ONE
Wren
The bar has beenabsolute hell on wheels tonight. Half the customers seem hell-bent on driving me to the brink of insanity and the other half seem to think tipping is an invention best left to a previous century. The cooler has started leaking, one of the vents nearly caught fire because Tom forgot to properly clean it last night, and Stacey—one of my best servers—turned in her notice this week because she found a job that would pay her twice what she makes here and it meant she didn’t have to rely on tips. I can’t blame her, but I will miss her, desperately. Both in that she is a bright light on a dark night around here and because she is an incredibly efficient and upbeat server. Replacing her is going to be nearly impossible.
My phone dings with another text message. Liv asking if I can bring some ice to the party. It’s less a party and more of a wake really. Moved from the football house to our house when it was obvious that we would be mourning the loss of our championship game rather than celebrating the win. It’s heartbreaking, but between losing our star quarterback to injury and a host of other problems plaguing the team, it isn’t entirely surprising.
The last thing I feel like doing tonight is going home to a bunch of drunk people toasting to a season that could have been, but I didn’t really have a choice. Unless I want to stay upstairs at my grandfather’s apartment where he’ll keep me up half the night with his snoring. I’ll probably get better sleep at home.
“Can you take this to table eight?” I hand off a plate of wings to Stacey who takes it from me and nods.
“Hey, sexy. I love that hair,” one of the drunker patrons leers at me and tries to reach out and grab one of my braids before I pull away.
I have my hair up in two Dutch braids. It keeps it out of my face while I work, and it helps keep the tips coming, and god knows I need them.
“Another beer?” I point to his empty glass. He doesn’t need one, but his friend has already admitted he’s the DD for the evening, so I won’t cut him off just yet.
“Yeah, sexy. And your number.”
I smile back at him like I enjoy the comment and take his glass.
“Tom, could you put two more orders of chili cheese fries in for me please?” I call back to the kitchen before I head to the bar to fill up another glass with lager.
“Did you see the guy at table three? He’s sexy as fucking hell,” Tammy, who’s old enough to be my mother even though we both pretend she’s not, coos at a guy half her age across the room.
I glance up and see Mason and a couple of the other hockey players sitting at a booth there. He is hot, but he has also dated my roommate and best friend, which means he’s off-limits for me. And while a couple of the other hockey players are equally delicious, I’m not about to dive into waters that murky. Especially since Mason and Liam, our quarterback and my bestie’s new boyfriend, don’t get along, to say the least. When I do date, which is rare, I like my men drama free.
I deliver the beer to the drunk guy and spin around to grab a couple of refills of water and pop to take the hockey table. A couple of them ask for the check and I nod. I check two more tables and drop off the round of chili cheese fries that are finally up. By the time I get back to the register the phone behind the bar is ringing, and there’s only one person who still uses that line.
“Hi Gramps. What’s up?” I tuck the phone under my ear while I run the tickets up.
“Hi Wren. I can’t find the remote anywhere. Do you know where it got put last? I swear that Sherry is always moving it around. Like she’s trying to hide it from me. Tells me I watch too much sports. As if there is such a thing as too much sports.”
I chuckle a little to myself. “Did you check between the cushions on the recliner? And in the kitchen by the microwave?”
“No… hold on.” I hear him set the phone down and shuffle across the apartment to look for it.
“Another beer?” A guy comes up and points to his glass.
I press enter to print the ticket and then take the glass from him, sliding it into the dirty bin.
“The winter lager, right?” I ask and he nods.
I spin the old wound cord from the vintage 80s phone around to my side and stretch over to grab a cold clean glass, and then slide back to the tap to pour it.
“Wren! Did you make the extra order of bacon this week?” Tom yells up to me.
“Yep! Back in the walk-in. Third shelf from the bottom on the back left. Can’t miss it!”
“Thanks!”
“You still there, Wren?” My grandfather’s voice returns to the line.
“Yeah, Gramps. Did you find it?”
“Yup, in between the cushion and the side of the chair. Must have lost it there when I took a doze earlier. Thanks, dear.”
“No problem. Make sure you take your meds tonight, okay? I think you’re due in about 30 minutes.”
