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“Julia, can you go get me another bottle of Hammersmith’s?” Mom asked as she placed the empty bottle of whisky in the recycling box.
“Sure,” I said.
Heading into the storeroom in the back, or what was left of it after the fire, my mind flashed to what it must have been like the night Dad died. The fire crawling out of the kitchen and heading into the hallway, burning everything in its path. It was a miracle most of the kitchen was still intact. Only because of the strange way Dad insisted on the kitchen being laid out, did it not all go up, along with a storeroom that was so full of alcohol it could have blown the building sky high.
Shaking off the image, I headed into the tiny room and found a bottle of the cheap whisky. Hammersmith’s was delightfully known as “get-ya-hammered-smith’s” by our regulars for its cheapness and high alcohol content that made up for it tasting slightly like furniture polish. Holding the bottle by the neck, I headed back into the hallway and heard a peculiar sound.
It was Lena, and she was doing her nervous flirty laugh.
Lena was abjectlyterribleat flirting. She could do the usual waitress stuff, but when it came to flirting with a guy she actually liked, she was awful at it. She would trip over her words or say something mildly threatening or stupid and generally would make them think she was either kind of stupid, or kind of rude. If the laugh happened, it was usually the former. It meant she had lost all control of her voice and was now talking far too loud and probably too much. I loved my sister, but I seriously worried about her ability to ever find a partner.
When I got back into the bar area, I searched for her, curious as to see which guy had her all stupefied. Then I saw him, and my jaw dropped. What the hell was he doing here?
“Mr. Rusk?” I asked from across the bar, sliding behind it and handing the bottle to Mom.
“Oh, Julia, hi,” he said, flashing a grin that I realized had completely disarmed my sister. I didn’t blame her. Sean was a great looking guy. “I’ve told you, just call me Sean.”
“Right,” I said as he approached me, leaving my sister in a starry-eyed trance by the door. “Sorry, I just figured since I didn’t work for Hunter anymore, that level of familiarity was probably gone.”
“Nonsense,” he said, waving me off. “Hey, do you mind if I get a plate of fries? I heard such good things about them that I decided I needed some.”
“Sure,” I said, confused. “You came all the way down here to get a plate of fries?”
“No,” he said with a smile. “The fries are just extra. I actually came down here to talk to you. And your family.”
“Oh,” I replied. “Alright. Well, I’ll go get the fries then. Be back in a minute.”
As I walked back toward the kitchen, I glanced over my shoulder at Sean. He was standing by the bar, seeming to take things in. He had a calculating look on his face behind his smile, like he was thinking hard about something. What he was thinking about was anyone’s guess, but my worry was he was about to deliver a message from Hunter. Probably one about a restraining order or something.
Our daytime cook, Brad, was still back there, fiddling on his phone. He was all of twenty, and covered in tattoos. He had only ever really expressed interest in cooking and sneakers, but was a nice, if quiet, kid. Even though there were only five years’ difference between us, it felt like a lifetime of a gap. Our worlds were entirely different.
“Hey, Brad, I need some fries,” I said.
“You’re in luck, I just cooked a batch. They’re in the tray,” he said.
“Perfect,” I said, then paused. “Why?”
“I was hungry,” he said, not looking up from the phone. “Your ma said I could cook fries whenever I wanted to eat something. So, I did.”
“Cool,” I said, searching for something else to say and failing miserably. “Well, thanks then.”
“No prob,” he said, shifting in his makeshift seat of boxes of potatoes. “Made ’em extra crispy this batch. Used garlic salt. Real tasty. I recommend barbeque sauce rather than ketchup.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’ll pass that along. Thanks.”
“Eyup,” he replied.
I headed back out to the bar with a plateful of hot fries, grabbing both ketchup and barbeque sauce on the way, and found Sean sitting at the bar. The bar itself was empty other than him and a few stragglers at tables around the place. The couple who had been there must have left while I was in the back.
“Those smell amazing,” Sean said.
I had to agree. Brad might be a bit of a lay about, but he was a good cook.
“So, what brings you in here other than fries?” I asked.
“Good lord, these are great,” Sean groaned. “Sorry, I’ve never tried fries with barbeque sauce before. This is fantastic.”
“Oh, Brad and his ideas again,” Mom said, coming up behind me. “Can we get you something to drink? I don’t know why my daughter skipped the most important part of being a bar.”
