Chapter 1
*Abby*
“To bang, or not to bang? That is the question.”
Frowning at the empty highball glass I’d just set down, I debated how to best respond to my friend’s noteworthy dilemma. “Are we talking about a guy? If so, I recommend making a pro / con list.”
“No. My hair.” She tugged on the tips of her tresses, tossing her bag to the stool at her left but not removing her jacket. “I love your bangs—love love love them.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I set a second highball glass next to the first and shoveled ice into both, checking my watch.
Kaylee was an hour early, not that I minded.
She usually shuffled in ten minutes before closing on the nights she had custody of our car, already wearing her pajamas and a silk bonnet on her head.
By then Walker, my boss, would be playing Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley over the bar’s speakers.
He had this automated to happen every night, four times in a row, even when he wasn’t here.
It was his way of driving out the stragglers.
Currently, a herald of the season, Run Run Rudolph by Luke Bryan, reverberated from overhead even though Thanksgiving wasn’t for another week. But it was cold enough outside to see my breath, and little clouds with every exhale always made it feel like the holidays to me.
“I’m tired of this haircut.” Now Kaylee tossed her long hair over her shoulder, sliding into the stool adjacent to the one holding her bag.
I gave Kaylee’s hair a quick once-over. I liked her hair just fine, so I said, “I like your haircut.”
“Thank you. I like it, too.”
Closing my right eye, I peered at her through just the left. “If you like your hair, then why change it? Why change something if you like it?”
“Because I’ve had this haircut since law school.”
“You just graduated.” Giving the liquor my full attention, I poured two ounces of gin in one glass, then the other.
“No I didn’t.” Her tone told me she thought I was a nut. “I graduated three years ago.”
“Has it been that long?” That can’t be right. Three years? Had it already been three years?
“Yes. And just because something is working, doesn’t mean something else might not work better. How will I know what or who the best version of myself is if I never change? If I never try something new?”
“Or—and just hear me out—you could keep a haircut you already like and use this restless energy to try something extra. Enrich yo-self.” I reached for the tonic tap.
“Says the woman who has no concept of the passage of time and lives like a mole.”
“Hey, moles are blind. My vision?” I pointed to my eyes using my index and middle finger. “I have twenty-ten vision, baby.” I topped off the highball glasses with tonic from the spout.
Kaylee tapped her fingernails on the surface of the bar. “When was the last time you were up before two in the afternoon?”
“So, you’re saying I’m nocturnal? Moles aren’t nocturnal.
If you’re going to compare me to a nocturnal animal, then use an owl.
” I mimicked talons with my fingers. “One of those big, badass owls, who see everything because they can turn their head around in a circle like that nice, misunderstood girl from The Exorcist. I am a third person narrator in a novel. I am—”
“You are not omniscient.” She giggled, reaching over the bar for the cherries.
I smacked her hand before she could touch the condiment dish. “Don’t do that. It’s unsanitary.”
Sitting back and sulking at my successful defense of the cherries, Kaylee crossed her arms. “So what should I do? Take an art class?” Her tone sounded crisp with disdain. “Next thing you’ll suggest is yoga. Why does everyone always suggest art and yoga?”
“Well, I’m not going to suggest freebasing if that’s what you were hoping for.
” Spearing lime wedges with toothpicks, I tossed them in the glasses and carried the drinks to the server pickup just a few feet away.
I caught Ingrid’s eye across the room to let her know the gin and tonics were ready for table six.
All current customers had been served, the gin and tonics were the last orders of the late-night rush.
None of our regulars were in the habit of popping by in the middle of the week after midnight.
Basically, unless an unexpected crowd ventured in from the cold for a night cap, I was more or less done for the evening.
“At least the suggestion of freebasing would’ve been unexpected.” Kaylee tapped her long nails against the top of the bar, glancing towards the office. “Is Mr. Sexy Bossman here? Wearing those real nice bootcut jeans and erotic flannel shirts?”
I squinted in warning and meandered back to her. “Walker is not here tonight, and you know he’s married.”
More than once, I’d had to pretend to be Walker’s daughter when customers became aggressively amorous.
Technically, he wasn’t old enough to be my dad, but they always bought the ruse.
There was just something about him that made folks tip big and lose their morals.
Maybe it was his crooked smile. Maybe it was his authentic Texas drawl.
Even his big, fat wedding ring didn’t seem to discourage them.
It was like they took the platinum band as a challenge.
“Still married?” Her mouth dropped open. “To that scientist lady? How did that even happen? They make no sense. Forget it, maybe I will try freebasing.”
Noting that table four and seven were in the midst of packing up their things, I admitted, “I’ll be honest, I’m not even sure what freebasing is.”
“You wouldn’t. But I submit for your consideration: art, yoga, journaling, turmeric, veganism, and green tea—the sum total of suggestions for ‘trying something new’ that are socially acceptable because everyone has to be enlightened in order to pass the bar for self-actualization.
” She lifted her eyes heavenward. “What if I don’t want to be self-actualized?
If I wanted to yoga, I would’ve yogaed already. ”
I smiled at my friend’s haughty rant and studied her.
Kaylee’s dark eyebrows were pulled together such that two deep wrinkles appeared between them, and her mouth slanted with a frown, but I thought she still looked amazing.
Her long, light brown hair was down and styled in waves, makeup painted the contours of her face, and she wore a tight, white shirt beneath her jacket that showcased the confidence she had in the shape of her body.
Distracted by her attire, I asked, “Where did you come from? Work?”
“No. Home.” She reached over the bar, lightning fast this time, and plucked a cherry out of the condiment tray.
I narrowed my eyes on her. “I said, don’t do that. It’s unsanitary.”
“Whatever happened to going out for a beer? Watching a football game? You are my only normal friend,” Kaylee fretted, ignoring my scolding and popping the cherry into her mouth. She reserved the stem to twist between her fingers.
“Nash likes football.”
“Ex-boyfriends don’t count. Why must everyone insist that I live their version of my best life? Why, in this entire world, are you the only one of my female friends who isn’t suggesting quinoa and meditation? What if my best life is pulled pork and video games?”
“This is not true. You have plenty of female friends who are not of this opinion. Plus, you don’t like video games and I thought I was a mole-woman.
” I loved Kaylee, but she had a tendency to get carried away by the emotion an idea inspired—like, say, rage—rather than look at all the facts. In short, she loved to react.
“It’s like they enjoy being miserable,” she continued raving like I hadn’t spoken, “and then being smug about the depths of their enlightened misery.”
Laughing, I leaned against the counter behind me. “Maybe these people are not miserable. Maybe they do sincerely love quinoa and meditation.”
“Impossible.” She dismissed my statement with a flick of her wrist.
“And maybe you should stop judging other people’s life choices.”
“You always say that. But one day, I’ll be a judge, and then it’ll be my job. I need to practice being judgmental now so I’ll be ready when the time comes.” Kaylee grinned.
“Okay, your honor, smug enlightened misery aside, I just don’t understand wanting to change something about yourself you already like. If you like your hair, don’t change it. If you don’t like your hair, have at it.”
The song switched to Frank Sinatra’s version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas just as the bell over the front door jingled, announcing one or more new customers.
“Be with you in a sec.” I called without looking toward the sound, keeping my eyes on Kaylee as I reached for a few drink menus and cocktail napkins.
“See, I knew you’d say that, too.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Your statements are unsurprising, and I am unsurprised by your unsurprisingness.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“You’re in a rut, Abby.” Now her eyes turned soft. “You do the same thing every day. You wear the same thing every day. You eat the same thing every day. The only thing you change is the color of your nail polish and your hair cut.”
“And look how happy I am.” I glanced toward the door to count the newcomers, but found only a single, solitary man, already sitting in a stool at the far end of the bar closest to the door.
A huge, enormous, colossal mammoth of a man. He was so big and tall, the rest bar seemed to shrink in comparison.
Great. Just . . . great.
"Who is that? Is he a regular? Why do you look so irritated?” Kaylee glanced between my face and the man, keeping her tone hushed even though we were too far away for him to overhear our conversation.
Even so, I also lowered my voice. “It’s just, we’re less than an hour until closing and he’s not a regular. Convincing non-regulars to finish up and head out can be . . . annoying.” And he was big. And he was male.
This wasn’t always the case, but—in my experience, maybe nine times out of ten—a big, burly guy coming into the bar so close to closing didn’t typically want a quick drink.