I talk into his shoulder. “I can start right now.”
He leans back, humor dancing in his eyes. “At least take the day and get settled, though I wouldn’t say no to you hanging around and watching the comings and goings if you’d like a little education about what you’re getting into. Tonight’s two-dollar drafts, so it’ll be a busy one.”
As he says it, I can see a flash of weariness in the depths of his eyes, though he hides it quickly behind a blink. Even as he straightens his back, looking strong and formidable, I know what I saw. He’s tired after doing this on his own for so long. But I’m here to help now.
“I’m your girl.”
Chapter 2
Willow
I set my bag down in the living room of the short-term rental my mom is paying for since she’s the one who sent me off on this adventure. It’s an end unit in a small row of houses that look like small summer camp cabins, with white siding and green trim. From here, I can see everything but the single bedroom. The living room has a small fake leather couch in bright red, the kitchen’s wood cabinets are painted a sunny pale yellow, and the Formica table and vinyl chairs remind me of a 1950s diner. It’s nice, bright, and cheery.
Who am I kidding? It’s better than my studio apartment in the city that’s more of a walk-in closet than living space. But that’s home. This . . . isn’t.
I walk down the hall, not surprised to see a small but cute bedroom. The full-size bed is a bit tight for two people, not that I’ll be sharing it with anyone, and decorated with more pillows than I can possibly ever use in the few months I’ll be staying here. I toss my duffel bag of clothes onto the closet floor, though I promise myself to hang stuff up later, and carefully set my camera bag on the chest of drawers.
Home, sweet home.
I take a shower, letting the hot water wash the stress of the drive and the nerves of seeing Uncle Hank for the first time in years down the drain with the sudsy water. After, I use the hand towel to swipe the fog off the mirror and stare into my own eyes, gray just like Mom’s and Grandma’s. I never gave them much thought. They’re just what looks back at me from my reflection. Now, I wonder if they mean something more . . . to Unc. Does it hurt him to look at me? Hurting him is the last thing I want to do. I want to help him.
All right Willow, get it together. Tonight is no big deal. Go in there, watch Unc, and maybe serve some beers. That’s it, easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.
The pep talk doesn’t work. I don’t believe me, either.
Hank’s is a madhouse. I have worked bars that would kill for this kind of crowd on a weekend night, much less a Thursday. But two-dollar drafts are apparently the magic ticket that brings people in. There’s a line of people waiting to play pool in some self-organized version of a tournament, Ilene’s bell is going off almost non-stop, though her smile never falters, and Unc is pacing back and forth behind the bar to keep up.
I can’t sit back and watch anymore.
I get up from the spot where he put me to ‘watch and learn’ and walk behind the bar to wash my hands in the sink.
“What’re ya doing?” Unc snaps. I’d be worried he would shoo me out of his area if his hands weren’t full of drinks and Olivia wasn’t tapping her empty and waiting tray on the bar in time to the country music playing.
“Helping. You do the beers, keeping them rolling. I’ll do the mixed drinks.”
Under normal circumstances, it’d be the opposite. You’d put your newbie on the beers because is a drunk guy really going to notice the difference in a draft Miller Light and a Coors Light? The answer’s no. Mixed drinks are a fickle creature, though, and people want that one thing they had that one time in some random bar, but they don’t remember what was in it, only that it was red, and they’re pissed at me when I don’t know exactly what they’re talking about. Or they read some snobby article online about top ten mixed drinks you need to try before you die and decide to order one, even though they don’t even know what’s in it. Newsflash, if you order something with bitters or sour mix, you’re going to get something with bite.
But this isn’t that crowd. The beers are the busiest station and will let Unc stand in one place and quit running himself ragged. And I can sure as hell mix Jack and Cokes all night.