by Quinn Nolan
A red-faced man at the nearest table waves his hand and Teresa excuses herself to help him. Although this man isn’t a regular, she treats him like they’re old friends, swatting at him familiarly and laughing at what he says. She flits around the table, taking orders from his companions, being sure her body comes into contact with each of them in some way. This is why she makes such better tips than I do. I don’t want to say she flirts with the customers, but she’s got a familiar way with them—men and women—that makes them feel comfortable, makes them feel guilty for not leaving her a chunk of change at the end of the night. I’m friendly with everyone, but my tips are always noticeably less, no matter whether I’m working the bar or the dining room. Just one more thing to pretend I’m not jealous about.
When Teresa finishes taking the orders, she heads toward the bar and I follow, helping her pour pints. “Your boy Graham, there,” she says as though our conversation never paused, “is the kind of guy who’s all about the chase, the conquest. Makes sense, really. I mean, he’s a musician, and I don’t think I have to tell you they seem to have a swooning effect on women. My guess? He’s been playing music for a while, got his fill of easy fan girls years ago, and now wants to prove something by getting girls who aren’t into him.” She reaches over and turns off the tap I’m pulling from just as beer starts sloshing over the sides, covering my hand.
Cursing, I pull my hand away, shaking it and watching amber droplets sprinkle the floor. She hands me a rag and I pat myself dry and wipe the side of the glass. She sets the five glasses on a circular tray, and I follow her out from behind the bar. “So, I have to play hard to get?”
She gives me another pity sigh. “Oh, hon. That horse is already out of the gate. He knows you’re interested. I mean, how can he not?”
We’ve reached the table and Teresa paints on her server smile, passing out beers to the appropriate patrons. I try to smile as I watch her—I don’t want to look pissed because that makes my tips even worse—but even without seeing it, I know it looks forced. It’s like my face is hard plaster, resisting the curl of my lips.
When Teresa’s done, I lead the way back to the bar. “What do I do, then? If he already knows I’m interested?”
She tilts her head to the side, something like an expectant school teacher. “I think you already know the answer. Just think—when has he actually shown interest in you?”
I know the answer, but I don’t want to admit it. He stared at me from the stage at his show this weekend—but only after I was on the dance floor with Everett. And today, after I blundered about my relationship to Everett, Graham lost interest in our conversation entirely.
“It’s too bad you didn’t get that hottie’s number this weekend,” Teresa says as if she can read my thoughts. “If Graham saw you were into some other guy, it might hurt his man-pride enough to—”
“To what? Trick him into hitting on me?” I don’t like playing games, and that’s exactly what this sounds like. It’s like high school all over again and I’m overhearing the popular girls go on about how they’d manipulate their boyfriends into doing things for them or buying them gifts. Not that I had anyone to manipulate at the time, but I promised myself that when I did, I wouldn’t resort to those kind of tactics.
Teresa brushes my shoulder with her palm, fixing her big, luminescent brown eyes on me. “I was gonna say to get him to wake up and see how amazing you are. Because when he sees that, there’s no way he won’t be interested.”
My eyes prickle and I blink several times to make sure tears don’t gather. Teresa’s always saying things like this. It’s like compliments come as naturally to her as breathing. It’s one of many reasons I can overlook the fact that I should feel entirely inferior around her grace, charm, and beauty and we can exist as friends. Over her shoulder, someone flags me down for a refill and she swats my butt as I pass.
Is she right? Do I have to pique Graham’s interest by appearing unavailable—or at the very least, distracted? And if that’s the case, if I’ve got to play a game for him to notice me, wouldn’t it be better just to cut my losses and look for another guy to be interested in?
But feelings aren’t that easy to turn off. Graham’s been buzzing in my mind for weeks. The way he sings, the way he closes his eyes sometimes when the lyrics are too beautiful to bear—I want to know him. I want to know the mind behind the man, to feel those strong hands holding mine, pressed against my back as we slow dance...
The face in my mind isn’t Graham’s, it’s Everett’s. Despite our last encounter, he was helpful—kind even—at the show Saturday night. He said all he wanted was to help me, and what did I do? I trampled on his assistance and insulted him to boot. I can only hope I didn’t burn that bridge so badly I can’t cross over it.
I’m a girl who gets what she works for. And I want to work for Graham’s attention, his affection. And if it means I have to grovel, so be it.
I refill a couple beers, give samples to newcomers at the bar, and cash out people ready to leave. As soon as there’s a break in the action, I ask Teresa to keep an eye on things for a minute.
Her eyebrows pull together. “Why? What’s up?”
I bite my lower lip. I was afraid she’d ask this, but I’m ready with a reply. I tamp down the guilt of telling another lie this evening. “It’s not exactly true that I don’t have that guy’s number. I... uh... I think he felt bad at the gas station this morning and he gave it to me.”
Teresa nudges my shoulder. “Damn, girl! What are you waiting for, then?”
Heart pounding, I head down the hall, past the bathrooms to the right, straight back to the brewery. It’s the only quiet place in the whole pub. I pull out my cell and dial the number to the beach house before I can chicken out. Of course, I don’t actually have his number. But dialing the house phone gives me a chance. As the line rings, I can only hope Everett will pick up.
Two rings. Three. Four. I sink my upper teeth into my lower lip. He won’t answer. Why would he? First of all, who uses a land line anymore? And secondly, why would he answer the phone in a house he’s renting?
Five rings. Six...
“Hello?” Everett’s voice holds an edge of confusion.
“Everett?” I clear my throat. “Everett, it’s Ashlyn.”
He exhales deeply into the phone’s speaker, like an ocean wave crashing in my ear. “Oh. It’s you. Let me guess? You’re gonna be using a chainsaw tomorrow and just wanted to give me fair warning?”
I can’t tell whether his tone is teasing or sarcastic. Crossing my fingers it’s the former, I press on. “Look... I know our last conversation didn’t go particularly well, but...” I sigh. What am I doing? Why would he agree to help after the kind of jerk I was yesterday?
He’s silent on the other line, waiting for me to go on. Either that, or he hung up the phone. I glance at my screen, but the little call timer is still ticking, counting the seconds of silence that stretch out between us, traveling through the invisible lines connecting me to him.
I bite the inside of my cheeks, using the pain to jolt me back to my purpose. I called for a reason and I won’t hang up until I’ve at least said it. Maybe begged. “I need you,” I blurt, heat immediately rising in my cheeks when I hear what I sound like. “I mean—I need your help. Graham’s here at the brewpub and my friend says he’ll only pay attention to me if he thinks I’m interested in someone else and it worked so well the other night I was thinking maybe you could come here and, I dunno, make him think you’re interested in me so he pays attention to me.” I take in a deep breath.
He’s quiet for so long I check the call timer again to be sure he’s still there. “Everett?”
“I’m just not seeing what’s in this for me.”
I hadn’t considered that. Of course he’d want something out of coming to my rescue—again—especially after the way I treated him. But what could I possibly have to give? Not money. Not only do I not have a ton of it, but he’s probably got more than he could ever
spend already. Maybe I could offer to fix him up with Teresa? My stomach twists at the idea so I push it from my mind. What could a girl like me have to offer a guy like him? “Your music,” I say, an idea taking shape. “You’re here to write music, right? Well, I can be a sounding board. You can play me things and I’ll give you an honest opinion about them.”
He sucks his teeth. “How do I know you won’t record me and leak new stuff on the internet?”
“I signed an NDA,” I say quickly. “And my job is worth more than fifteen minutes of online publicity.”
He hums and I hold my breath. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m bored. There’s nothing good on TV.”
I can’t tell whether he’s being serious.
“You gonna tell me where I need to be or not?”
Chapter Five
Everett
What the hell is wrong with me?
I grip the steering wheel tighter than normal as I cruise down Jefferson Avenue, keeping my eyes peeled for the Shores Brewpub. I shouldn’t go out tonight. I shouldn’t’ve gone out this weekend, either. If Somer finds out I’m in public again, he’ll be pissed as hell. But no one’s gonna recognize me.
I hope.
What I told Ashlyn was partially true—there is nothing good on TV. I flicked through all the channels twice. I spent the whole day working on songs and have a couple possibilities to send to the label at the end of the week, but I can’t bring myself to word smith or play my guitar any more today. My creative brain’s mush and needs the evening to recuperate.
That’s all this is. Recuperation time. No matter how many times I tell myself that, I can’t convince myself it’s true.
The brewpub is impossible to miss: The sign, though not gaudy, is bright and sticks out amid the other buildings. I pull into the parking lot and search for a space. I’ll go in, I’ll do my bit, and I’ll go home. Maybe I’ll even get a free beer or two out of it. And, most importantly, I’ll get Ashlyn’s ear. After the last few tunes I submitted to the label flopped so bad, I can’t trust my own instincts anymore.
The evening air is still warm, with a hint of humidity pressing against my bare arms as I get out of the rental car. The scent of fried food mingles with the wet, fishy scent of the water. I can’t see the lake from here, but it can’t be far.
I enter the pub behind a group of twenty-somethings who are clearly on a group date. The girls cling to the arms of the guys beside them as if afraid they might float away. That’s the thing with girlfriends: They hang on. They weigh you down.
The inside of the pub is buzzing with energy and conversation. More than half the tables are filled, along with most of the seats at the bar. A fair turnout for a Sunday night. Above the hum of voices is the steady strum of an acoustic guitar. To my left is a low stage. Graham sits on a stool, eyes partially closed as he sings a song that’s vaguely familiar. Like something I’d hear on the radio, listen for a few bars, then switch the channel. There’s a blonde at the table nearest him swaying in time with the music, clearly digging it. The other girls sitting with her are chatting amongst themselves. I scan the rest of the room, looking for Ashlyn. She’s behind the bar, smiling broadly at a tall man in his late forties who wears a baseball cap. She’s happier than she was last time I saw her—happier than the first time I saw her. Like she’s in her element. She keeps her attention on the baseball-capped guy, nodding at whatever he’s telling her, as she picks up a clean pint glass and fills it. She doesn’t even watch while the dark liquid pours into the glass, but she’s able to cut off the flow before it overfills. She sets the drink in front of a thirty-something woman, breaking eye contact with the guy long enough to make sure the other customer is set for the moment.
She’s good at this. Like, really good. Watching her is almost like watching poetry—watching music.
I shake the thought from my head. In addition to being ridiculous, it’s unnecessary. I’m not here to compliment her, I’m here to make the singer guy jealous enough to notice her again. That’s it.
I cross to an empty spot at the bar just as she ends her interaction with baseball-cap guy. She notices the seat is filled a split second before realizing I’m the one filling it. The smile on her face flickers—an odd wash of embarrassment and gratefulness splashing across her features. “You’re here.” She reaches across the bar, squeezing my hand. “Thank you.”
She removes her hand and my skin tingles in its absence. “Thank me with a beer.”
She nods. “Of course. What do you want? I can get you a menu—”
“Give me your favorite.”
She bites her lower lip, hesitating. “My favorite?”
I nod. “You can tell a lot about a person from what they drink, don’t you think?” She doesn’t respond and I press on. “What? Don’t tell me. You like something embarrassing. Some fruity chick beer—”
She shakes her head. “You asked for it.” She spins on her heel, picking up a glass as she twirls and bringing it effortlessly beneath one of the dozen taps. I trace the pennies lacquered to the bar top as the glass fills. She slides a napkin in front of me before placing the pint filled with deep brown liquid atop it. “Here’s the deal: You’ve gotta finish it.”
I study the glass, the foamy head atop the beer. “You’re playing a trick, aren’t you? This isn’t your favorite.”
“Why? Because it’s dark? And girls only drink Miller Lite?” She arches her eyebrow, a challenge. With a quick glance to her left and right, she lifts the glass to her lips and takes a couple big sips, smiling as she swallows. “I happen to like my beer like I like my people: complex and unexpected.”
Complex and unexpected. I curl my fingers around the cold glass, pulling it toward me slowly, keeping my eyes on hers the whole time. I bring it to my lips and tip the chilly liquid over my teeth and onto my tongue. I don’t typically put much effort into tasting beer. My dad was big into wine tasting, and I think his pretentious descriptions turned me off to the idea. But now, under Ashlyn’s watchful eye, I try to experience everything about this beer. First, it’s the temperature—the icy, just-from-the-keg frigidness I’m used to. Then there’s the thickness, the viscosity. It’s not as heavy as milk, but it’s thicker than water. On my exhale, there’s a note of cocoa, and when I swallow, there’s a kick on the back end I’m not expecting. Complex and unexpected. She hit it on the head.
“Wow.” I can’t think of anything else to say.
She grins, nodding. “Right? It’s even better as it warms, so don’t drink it all at once.”
I can’t help smiling back. “I promise to restrain myself.”
A tall girl with flawless light brown skin and wavy dark brown hair struts to Ashlyn’s side, her eyes fixed on me. “Is this him?”
Ashlyn’s mouth quirks up in a smile. “Yeah. Teresa, Everett. Everett, Teresa.”
I offer my hand to Teresa and she takes it, her eyes straying to Ashlyn. “Reagan wasn’t lying. He is yum.”
Ashlyn flushes, swatting at her friend’s shoulder, but the words don’t faze me. I’ve seen enough headlines and online comments to be familiar with the way women talk about me. The band’s other guitarist, Chase Whalen, still gets pink in the ears when he reads some of the saucier comments made about himself, but I’m beyond it. If women want to objectify me, they can feel free, so long as they don’t demand my blood when I say a girl’s hot.
Teresa’s warm brown eyes flick back to me and she squints. “You look...a little familiar. Have we met?”
This is what makes my stomach drop. Even in L.A., I don’t get noticed terribly often when I’m around town, mostly because real-Everett and stage-Everett have strikingly different styles. The band has a fashion manager who dresses us strategically for events. When I’m on TV or on stage, I wear more makeup than an old hooker. They’re heavy-handed with the guy-liner, and depending on the lighting situation, sometimes the makeup artist will brush on something called lip stain. Th
e clothes I wear for events are typically from the less-is-more school of thinking—tight pants and shirts—when deemed appropriate—are slashed low in front and at the arms to show flashes of my tats and the abs my trainer helps me keep sculpted. But today my hair is relatively free of product, my face free of makeup, and my clothes a simple graphic tee and jeans. Still, I don’t like the way Teresa looks at me. Some people are better than average at facial recognition, and those people are always the ones who start screaming when they find themselves in line in front of me at the gas station.
“I’ve been told I’ve got that kind of face,” I say. “Besides, I’d remember if I met you.” I toss a grin at her, raking my eyes up and down her body. Flattery is often the best form of distraction.
She flushes and I know my job’s done. What I don’t expect is for Ashlyn to flush, too. She mutters something about checking on another customer and disappears to the other side of the bar.
Teresa gazes fondly at her friend. “It’s good of you to help her. She just doesn’t get it, you know?”
I open my mouth to ask Teresa what she means, but she notices someone waving for her attention and heads off into the table area. I turn toward the stage. Graham’s moved into another song, this one more up-tempo. Since it’s a stripped-down acoustic version, it takes me a second to place, but once I’ve got the thread of the song, I murmur along with it. He’s not bad, actually. I’ve heard some guys kill it when a full band’s behind them but totally fall flat when they’re doing an acoustic set. But he’s got talent, I’ll give him that.
He’s onto a new song and I’m half finished with the beer before Ashlyn makes her way back to me. “So, can you, like, take a break or something? Because there’s no way lover-boy’s gonna notice us way back here.”
She presses her lips together, surveying the bar. The crowd is somewhat thinner than it was when I first arrived. It’s after nine now, and I figure people have to get home to sleep so they can get up and go to work tomorrow—or whatever it is regular people do. Besides her and Teresa, I don’t notice anyone else working the bar. There are some guys back in the kitchen, of course, but I don’t think they can come out and cover her.