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Like Jenny, sitting at the end of the bar, sipping a martini with a smile on her face. She lost her house and her cat two weeks ago in a fire and is now homeless until her insurance can investigate and help her rebuild.
Pat, sitting next to her in his fancy suit with a whiskey neat, is an attorney in town who comes in nightly to get wasted as a way to avoid dealing with the loss of his wife, who died in a car accident years ago.
Samsun, across the room at the pool tables, is recently divorced, and his teenage kids now live in California with their mom. He hasn’t seen or heard from them in months. And Polly, who is playing pool with him, is a woman searching for companionship or love in all the wrong places, coming back each night to try again.
Scanning the room, going from face-to-face, story to story, I feel a little less alone in the bleakness that has consumed my life.
“Elora.” I come out of my thoughts and look over at Colleen, the manager of The View, the small hotel and bar I work at overlooking Cannon Beach. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I force a smile.
“Then get it together, girl. You’ve got drinks piling up, tables to bus, and customers to check on.”
“Sorry.” I cringe. I might have gotten better at being a server these past few months, but I’m far from good at it. Scooting out from behind the bar, I grab the tray of drinks, drop them off, pick up empties, and wipe down tables.
As I’m making my way through the bar and taking new orders, I notice a man sitting alone in the dark corner. I’m not sure when he got here, but there are two empty glasses on the table in front of him, so he’s been here a while. I just didn’t notice him before now, which is hard to believe because even sitting in the dimmest part of the bar, his thick dark hair, full beard, and masculine features are difficult to miss.
On my approach, my fingers tap together at my sides, a tic I picked up when I was little. A tell that always used to let my mom know when I was nervous or had done something wrong.
“Hey, are you ready for another one?” I ask quietly, and his head turns my way. Eyes so clear, so bright, they stand out even in the dim light as they meet mine. I’m not sure what color they are, but paired with his aristocratic features and the air of ‘do not fuck with me’ surrounding him, I almost step back.
He might blend in with the rest of the men in the room in his plaid flannel shirt and jeans, but the tattoos I can see on his hands and the silver rings on his fingers make him stick out like an odd puzzle piece that got mixed up in the wrong box.
“What?” Even with him sitting, I get the impression he’s looking down his nose at me.
“Do you want another drink?” I lift my chin at the empty glasses on the table in front of him.
Dropping his eyes, he looks at them for a long moment, then tips his head back to meet my gaze once more. It’s then I notice a glassy look in his eyes I missed before. Not like he’s been crying, but like he’s drunk way too much already. That, or he’s high.
He doesn’t respond; he just stares at me, unblinking.
“Water it is,” I mutter under my breath, scooping up the glasses, ready to get away from him.
“I don’t want water. I want another bourbon.” His deep voice lashes out at me from behind as I turn for the bar.
“You got it,” I toss over my shoulder and let out a breath.
While Colleen pours him another drink from one of the top-shelf bottles of bourbon, I grab a glass and fill it with water and ice.
I have absolutely zero desire to take him his drink when it’s ready, but I know I don’t have a choice, so I pick up the tray and carry it across the room. He doesn’t look at me as I place his bourbon on the table, but he does glare at the water when I set it down next to the squat glass.
“I didn’t ask for water.” His glare lands on me.
“Everyone needs to stay hydrated,” I chirp with a fake smile, spinning on my heel to return to the bar.
As the night continues, he drinks alone in the dark, staring off into space. Not even Polly, who is normally a great distraction for men when they’re attempting to hide from their pain, can get him to crack a smile. Eventually, she gives up and goes home alone, leaving him to drink by himself.
“Elora,” Colleen calls from the register, where she’s been closing out the till while I sweep and mop the floors.
“Yeah?” I walk over to join her, and she hands me a wad of cash. I shove it into my pocket without counting it. She might not be the nicest woman in the world, but she hasn’t once shorted me on my tips.
“After you get your stuff from the office, I need you to help him to his room.” She motions to the man across the bar, hunched over in his chair, his head resting on the table. My stomach bottoms out. “He’s in Room 17, right next to yours.”
“Colleen, I?—”
“Just help me by helping him.” She sighs, and I press my lips together to keep my mouth shut. Even if I told her all the reasons I’m not comfortable helping a drunk man to his room alone, I doubt she’d care. And I wouldn’t tell her no—partially because she’s the daughter of The View’s owner and partially because she scares the hell out of me. She reminds me of that mean principal in Matilda who I used to have nightmares about when I was little. She and Ms. Trunchbull could be sisters.
I untie the apron from around my waist and place it in the bucket with the other aprons and rags. I’ll collect the bucket tomorrow morning and toss them into the washer when I start my day with my second position here at the hotel as a housekeeper.
