Come Again

by Kate, Jiffy

  I think we can both agree I’m out of line this morning, but I can’t help it. I need my routine and she knows that. This bar is the one thing I can control. It’s always the same and it never leaves. Without it and without my day-to-day normalcy, I start to feel out of control.

  Life feels out of control.

  I like order and guarantees. I like for things to be constant. Dependable.

  Waving a hand in the air is the only response she gets from me, but she knows I’ll be there. Because Sarah is the only thing, besides the bar, that’s constant for me. She’s been there for me my whole life, even when I’m a complete and utter asshole.

  As I step back outside the backdoor, I look around the alley and confirm I’m alone. Walking over to the shed, I unlock it and check on my bike.

  It’s there, sitting pretty. Even in the darkness she shines.

  Instead of going up the stairs to sweat out my frustrations, I decide to take her for a ride. Then I’ll come back and punch the shit out of the bag. By the time the bar opens later, I should be semi-cordial. And thoughts of Avery should be long gone.

  Later, after the ride and the workout, when I’m showered and redressed in my self-imposed regulation work uniform of white button-down, jeans, and my trusty black boots, I go find Sarah.

  She’s in the kitchen at Lizzie’s Cooking School, in full-prep mode with her sleeves rolled up and hair in one of those ridiculous chef’s hats. I can’t help the grin when I see her, because she’s always been one to take everything to the next level. It’s all or nothing with her.

  Maybe that’s why she’s never been married.

  If Sarah can’t do something with complete excellence, she doesn’t want to do it all.

  She’s the one who sold me on reopening the school. Her pitch was simple, but direct: It’s currently a waste of space, Shaw. Keeping that place closed isn’t helping anyone, definitely not you. So, let me run it. I’ll be good at it. And it’ll be good for you.

  “Sorry for being an asshole earlier,” I say when it’s apparent she’s not going to be the one to speak first.

  “I should be used to it by now.” She fights back a smile as she puts cellophane over a few stainless steel bowls full of ingredients. “I mean, I’m practically a professional at putting up with your shit.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I reply with a nod and run a hand over my scruff, knowing I’ve got coming whatever she wants to give me.

  “But,” she starts and then pauses. “I have to say, you’ve been extra asshole-ish lately. I thought after the anniversary was past, you’d go back to your more normal level of assholery.”

  Sighing heavy and loud, I plant my ass on one of the barstools at the prep table. “Sorry,” I reply, looking her square in the eyes. Sarah doesn’t deserve my wrath. Shit, no one does. But when I get in a funk like this, it’s hard to get out.

  “Is it Avery?” Sarah asks and just the mention of her name has me straightening and my heart beats a little harder. “I know you didn’t want to hire her. Maybe you should let her go?”

  Her tone and expression tell me she’s testing me, trying to see what my reaction will be, and I try hard to school my features and appear unphased by her suggestion.

  Clearing my throat, I start, “I can’t afford to be short-handed right now.”

  “I’m sure you could find someone else—some man, because it’s obvious you don’t want a woman working in your bar.”

  She’s always been so fucking good at playing devil’s advocate.

  “I could,” I reply, calling her bluff. I know it’s a bluff because Sarah has expressed how much she likes Avery and I know she wouldn’t want her jobless. She knows as much as I do that Avery needs a paycheck. She’s all alone in the city, trying to save up enough money to get an apartment. If I fired her, she’d be heading back to Oklahoma in a week. And she doesn’t want that.

  Not that it matters what Avery wants, but to many people’s dismay, I’m not a heartless bastard.

  “What’s the deal, Shaw?” Sarah’s tone is now level and she’s giving me her take-no-bullshit stare.

  “There’s no deal.”

  “You followed her to Bourbon last night,” she deadpans, like it’s common knowledge.

  My eyes grow wide without my permission and she quirks an eyebrow at the change in expression.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t,” I deny. Deny until proven guilty, that’s what my gut is telling me to do.

  “So, Paulie’s a liar now?” she asks with a tilt of her head.

  Fucking Paulie and his big mouth.

  At some point in our working relationship, his loyalty to Sarah surpassed his loyalty to me. I don’t know when it happened and I know there’s not shit I can do about it. With a huff, I look away from her, feeling a tinge of guilt and something else creeping in...embarrassment? Vulnerability? I’m not sure, but it’s fucking uncomfortable and making me want to get up and walk out. It wouldn’t do any good though, because Sarah knows all of my hiding places and she’d find me.

  “Why’d you follow her?” she presses.

  “I didn’t.” My response comes out defensive and I roll my shoulders in an effort to get myself in check. “I wasn’t following her,” I start again and this time, my tone is more level, quieter. “I decided to walk home and took the long way around.”

  “To Bourbon Street?” she asks incredulously. “You hate Bourbon Street.”

  Growling, I stand from the stool and push away from the counter. “Fine, I went to make sure she was okay. She left with the kid and I still don’t trust him. Karin, the lady who runs Charity House where he stays, told me last week she thinks he might still be using. I don’t want Avery getting mixed up with a guy like him. He’s not good enough for her. And I didn’t want him taking advantage of her...” I trail off because I’ve already said enough. The next thing that would’ve come out of my mouth would’ve been too incriminating, too telling. The thought alone is enough to make me want to punch walls, because it’s happening without my permission—out of my control.

  I care about her.

  “When did you stop wearing your wedding band?” Sarah asks after a few long, silent moments. Her question isn’t accusatory or judgmental. It’s knowing and accepting. Maybe that’s why my heart doesn’t squeeze at the realization. Or maybe because it’s time.

  “It’s been five years,” is my response and Sarah accepts it without pause or needing further explanation, and I’m thankful, because I don’t think I have the energy or strength to let down the necessary walls for that conversation without them crumbling. Besides that, my answer is a true one. It’s been five years. Some days have felt like years and some years have felt like days, but something happened last month...on our fifteenth wedding anniversary...it felt like a release, like the universe was telling me it was okay.

  I can move on.

  I’m not sure if I’m ready, but taking the ring off was the first step in testing the waters.

  “Maybe you should take a night off from the bar? I could use the help,” Sarah says, continuing her work as she goes back to slicing some delicious looking bell peppers. “We’re making shrimp creole and I know it’s one of your favorites.”

  Sliding back onto the barstool, I decide to take her up on it. Maybe that’s exactly what I need—a night off to get my head on straight and refortify my walls.

  “Are you gonna feed me?” I ask, stealing a slice of pepper and popping it in my mouth, crunching loudly and earning myself a swat and a laugh.

  Chapter 11

  Avery

  Yawning, I sit up in bed and rub my eyes.

  I’m tired.

  It’s hard being a natural morning person and working at a bar. I’m up until at least two every morning, but by seven o’clock, my body is telling me to rise and shine. I blame it on being raised on a farm. Every morning growing up, if I wasn’t up and dressed, sitting at the kitchen table by seven, my mama was banging on my door. Are you gonna sleep your life a
way, Avery?

  Daylight’s burnin’, my dad would always say.

  There’s a small tug on my heart that always comes with my mama and daddy’s words. Man, I miss them. Homesick isn’t really the word for it, but I do miss my parents and grandparents and the farm. At some point, I’ll have to go home for a visit, but not until I’m settled here in an apartment. Without a place to call my own, New Orleans still feels like a vacation—temporary. I want permanence.

  Thankfully, I’ve officially saved up a thousand dollars since I’ve been here. Adding that to the little I have left over from what I started out with, I officially have enough to start apartment hunting. So, that’s my agenda this morning. I’m hoping to find something close to the bar so I don’t have to depend on public transportation or walk any further to and from work.

  Shaw’s already gone out of his way to make sure someone walks me home every night. Usually, it’s Paulie and I feel bad, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It’s never Jeremy and I’m not sure why or what to make of that. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Shaw is trying to keep me and Jeremy from spending time together outside of work. But that’s crazy, because why would he care?

  Growling out my frustration, I flip the blanket back and slide my feet to the floor.

  Shaw is frustrating.

  And maddening.

  And confusing.

  And difficult.

  And opinionated.

  And sexy as hell.

  I hate it.

  I hate that I’m attracted to him. I don’t even like to admit it to myself, but I can’t help it. It’s true. He’s got this mysterious vibe that makes me want to know more about him. I want to know what makes him tick. I want to know why he watches everyone from that damned dark corner. I want to know why he’s so aloof. I want to know why he hides behind his fierce facade. Because deep under that thick skin of his, I know there’s something softer. I’ve seen it in the way he cares about people, even when he acts like a dick. It’s there.

  Take Charlie for instance. He’s the newest employee at Come Again, and even as an employee, I knew we didn’t need another hand right now. The bar is totally covered. Paulie practically runs the place blindfolded. Then, you’ve got Kevin who’s been there a while. He’s quiet, keeps to himself, and mans the floor like a champ. Jeremy is turning out to be a great bartender. He’s got a great connection with the customers, especially the younger crowd. On most nights, it only takes two of us behind the bar, leaving the rest to keep the place in order and make sure people don’t destroy it. So, Charlie’s been taking out trash and wiping down tables, but those are things someone else could be doing.

  And I know, if someone else showed up in Shaw’s alley tomorrow, he’d find them a place to work too. He’d also clothe and feed them and find them a place to live.

  Shaw O’Sullivan, while he might seem like an asshole and control freak, is a genuinely nice guy. He’s good people, and so is Sarah. I really like her.

  She’s been coming around the bar more frequently in the past week.

  The night after Bourbon Street—which was probably a one and done for me, because holy headache, Batman—Shaw wasn’t at the bar. I assumed he was sick or took the night off, but just about the time we were finishing up with the mopping, he and Sarah showed up with shrimp creole for everyone. It was leftovers from the cooking class and it was amazing—easily the best meal I’d eaten since the last time Shaw fed me at his apartment.

  Yesterday morning, at our weekly staff meeting, she showed up with donuts.

  She’s kind, but she also doesn’t take shit from Shaw. Their relationship is sweet. I can tell they’re close and probably have been their whole lives. I missed out on that kind of relationship because I don’t have siblings. When I was little, I’d sometimes pretend I did, somewhat of imaginary friends. My mama thought there was something wrong with me and took me to the pediatrician, but the doctor told her I just had a good imagination.

  One thing I’ve noticed about Shaw when Sarah is around is that he doesn’t seem to have his gargantuan walls up. There are cracks in his armor and slivers of a different Shaw shine through.

  Enough thinking about Shaw, I sigh, pushing up off the mattress. I have an apartment out there waiting for me to find, so I get up and make my bed, tidying up my small space before showering and dressing for the day.

  An hour later, I’m out the door and making my way to Jackson Square. I can’t start my hunt without being sufficiently caffeinated.

  “There you are,” CeCe calls out when she sees me come through the door. “I was starting to think you did something completely insane like sleep in.” She makes a mock face of astonishment before her pretty face splits into a smile.

  “You know I can’t sleep in,” I tell her, rolling my eyes. “Lord knows I try, but it’s futile. My farm-raised self just can’t. When the sun shines, I’m up.”

  CeCe hands a customer his coffee, smiling as she takes his money. “You should run a coffee shop. It’s like you were born for it,” she says, handing him his change. “Have a great day,” she tells him, before turning back to me. “Me, on the other hand, I could sleep my life away, but alas, I cannot. It’s the early bird life for me.”

  “We should totally switch lives,” I tease.

  “We should, but I don’t think I could work for Shaw O’Sullivan. I swear, that man never smiles. It’d drive me batty.”

  I laugh, leaning onto the counter. “You know what, it’s true. I’ve never seen it. Maybe he’s missing the muscles for smiling?”

  CeCe’s eyes go a bit out of focus and she sighs dreamily. “Well, he’s not missing muscles anywhere else. Maybe he could take some from that amazing six-pack.”

  My throat suddenly feels tight and I’m forced to clear my throat. “You’ve, uh...you’ve seen his, uh, six-pack?” I ask, feeling my cheeks tinge red with heat.

  “Oh, yeah.” CeCe nods. “A few months ago, my friend, Carys, who owns the Blue Bayou Hotel, was having a grand re-opening. He was the bartender for the evening, and I’d stopped by to drop off some of my coffee equipment, and he was just there, in the courtyard, unloading a few crates of wine and beer...with his shirt off.” The way CeCe relays that last part makes it sound scandalous, which according to my overactive imagination, it is.

  Shaw without a shirt is probably down right sinful.

  I lick my lips because they suddenly feel extremely dry. As a matter-of-fact, my whole mouth is dry. “I’m parched,” I squeak out, making CeCe laugh. “I need coffee. Make it iced.”

  “I think you need to tap that.”

  My eyes grow wide and I nearly choke on my tongue. “What?” I ask in disbelief and shock. “Why would you say that? I mean...he’s my boss, for one...and he’s old...-er...than me. And he’s surly and rude and confusing.” I look at her and watch as she gets pleasure from my discomfort and a knowing smile forms on her lips.

  CeCe shrugs. “I’m just saying, someone should tap that.”

  Someone? As in, just any person? Her statement has me picturing Shaw with a woman—any woman—and my face heats up for an entirely different reason. Something resembling jealousy bubbles up inside me.

  Thankfully, CeCe has her back to me as she starts making my iced cappuccino, so she doesn’t see my momentary lapse.

  By the time she turns back around, I’ve managed to school my features and put on an unaffected smile as I take the coffee from her and change the subject. “I’m going to look for an apartment today.”

  “Baby, I’m sure you’ll find the perfect place,” my mama says gently into the phone. I’ve been lamenting to her about my unsuccessful apartment hunting trip yesterday. Everything was either too far or too expensive. Even with my thousand dollars that I’ve saved up, it wouldn’t be enough to pay first month’s rent and security deposits. “And if you need help, you know all you have to do is ask. I’ll send you some money and you can pay me back when you come home for Thanksgiving.”

  I’m pretty sure that’s
her way of ensuring I’ll be home for Thanksgiving, to which I haven’t made any promises.

  “No, Mama. I’m an adult. I moved here on my own. I’ll figure out a place to live on my own.” I huff into the phone, partly from exasperation and partly from exhaustion. I’m running a little late for work, so I’ve been jogging and talking at the same time, and now I’m breathing hard like I just ran a marathon.

  Shit, I need to start exercising more regularly. I walk everywhere, but I miss my trips to the gym. When I lived in Houston, we had a gym at our apartment complex and I went every day and ran the treadmill and did strength training on the machines.

  I wonder if Shaw would let me use his exercise equipment? I smirk and cock an eyebrow at the thought, my mind immediately drifting to a visual of him shirtless...working up a sweat.

  “Avery?” my mama says, her voice a little loud in an effort to get my attention.

  “Sorry,” I tell her, hopping up onto the sidewalk out front of Come Again. “I’m at work, Mama. I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay, baby. Have a good night and be safe.”

  “Always, Mama.”

  “Promise?” she asks in a hesitant tone. It’s not like her to linger, so I immediately respond, “Promise,” in an effort to ease whatever worries she might be having.

  “I hate you walking those streets late at night. I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Mama, I told you, Paulie walks me home.”

  “But I don’t even know this Paulie,” she says, her voice rising in volume again.

  “He’s a good guy, older guy...very honest and hardworking,” I assure. “Just think of someone like Daddy, maybe a little younger. Salt of the earth, I swear.”

  “Okay,” she finally says with a sigh.

  “Trust me, Mama.”

  “I trust you. It’s everyone else I don’t trust. Thanksgiving can’t get here fast enough. I need to lay eyes on you and see for myself that you’re good.”