"
"Um," she says, distracted, frowning at the kettle and pressing a button, then pouting when nothing happens. "It was okay, I guess." Another button. Still nothing. I notice the tiniest stomp of her foot, but otherwise she doesn't say anything.
Somehow, in the six years since I last saw her, she's managed to become even more irresistibly adorable. I push off the island, risking the close proximity, and stand next to her in front of the kettle.
"Need a hand?" I ask.
"No," she responds, the frown morphing into a glare.
"Okay, well, I'd really like a cup of tea, so I'm going to press this button here" — I point to the second button — "it's already set for the right temperature to brew tea without burning the leaves. And then when I'm done, you can go back to playing guess the button."
Even without looking, I can feel that glare burning into the side of my face as I reach for a mug for myself.
"Chamomile? Peppermint?" I ask, pointing to the canisters lined up against the wall.
"Oh, I have some green tea. Sencha." She holds up a little tin, hesitates, then says, "Would you like to try some? I have a friend who sends it to me from Kyoto. Her family has a small plantation."
It's my turn to hesitate. Of all the things to happen tonight, I did not expect her to reach out to me, even in this tiny way.
Before I can reply, she shakes her head. "You don't have to, it's—"
"No!" I almost shout, then, immediately quieter, I say, “Sorry. I just didn't want to take some since it's so obviously special to you. But thank you. I'd love to try it. I love Sencha."
She raises her eyebrows. "Could've fooled me."
Her response is so surprising I can't help letting out a snort.
"What? Why?"
Her lips twitch at the corners as she points to the drinks station.
"Because you have this contraption that looks like it could take hi-def pictures of all of Jupiter's ninety-five moons, that 'heats water at the right temperature to not burn the tea.
'" Her finger swings to the row of coffee bean dispensers, identical to the ones at all our bars.
"Because there are literally twelve different types of coffee here.
And almost twenty-five different teas." She points to a printed label.
"This is Silver Needle White Tea. It costs $2,500 a kilo.
" She picks up the canister, looks inside.
"I'm holding like $350 worth of tea in my hand right now.
" It makes a little metallic clang as she gently lays it down before facing me.
"If you actually 'loved Sencha,' you'd have some.
And I've looked. Trust me, I've looked, there's not only no Sencha but no Japanese green tea at all. "
The look she gives me is challenging, and it thrills me to the core. Fuck, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed her.
Finally I grin and hold my hands up. "Busted. Okay, I don't have any Sencha in the house right now. But maybe that's because I've never had any really good Sencha before."
She shakes her head and scoffs before taking the mug from me and dropping a pinch of tea leaves into it. "Well, get out your diary, because today's the last day you'll ever be able to say that."