Chapter 12
The First Shift
The afternoon light through the windows was the color of old honey.
I'd been watching it for hours—or maybe minutes, or maybe days, time had stopped meaning anything except the space between heartbeats.
The bar was empty except for Matt and me and the dust motes that drifted through the air like tiny ghosts.
The stools were polished. The bottles were arranged.
The register was closed, waiting for the first customer who wouldn't come for hours.
"You ready for this?"
Matt was behind the bar, his hands resting on the polished wood, his eyes watching me with something between patience and expectation.
"I don't know."
"That's okay. You don't have to be ready. You just have to try."
"What if I'm bad at it?"
"Then you'll get better. That's how learning works."
He gestured to the space beside him.
"Come here. We'll start simple."
The beer tap was cold under my fingers.
Matt stood beside me, close but not touching, his voice low and steady.
"You want to hold the glass at a forty-five-degree angle. Let the beer run down the side. Then, when it's about halfway full, you straighten it out."
"Why?"
"So you don't get too much foam. Foam is the enemy."
"The enemy?"
"The enemy."
He smiled, and it was almost warm.
"Customers don't pay for foam. They pay for beer. So you give them beer."
I tilted the glass the way he'd shown me. The beer flowed down the side, amber and gold, bubbling gently. When it was halfway full, I straightened the glass. The foam rose to the top—just a finger, just enough.
"Not bad. For a first try. You'll get faster."
He took the glass from me and set it on the bar.
"Now we try something harder."
The martini glass was delicate.
I was afraid I'd break it. My hands were shaking—not much, just enough to make the glass tremble in my grip. Matt noticed. He didn't say anything. He just placed his hand over mine, steadying it, and guided the shaker to the glass.
"Slow. Steady. You're not in a rush."
"What if I spill?"
"Then you spill. You clean it up. You try again."
He stepped back, and I poured. The liquid slid into the glass, clear and cold, and I didn't spill a drop.
"See? You've got steady hands when you let yourself have them."
"I don't feel steady."
"You don't have to feel it. You just have to do it."
He set a lemon twist on the rim and pushed the glass toward me.
"Taste it."
"I don't—"
"You need to know what you're serving. Taste it."
I picked up the glass and took a small sip. The gin was sharp, botanical, with something underneath—something briny, something that reminded me of the ocean, though I couldn't remember ever seeing the ocean.
"Good?"
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He took the glass from me and finished it in one swallow.
"It's good. You did good."
He set the glass in the sink and turned to face me.
"Now we learn how to read customers."
"The man at the end of the bar."
Matt nodded toward the far end of the room, though the bar was empty.
"Hypothetically. He's been sitting there for an hour. He's had two beers. He's not on his phone. He's not reading. He's just... watching."
"Watching what?"
"Everything. The door. The windows. The other customers. You."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he's not here to drink. He's here for something else. Information. Revenge. A score."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've been doing this for thirty years. Because I've seen every kind of customer there is. Because I've learned to trust my gut."
He tapped his chest.
"You have a gut too. You just have to learn to listen to it."
"What if my gut is wrong?"
"Then you learn. You adjust. You get better."
"That's what you keep saying."
"Because it's true."
The memory came without warning.
I was standing behind a different bar. Different city. Different light. The bottles were arranged differently, but my hands knew where to reach, my fingers knew which glasses to grab, my body knew the rhythm of service.
"Hey, Lilah. Another round when you get a chance."
A voice I didn't recognize.
A face I couldn't see.
"Coming right up."
My voice, but younger. Softer. Still capable of smiling without thinking about it.
"You're a lifesaver."
"That's what they pay me for."
I blinked.
The bar came back.
The bottles were in different places. The light was different. The voice was gone, and the face was gone, and I couldn't remember if any of it had been real.
"Bunny?"
Matt's voice, careful.
"You okay?"
"I remembered something. Working at a bar. Before..."
"Before what?"
"Before I forgot."
"Is that a real memory?"
"I don't know."
"Does it feel real?"
"It feels like something. But I don't know if it's real or if I made it up."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Sometimes it doesn't matter. Sometimes the feeling is enough."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've forgotten things too. Things I did. Things I saw. Things I wish I could forget and things I wish I could remember. And I've learned that the feeling is the only thing you can trust."
"That's not very comforting."
"No. But it's true."
The bell above the door chimed.
I looked up, and he was there. A man. Not tall, not short. Not young, not old. His hair was brown, his eyes were brown, his clothes were the kind of clothes that didn't attract attention.
But his eyes were watching.
Watching me.
"Welcome to The Lost Hours."
Matt's voice, smooth and practiced.
"What can I get for you?"
"Whiskey. Neat."
The man sat at the end of the bar.
"Coming right up."
Matt poured the whiskey and set it in front of the man. The man picked it up, drank half of it in one swallow, and set it back down.
His eyes never left me.
"You're new." His voice was flat, "Started this week."
"Yes."
My voice came out small.
"I'm training."
"Matt training you?"
"Yes."
"He's good at that. Training strays."
"I'm not a stray."
"Aren't you?"
He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes.
"You've got that look. The look of someone who's been lost for a long time. Someone who's looking for something they're never going to find."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't."
He finished his whiskey and stood up.
He walked out, and the bell above the door chimed, and the bar was empty again.
"Bunny."
Matt's voice.
"You're shaking."
I looked down at my hands.
They were trembling.
"Who was that?"
"No one. Someone who used to come here. Before."
"Before what?"
"Before I stopped letting people like him in."
"What did he want?"
"He wanted to see if you were as broken as you looked."
"Am I?"
"That's not for him to decide."
I didn't pour another drink for the rest of the afternoon.
Matt handled the customers—the few who came in, the regulars who sat in their usual spots and ordered their usual drinks and didn't look at me twice. I stood behind the bar and watched, learning, memorizing, trying to make my hands stop shaking.
"You did good."
Matt's voice, at the end of the shift.
"I didn't do anything."
"You stayed. You didn't run. That's something."
"I wanted to run."
"I know. But you didn't."
He set a glass of water in front of me.
"Drink. You're dehydrated."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're always dehydrated. You forget to drink water. You forget to eat. You forget to sleep. You forget that you're a person who needs things."
"I don't forget."
"You do. But that's okay. I'll remind you."
"Why?"
"Because that's what people do. They remind each other."
He picked up a glass and started polishing it.
"You've got instincts, Bunny. Good ones. The way you watched that man, the way you noticed he was watching you—that's not something you learn. That's something you have."
The bar was dark when we finished.
Matt locked the doors and turned off the lights, and we stood in the quiet for a moment, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time tomorrow."
"You'll do better."
"How do you know?"
"Because you'll have practice. Because you'll be less afraid. Because you'll remember that you've done this before."
"What if I haven't?"
"Then you'll pretend. And pretending will become doing. And doing will become knowing."
He walked to the door and held it open.
"Come on. I'll walk you to your apartment."
"You don't have to."
"I know. But I will."
I followed him into the night, and the door closed behind us, and the bar was dark and empty and waiting for tomorrow.
The man at the end of the bar.
His eyes.
His words.
"You've got that look."
What look?
The look of someone who's been lost?
The look of someone who's looking for something they're never going to find?
Maybe he was right.
Maybe I was lost.
Maybe I was looking for something I'd never find.
But I was still here.
Still standing.
Still trying.
And that was something.
"You've got instincts. Trust them."
Matt's voice, echoing.
"You've got instincts."
Maybe I did.
Maybe I always had.
Maybe Gabriel had just helped me find them.
Or maybe he'd planted them.
Or maybe I'd invented them.
I didn't know.
I couldn't know.
But I was learning.
And learning was enough.
For now.
It would have to be.