Chapter 9
Off the Rails was dark and rustic, one tentative step above a dive, with wood paneling, green vinyl booths, and Christmas lights strung up year-round. A blast of heat fogged Merritt’s glasses when she stepped inside, and she paused to clean them on her sweater.
She caught up with Niko, who had snagged two stools at one end of the bar, stuffing spilling out of the split seams. At the other end, the bartender—Jo, presumably—was busy with another group. Niko turned to her.
“What are you drinking?”
She shrugged. “Beer’s fine. Whatever you’re having.”
His brow creased. “I thought you said you didn’t drink.”
“I said I don’t really drink.”
Alcohol had always been an auxiliary vice, so over the last year or two, she’d relaxed from complete abstinence to the occasional beer or glass of wine with dinner.
She’d discussed it at length with her therapist first, who’d agreed that, while she should permanently steer clear of all powders and any pill stronger than a Benadryl, her internal and external circumstances had shifted enough for her to explore whether she could have a healthier relationship with other substances.
Moderation was easier now that she no longer had any desire to “party”; plus, her age—not to mention her low-dose mood stabilizer—had wiped out her tolerance.
And hard liquor, as a rule, was a hard no.
Niko gave her a bemused half smile. “You’re going to have to explain what that means after we order.”
He leaned over to get Jo’s attention, a dark curl slipping over his eye. Merritt’s hand flexed at her side, fighting the urge to reach up and brush it back. She settled for tucking a strand of her own behind her ear.
He turned back to look at her just then, like he wanted to reassure himself she was still there, and the way his eyes followed the path of her fingers from her temple to her cheekbone to her jaw made her shiver.
This was a bad idea.
Jo finally made their way over to them, and even if Niko hadn’t told her, Merritt would’ve known they were a fan immediately from the way their eyes locked on Merritt’s, half-thrilled, half-petrified.
They were cute as a button—ginger and heavily freckled, androgynous, definitely in diapers when Merritt’s first album had come out.
Depending on her mood, that type of fan made her feel either flattered or old. Right now, she was in a good mood.
Niko didn’t bother making a two-way introduction. “Merritt, this is my other roommate, Jo.”
It gave Merritt an odd feeling, knowing they’d probably talked about her when she wasn’t around. That shouldn’t have fazed her; people had been discussing her for years—loudly, publicly, tactlessly, people she’d never met and never would. But with Niko it felt different.
Jo grinned at her, a little too widely. “What can I get you?”
Merritt glanced at Niko, wondering if he’d speak for both of them since she’d given him permission to, but he just looked back. “What do you have on tap?” she asked Jo.
Jo’s smile stayed fixed, their expression going blank. “Uh…” they said, glancing at the row of levers behind them. “Oh! Do you like stouts? We just got a new one from the brewery this afternoon.”
“That sounds perfect,” said Merritt, who had no opinion on stouts but was gratified by the way Jo beamed in response.
“I’ll have the same,” said Niko.
“Good deal, good deal. Coming right up,” Jo said, then dashed away so quickly Merritt was surprised they didn’t leave cartoon dust in their wake.
Niko leaned into her, and she hoped he didn’t notice her involuntary intake of breath in response.
“I’ve never heard them say ‘good deal’ in my life,” he said, his voice hitching with laughter.
Merritt smiled, too, more at the shiver the warmth of his breath produced down her neck than at the observation itself, but she could feel it was half grimace.
She tried not to watch Jo’s shaking hands as they poured out and refilled one of the pint glasses after pouring one that was 90 percent head.
She wished she could turn it off, the effect she had on people who had spent most of their lives metabolizing her work, building her up to be bigger than life.
Whatever interaction they ended up having would inevitably be refracted through the prism of their sky-high expectations, and she had a hard time pushing aside that pressure enough to be fully present with them.
Maybe that was why she liked spending time with Niko. She never felt like he was looking at her as anything other than herself.
Jo returned with the beers and, unexpectedly, a plate of pita and hummus drizzled with oil, a single kalamata olive gleaming in the center.
“On the house,” they said, their eyes flicking between the plate and Merritt, eagerly trying to gauge her reaction.
“Oh, wow, thank you,” said Merritt, who really was grateful. She’d come dangerously close to breaking her other big rule around alcohol—never drink without eating.
There was an awkward beat as both Jo and Niko looked at her expectantly. Merritt knew she needed to say something else now, keep the conversation moving, but she was drawing a complete blank.
“What’s the difference between a chickpea and a garbanzo bean?” she asked, picking up a piece of pita and smoothing some hummus over it.
Jo’s eyebrows pinched together. “Aren’t they the same thing?”
“No. I mean, yeah. It’s a joke,” Merritt said, already regretting going down this path.
Jo blushed furiously, which made her regret it even more. “Oh. Sorry, sorry, sorry. What’s the difference?”
“I didn’t have a garbanzo bean on my face last night,” Merritt deadpanned, then popped the pita into her mouth.
There was a long beat of silence—confused, then stunned—where Jo and Niko blinked at her. Then, they both burst into surprised laughter.
Thankfully, it was enough to break the tension, and soon the three of them were chatting away, if not like old friends, then at least like they had some idea of how humans generally interacted.
She learned that Jo had grown up in Ocean City, where Merritt and Olivia had taken all their family vacations, and their conversation easily moved from their respective childhoods in Maryland to the charms and drawbacks of living in tourist towns.
Hours slipped by before she knew it, measured only by the levels in her pint glass dwindling, followed by her water glass, then by the bones of the hot wings Jo brought out after the hummus was gone.
When she returned from the bathroom, it hit her that the bar had become three times as crowded, and a makeshift stage at the other end was set up with amps and instruments.
“The Grateful Dudes have a set tonight,” Jo offered as Merritt slid back into her seat.
Sure enough, Merritt saw Larry take the stage with five other men who all looked like variations on a theme, and that theme was either “graying facial hair” or “shopping spree at Al’s Hat Shack.
” Actually, she thought she spotted Al himself behind the drum kit.
As the band ran through a brief tune-up, the lead singer stepped up to the mic.
“What’s up, Crested Peak? Are you ready to have a good time?”
The audience responded with a few anemic claps and cheers. It wasn’t a huge crowd, but it was respectable—twenty people, maybe thirty. Merritt put her hand to her mouth and let out a short whoop of support. The lead singer’s eyes fixed on her, and she braced herself.
“Well, how about that,” he drawled into the mic. “We don’t often get the honor of a Grammy winner in our audience. This might be a first.”
Merritt fixed a smile on her face as a murmur spread through the bar, most of the heads turning to look at her.
She’d assumed (maybe na?vely) that her presence was unremarkable here at this point, but in retrospect that might’ve been because, up until a few weeks ago, she’d kept mostly to herself.
She didn’t say anything, just raised her glass, hoping to toss the attention back to him as quickly as possible. His grin widened, and he stretched out his arms. “We got an empty mic up here for you anytime, darlin’. Just say the word. That is, if you’re willing to sing backup.”
Merritt’s smile slid off her face, her cheeks growing hot.
“Sorry, sorry. Guess I should know better than to make you mad.” He shielded his crotch with both hands, giving an exaggerated wince.
“Shut the fuck up and sing, Frank,” Jo yelled, to scattered laughter. Frank shot them a double thumbs-up, winked at Merritt, then flipped his wraparound sunglasses from his forehead to his eyes before leading the band in an enthusiastic—if slightly sloppy—rendition of “Sugar Magnolia.”
Merritt forced herself to unclench as the song continued, her heart rate returning to normal now that everyone’s attention was back where it should be.
Once she’d settled, though, she was swept away by the feeling she always got watching other people play music, a strange cocktail of envy and longing and resentment that was even more bitter than the stout curdling in her stomach.
She focused on keeping her face relaxed, her lips slightly upturned, nodding in rhythm so her brooding wasn’t so obvious.
Niko leaned over to her, his lips brushing her ear as he got close enough to be heard over the music. “Do you want to get out of here?”
Her pulse stilled, her mouth going dry. “What?”
“We can go upstairs. There’s another part of the bar up there.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m okay. He didn’t bother me.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked up at him through her lashes and saw his brows were knitted in concern. “Shit. Do I seem miserable?”
“No, no. You just look…distant. Don’t worry about it, I don’t think anyone else can tell.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “We should stay through the first set, at least. It’ll be a bad look if I leave now.”
He nodded, then drained his beer, waving to Jo for another one. They didn’t talk much after that, just sat and listened to the music.