Chapter 12
TWELVE
Zachary
The till drawer sticks on the way back in, same as it has since we bought the damn thing three years ago. I give it the half-hearted shove it needs and close it out for the night.
On the floor, Priya's stacking chairs onto tables, muttering under her breath about why she hasn't met a billionaire sugar momma yet, while Dev mops slow, resentful circles near the pool table like he's picturing the faces of tonight's worst customers.
"That's the last of it." Priya drops the final chair with a clatter that makes Dev startle and aim the mop in her direction. "Rough one tonight."
It was. Someone started a fight over a bet on a pool game on the TV, a bachelor party turned into a live version of Love Island complete with a cheating scandal confession between the groom and one of the bridesmaids' brothers, and at one point I had to physically remove a patron, one of the local volunteer firemen, from behind the bar because he was "just showing Priya how to pour a drink. "
"So, boss, you coming to Marilyn's with us?" Dev calls over from the storage closet, letting the mop clatter against the wall. "Levi's saved us a spot and he's got the first round."
I check the clock above the door. Two twenty-eight. Feels like two hours later than that. Though I'm sure that's got nothing to do with me watching the clock since...well, since I arrived. "Nah, I'm right, mate. Heading home tonight. I'm knackered."
Priya lets out a noise between a scoff and a laugh, elbowing Dev in the ribs, delighted with herself. "Pay up. Told you, boss has stood us up for the last two weeks. Reckon he's got someone stashed somewhere."
"There's no one stashed anywhere." It comes out harsher than I mean it to. I grab the food container waiting for me on the back bar bench, wrapped and still faintly warm, and tuck it under my arm. "I'm just tired, guys."
"Sure you are." Dev's grinning now too, the pair of them united in a rare show of solidarity. "You're allowed to have a life, you know. Outside of us."
I sling my jacket over one shoulder and head for the door before either of them can dig further.
"Night, check the stove before you lock up," I say. My standard farewell. There are plenty of ways disaster could strike one of our bars, but a forgotten stove isn't going to be one of them.
The drive home takes eleven minutes, same as always, and I spend most of it with the radio off, the container sitting beside me on the passenger seat.
The sensor spotlight flashes on when I pull into the driveway. But it's the window on the right side of the house that I'm looking at. And tonight it's dark.
I sit in the car a beat longer than I need to, keys jingling already in my hand, staring at that black square of glass, wondering if it'll change. It doesn't.
For a second I think about turning the car around, finding the others at Marilyn's, showing up as their friend for once instead of their boss. But I'm not up for it. Not up for being away from the house lately. Even if...it's completely dark.
So I get out of the car.
The house is quiet when I let myself in, quiet enough to hear the fridge hum, and I stand in the hallway, ears straining for any other sign of life.
Not a peep. Marcus passes out by ten most nights lately, stuffed full of pasta.
Rhys has developed a love for his bedroom.
But I'm surprised even Alexia isn't about.
Two weeks in, and she and I usually cross paths in the kitchen in the small hours.
I don't usually mind the silence. It's just that tonight, I like the implication of noise.
That maybe I get to spend a few minutes with my best friend's little sister.
I quietly make my way through the hallway, sliding the container next to the fruit bowl and head to the bathroom for a well-earned shower.
The water's still drying on my skin when I come out, towel slung low around my hips, and that's when I see it — a thin gold line under her door. Not the desk lamp. Not a laptop. Probably her phone.
I stop.
There's a universe out there somewhere where I walk past that tiny sliver of hope and go to my own room. But it's not this one.
Before I can stop myself, I take two steps to her door and rap my knuckles against the wood. I regret it instantly, I'm not even fucking dressed, nothing but a thin layer of terry cloth between my very naked bits and the rest of the world.
Yeah, Zachary, you've lost your mind, I tell myself. I'm already turning, already rehearsing a line about hearing a noise, checking she's all right, just in case the universe wants to assert its dominance and have her answer the door. Which she does.
The door cracks open, hardly any more light spilling out.
But enough to make my mouth run dry then flood with want.
She's peering out of the ajar door, enough for me to see she's in a strappy little pink top the colour of the inside of a shell, tiny plaid shorts that barely cover what needs to be covered, and her hair dragged up into a bun with two pens speared through it.
She's squinting, her face bare, even of her glasses.
Ink smudges along the side of one hand, a bandaid on the pinky of the other.
And in this moment, if someone asked me what I would give to have her, I'd offer my last breath. Happily, gladly.
"Hey." She tilts her head, taking me in the same way I just took her in. Except she's dealing with a half-naked bartender dripping water onto her floor for no good reason. "What's up?" She's not smiling, exactly. But she doesn't look unhappy.
Good question, Zachary. Maybe that's the answer you should've prepared.
"Nothing." I clear my throat. "I... er. You up for a way-later-than-midnight snack?"
She looks at me, takes in my face, my hair, then my attire...or lack thereof, and considers it. Then she nods. "Yeah, sure." She starts stepping back into the room. "Let me change into something—"
"No." It's out before I've thought it through, low and a fraction too fast. "You're — you look perfect. Don't change a thing. Me on the other hand," I say with a chuckle. "Just let me throw something on and I'll meet you in the kitchen?"
She gives me a little nod and I practically jog to my room, clutching the towel at my hips
She's already in the kitchen when I come back dressed now in navy striped pyjama pants and a white Tee. In my hands I grip a pair of socks with Highwater’s logo printed on them.
"Tea?" I ask her, plopping the socks on the kitchen island in front of her.
"Er. Sure," she says, a little apprehensive as she stares down at the socks. "But I'll make it. You've been making drinks all night."
"Nope, I want to. Least I can do for your company." I gesture to the socks. "Brought those for you — we had them printed as merch, but they're so soft the staff kept stealing them. Only a few pairs left, but I thought they'd keep your feet warm padding round this cold kitchen at night."
She picks up the socks, turns them over, and slips them on, murmuring a soft, "Thank you."
I make the tea in silence, my back to her, feeling her eyes on me, not wanting to turn around, just enjoying being near her. A few minutes later I set down a tray, with a clear teapot and then I drop a ball of dried leaves into it.
She watches it with interest.
"Have you seen one of these before?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
I smile — something about sharing this with her fills me with warmth. "It's a bloom tea." I point to slowly opening ball. "Just watch."
She keeps her eyes trained on the leaves slowly soaking in the pot, growing, unfurling into a marigold blossom. "So beautiful," she whispers under her breath.
After a few minutes, the water colours and I know we can drink it. I pour two small cups and push one over to her. I wait for her to cup hers in her hands before I pick mine up.
"This one is marigold and jasmine," I tell her.
We drink in unison, and I watch her eyes flutter closed as the tea fills her mouth with that fragrance and she lets out a little sigh.
I smile.
"Oh, one more thing." I grab the container off the other end of the island. "I brought this home for you."
Her eyes widen as I open the takeaway box and grab a knife from the drawer, laying it in front of her. "What is it?"
"It's a banana bread lava cake. Priya made it. I saved a piece for you."
Her brow furrows. "For me?"
"Yup." I lean against the counter opposite her, pouring us more tea.
"I love banana bread," she says, almost to herself.
"Yeah, I know, you used to pick it for your birthday cake flavour. I mean who picks that?" I laugh, remembering how much we used to tease her about it.
Her eyes grow soft and sad. "Dad used to make the best banana bread. It was—"
"Chai flavoured," I finish for her, with a little nod. "He used to make it for us too. He brought one to give my driving teacher when I passed my driving test."
She laughs. "She deserved it! That lady must've been a saint, you always were a terrible driver."
I jab her with a fork. "I was not terrible, I just have different ideas of who has right of way."
She brushes the fork away, eyes still sparkling, obviously thinking of her dad.
To distract her, I push the banana bread to her. "How was your day?" I ask her, as I have every night we've done this.
"Um, it was okay. Goody bits. Less goody bits."
"Yeah?" I try not to push. Although I would sit here and listen to her recount her entire day second by second if she wanted.
She nods, as if consulting with herself, and then smiles. "Yeah. I'm starting to really get into a rhythm. And I don't feel like the 'newbie' too much, anymore."
"Well, yeah, you're not having to ask where the toilets are every few minutes."
"Right!" she laughs gently.
"What about you?" She turns it back on me before I can try again. "You...look kinda tired."
I drop my jaw dramatically. "And to think I brought you tea and dessert."
"Right. 'Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen,'" she recites. "Imagine what you'd bring me if I said you smell too."