by Audrey Bell
“Ah.”
“Don’t tell my boss.” I pushed his drink across the bar.
“I won’t.” He held up crossed fingers and dropped a fifty dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change.”
I picked up the bill and nodded. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said. He sipped his drink. “So, how’s the leg?”
I shrugged. “The same. Still totally fucked.”
“Really? Taylor said you were seeing some guy at Mass General who was—”
“Yeah, that didn’t work out. I’m done.”
He shook his head regretfully. He looked completely put out. “I know a great knee surgeon in Detroit, actually. He works with—”
“Bobby, I’ve had fourteen surgeries. There’s nothing they can do. Trust me.”
He stared at me for a moment. He shook his head again. “Well, look, if you want an NHL job when you graduate, just call me. Call any of us. Everyone knows what a great player you were. I mean, you could scout or…”
“Yeah, I appreciate that,” I nodded. “Thanks.” I would never call any of them. I would never be able to scout. I would never want to.
He looked at me sympathetically. I hated that.
“How are your parents?” he asked me, after a beat.
“Great. My apartment flooded, so I’m staying with them,” I said.
“Ah, how’s that?”
I smiled. “I can’t complain.”
“Yeah, you could. You’re just not going to.”
“Maybe.”
I looked back up at CNN. They were talking about January Cooper again.
“Can you believe that guy?” Hoyle asked.
“No,” I said. “I can’t.”
He shook his head. “His daughter's a fucking knockout, huh?"
I watched her slim figure crossing the pretty fall campus. Her hair falling in front of the dark sunglasses. She looked pretty even when she was scowling. "Yeah. I guess." I looked away, back at Hoyle. "So, how much did Coach pay you to check up on me?" I asked.
He grinned. "I wanted to see you."
"Bullshit," I said. "I don't even want to see me."
He laughed at that. “You’re not that bad.”
"What did he say? He's worried about me?"
"Yeah. Something like that."
"Well, I'm fine," I said. I looked back down at my supply and demand chart. “Tell him that.”
"I know. But you know how he is." He exhaled. “I was glad to hear they're retiring Sam's number," he said. "It's the right thing to do."
“They’re what?” I asked, startled.
“Retiring Sam’s number?” he asked. “You didn’t know?” He furrowed his brow. “Think the ceremony’s around Christmas.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I think your parents…wanted it.” He grimaced. “Sorry, I thought you knew.”
My stomach lurched. I nodded. “Great. That’s great.”
I could already imagine what a horror show that would be. Everyone would feel like it was some amazing thing. They'd play some music, talk about what a great kid Sam was, and someone, probably my mother, would be handed a microphone to thank everyone. And she'd start crying.
And everyone would feel a lot better about things. Because they hung a piece of cloth from the rafters with his name on it and applauded.
“It’s a good thing,” he said.
I shook my head, stunned. “Yeah.” I nodded. “Okay. Yeah, I guess I’ll see you at that, then.”
“You sure you can’t get the night off for the game?”
“I could get the night off.”
“So, why don’t you?”
“Because I’d rather have a root canal than watch a hockey game,” I said bitterly.
Bobby flinched in surprise.
Good. I thought. Maybe he’d fucking drop it.
He didn’t drop it. He apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.” He rubbed his chin regretfully. “I understand. But, listen, if you need anything, let me know.”
He stayed a while longer, trying to make me laugh. I played along, grinning at his jokes, refilling his drink, letting him tip me another fifty dollars before he left. He wanted to believe that he could do something for me. But there wasn’t anything he could do.
But there are some things that you don't get back.
There are some losses that are permanent.
January
I had sort of expected things to die down after a few days. But nothing had died down. Everyone still stared at me in class. Photographers actually followed me around.
I tried to meet with the deans to see if they could help me figure out a job on campus, or if there was anything they could do to keep the press from following me around. But I could see how much they hated me for dragging Harvard’s name through the mud. And it took all I had to keep from bursting into tears when they suggested I try to ignore them.
The only place where I felt like I could cry was the shower, and a reporter from the New York Post stuck his head through the frosted window of the bathroom one morning, trying to get an interview with some of the girls who lived on my hall. So, that was out too.
And then Tyler called me on the crap go-phone I bought at Target to break up with me. I was furious.
“I'm a hundred percent sure I already dumped you twice.”
“Listen, January. I don't know what we're doing, but I want it to stop.”
"We aren't doing anything! I broke up with you. In order for you to break up with me, I'd have to get back together with you first and that would never, ever happen,” I told him, hanging up the phone before he could offer some stupid explanation.
Tyler. Schuyler. I should never have gone for the first guy who spoke to me after Schuyler cheated and I definitely should not have picked someone with a rhyming name.
Listen, January. I don't know what we're doing, but I want it to stop. What a lunatic.
“I need a job,” I told Schuyler on Friday, after I found him curled up with Katelyn on the filthy polyester blend carpet that covered our dorm room’s floor.
“You both are going to catch something down there.”
“Oh, yeah, I got your weed. It’s on the refrigerator.”
“Job. I said job. I need a job. Not drugs."
“Oh.”
“Any ideas?” I asked them both.
“That bar is hiring. McSorley’s,” Schuyler said.
“How do you know?”
“There's a sign on the door."
“What kind of job?” Katelyn asked. "I know this really awesome jewelry designer looking for an intern."
The really awesome jewelry designer was Clarissa. She had invited us to a party the night before where the theme was jewelry-making. It was slave labor disguised as a party aka the worst thing ever.
“The kind that pays money,” I said.
“I’m sure your parents have an account somewhere for emergencies,” Katelyn said.
“You’re sure? Really? Because I’m sure that all of our money is gone."
“I thought they were out on bail or whatever.”
I scowled. “Why are we talking about my parents? They are not going to be able to hire me.”
“McSorley’s,” Schuyler repeated.
I exhaled. "There has to be somewhere else."
"That pays money?" Schuyler asked, cocking his head.
"Yes."
"No, there’s nowhere else.”
I wondered what the chances were that Christian Cutlass hired me.
I’m sure I’d seemed unemployable the night we met. I'm pretty sure I was unemployable, but if I'd known I'd end up asking him for a job, I could've made a much better impression.
I had spent all of my time on campus, using my student ID to purchase prepaid meals at the dining hall. I'd scrounged together enough cash for a thirty-five dollar flip phone and 20 minutes. But I needed to get real. I needed a job. Desperately.
Even if it me
ant making a fool of myself in front of Christian Cutlass again.
"So, do you know who I should send my résumé to? Like an email address?"
“Mm. No. But maybe you should mail it to them. A good idea would be to call and see if they have an email address or an HR department,” Schuyler said authoritatively.
God, he was stupid. “A bar doesn’t have an HR department, Schuyler.”
“Oh.” He gave me a blank stare.
I looked at Katelyn. She rolled her eyes.
“Well, can I borrow your car at least?”
Schuyler looked at me and stuffed a donut in his mouth. He said nothing.
"Schuyler?"
"I lost it," he said with his mouth full.
“You lost your car?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it’s gone.”
Katelyn kissed him and giggled when powdered sugar sprinkled all over her nose.
I suppressed my gag reflex.
I printed my résumé, grabbed a coat, and headed out on the half-hour trek to the bar. The photographers thankfully, had left for the day. Which was nice.
I walked alone. It was peaceful. Along the busy road, nobody really knew who I was except for me. And even I could almost forget that I was January Cooper.
The bar had a hand-painted wooden sign out front with peeling red letters from years of long, Boston winters.
The bar's hours announced they didn't open until 5:00 PM, but the door was unlocked. I pushed it open.
Inside, it was shockingly silent and clean and it looked smaller. I'd only come here when it was packed with people too wasted to walk and the music was turned all the way up.
"We're closed." The young bartender—not Christian—didn’t look up from the cash register, which he punched repeatedly, but calmly in an effort to get it to open. “Come back at five.”
"I'm here about a job?”
"Well, why didn't you say so?" He looked up, with a smile. And when he saw me, he smiled wider. “Ah, hell no. You’re that girl.” I flinched. “Christian!"
"That's okay," I said automatically. "That’s okay. Don’t bother. I’m going to—”
I heard Christian’s voice: "If you still can't figure out how to open the fucking register, Darrin, I'm..."
Christian stopped talking when he saw me. "Oh."
Darrin shoved Christian’s shoulder. “Remember her?”
Christian muttered what sounded like a threat to Darrin who just laughed.
“Hey,” Christian said throatily.
He had these eyes. They were blue and they looked bluer because he had a dark head of hair. They were soulful, in some way; they seemed to say things that I knew he’d probably never say aloud.
“Hey,” I said, after a second.
He stared at me briefly and then broke his gaze. “Well, you’ve had a hell of a week.”
“Yeah.”
“You holding up okay?”
“I’m great,” I said. I looked around. “You clean up nicely. I mean, the bar. I’ve never seen it during the day.”
“Yeah, well,” he rubbed the back of his head. “Thanks.” He wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. It made him look younger. I glanced at Darrin, wishing he hadn’t recognized me. It would’ve been a lot easier to ask him to hire me.
"She wants a job," Darrin said tactlessly. “So, you should maybe interview her.”
“Get lost, Darrin,” Christian said.
“What? She does!”
“I do,” I said. “My ex-boyfriend said you were hiring.”
He smiled. “Tyler?”
“Ah, no, actually. Schuyler.”
He cocked his head. “I thought his name was Tyler.”
"Well, it is,” I explained. “Schuyler came before Tyler.”
He bit back a smile. “I see.”
"You can say it,” I said.
“Say what?”
“Whatever it is you just stopped yourself from saying.”
“Their names rhyme.”
“I’m aware.”
He laughed. “So, was there a Kyler?”
“No.”
“Myler?’
“Nope.”
“Dyler.”
“So do you want to give me a job?"
“Here?” He kept smiling.
“Yes. Here. Unless you have any other businesses.”
He considered me for a second. "Do you even know how to bartend?"
I looked around. “Yeah. Definitely.”
“So, what goes in a gimlet?”
“Gin and lime.”
Thank you, Mom.
“What about a Cosmopolitan?”
“What kind of loser orders a Cosmopolitan?”
He smiled. “You’d be surprised.”
“Well.”
“I thought that would be a softball for you.”
“That’s not very nice.”
He chuckled. “So, what’s one, January?”
“No clue.”
“So, you don’t know how to bartend.”
I looked at him blankly. "Did you know how to make every drink under the sun when you started?"
"No, but I was honest about it."
"Okay, I don't know how to bartend," I said. "But, I’ll learn fast. And I’m desperate. I’ll work whatever hours you want. Please.”
He looked at me warily. “It's not up to me. But Kevin is going to want someone who knows what they're doing.”
“Please. I seriously—I'll do whatever you need. Please."
“Aw, come on. Don’t do that,” he said.
“Do what?” I asked. I cleared my voice. What did he mean? That I shouldn’t look at him?
“Look, Kevin’s going to ask you to make drinks.”
“Well, show me how,” I said softly. "Look." I took a breath. "I know what you think."
"No, you don't,” he said simply.
"Well, I can imagine what you think," I said. I lowered my voice, looking down the bar, because I was pretty sure Darrin was hanging onto our every word. "I was kind of freaked that morning. I mean…" I took a breath. "It had nothing to do with you or your...I wanted to thank you, but…" I stopped. This wasn't going anywhere. "Regardless of what you think," I said. "I'll do a good job. I swear.”
Christian exhaled. He smiled. “Look, I wish…”
“Cutlass. Come on!" The bar manager strode out from a back room. "There's five grand worth of alcohol unattended out back. Go unload it." He jerked his head at the backroom.
"I got it," Darrin volunteered.
Christian smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, Kevin," he indicated at me vaguely. "Got distracted."
The manager looked to be about thirty, with watery blue eyes—Irish eyes—that you could believe had stayed up too late, and a beer belly just hidden underneath an oversized navy shirt.
Christian looked so much better in the same shirt, you could hardly tell they were matching.
The manager looked me over. "This your girlfriend, Cutlass?"
"No, sir," Christian said.
He smiled at me. “Well, sweetheart, we’re closed. Come back in an hour.” The manager glanced at Christian and then at me.
“Actually, I’m looking for a job. Christian said you were hiring." I smiled as sweetly as I knew how.
"Here?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.
Christian looked at me warily. If he asked me if I knew what I was doing, I'd be honest. No, I couldn't bartend per se.
"Cutlass, does she know what she's doing?"
Christian cringed. He took a sharp breath and exhaled heavily. "Well…”
“Yes or no?”
Cooper shook his head slightly, like he could not believe he’d been put in this position. “Yeah. Yeah, she knows what she’s doing.”
I smiled broadly at him. Thank you, I mouthed. He met my eyes. He didn't look exactly thrilled.
“Job’s yours. Can you start right now?” he asked.
I nodded. “Definitely.”
Christian shook his head
vehemently behind the manager's back at me. I gave him a quizzical look. "Thank you," I added, smiling.
Christian shook his head twice more.
“Great,” he said. “My name's Kevin McSorley. That idiot is Darrin, and you know this idiot already." He smiled, knocking Christian's chest.
Christian grimaced.
"Um, well, I'm January. It's nice to meet you."
“January. Very cool name. Good to have you on board.” He shook my hand. "Christian, show her the ropes. I think we should have some small t-shirts in the backroom."
When he disappeared, I turned to Christian: “Thank you so much. Seriously. I’m really grateful. You won’t regret it.”
Christian leaned both of his fists on the bar and shook his head. “Are you kidding me?”
I looked at him blankly. Was he seriously mad? “What do you mean?”
“Why did you tell him you could start tonight? It’s Friday,” he said. “And you don’t know how to make anything.”
I hesitated. "Oh." I lifted my shoulders. "You said I knew what I was doing, and I thought...I was supposed to play along..." My voice trailed off lamely.
"Yeah. I was going to show you," he said. “This weekend. Not on Friday, when every douche bag in the world wants their drink right now."
"Well, I'm quick on my feet."
"I bet,” he muttered.
"I am."
He shook his head regretfully, "I give you half an hour."
“Until what?”
“You start crying.”
“Please,” I said. “I’m not that pathetic.”
He looked at me. “Fifteen minutes.”
At some point in high school, I'd learned how to bluff. Lock eyes, lift your chin. Up north, thicken your accent just enough to sound really southern. Make whoever it is that you need to believe you think that you might just be completely out of your mind. I tossed my hair and stared him down. “Listen, pal, I can handle this. So, why don’t you stop screwing around and tell me what I need to know, okay?”
He cocked his head and studied me. "Does that actually work for you?"
Fuck.
He laughed when he saw my expression.
That had always worked for me.
I glowered. "Fine. I'll tell him something came up."
"No, no, no. That will make you seem like you’re psychotic. Which wouldn't be good for me, sweetheart, because I just told him to hire you."
I took a breath. "Don’t call me sweetheart.”
“I just got you a goddamn job. I’ll call you whatever the hell I feel like.”