The neon lights washed across my face as I pushed through the double wooden doors, the layout as familiar as breathing. I could’ve walked this place blindfolded—bar top straight ahead, jukebox tucked by the dartboard, the good booth on the left if you wanted Mandy as your server, the one near the restroom if you were okay waiting forever. For years, this had been my home away from home.
I slid onto one of the plastic barstools, the cushion cracked from too many nights and not enough repairs. My eyes drifted up to the wall of liquor bottles lined up along the wall behind the bar. I could still remember the distinct taste of each one––whiskey, bourbon, even the vodka.
Harold—who’d worked here since before I was even thought of—set a square napkin in front of me, dropping a menu down, though deep down he knew I didn’t need it.
“Well look at that,” he said, grin tugging the wrinkles around his eyes. “Haven’t seen your pretty face in a while.” He pointed to the chalkboard hanging above the taps. “Fish tacos are the special tonight. Five-dollar margaritas too. Although if my memory serves me correctly…” He gave the bar a slow wipe. “…that wasn’t your usual drink of choice.”
“Nope. Whiskey neat, Harold. You know the drill,” I ordered, my hands clenching at the words alone. The angel on my shoulder told me to get up. Leave. Go back to Cassie and pretend none of this ever happened.
But the devil on the other shoulder? He told me to stay. Order the drink. Drink the drink. Be exactly what the internet said I was—the too-rowdy, too-drunk, too-useless younger McKinley son who was never going to amount to anything. Amazing how years of rebuilding your life can come undone over a thirty-second clip posted on a platform I’d never even heard of. Getting older and apparently getting dumber at the same time.
Harold set an empty glass in front of me, filling it with whiskey straight from the bottle.
“There you go, son,” he said, corking the bottle back. “Been hearing a lot about you lately.” He leaned on the bar, giving me a look.
Fantastic. Even the sixty-year-old man with a flip phone knew about what went down at Bennett’s.
“Secret’s out, I guess,” I mumbled, swishing the liquid around in the glass.
“I hate to break it to you, boy, but the secret’s been out for a while. At least for the ones who know you best.” Harold turned his back, organizing the glasses under the bar like he suddenly needed something to do with his hands.
“What do you mean?”
He snorted. “You practically lived here every night. I’d venture to say half your paycheck ended up in that register.” He tapped it with his knuckle for emphasis. “Then—poof. One day you just disappear. No goodbye, no last round, nothing. Two years go by and not a single appearance.”
He paused just long enough to make me uncomfortable.
“Well,” he corrected, “except for that night a couple weeks ago, when you busted through that door and announced to every breathing soul that Cassie was your so-called girlfriend. I thought you were gonna bite that kid’s head clean off.” He laughed, a deep, wheezy chuckle that rattled his chest. “Damn near scared half the bar.”
“So yeah,” he said, setting down a glass, leaning on the bar, “anyone with half a brain could tell you’d done something to clean up your act. Don’t know what it was, but the next time I saw you, you looked like a whole new man. No sunken cheeks, no jittery hands, no sadness hiding behind your eyes. I might be old enough to remember when your momma was pregnant with you, but I’m no fool—the eyes don’t lie, boy.”
“If you know I’m sober, why are you giving me this drink right now?”
“Because you’re a grown ass man. You can make decisions for yourself––stupid or not,” he said before walking away to tend to someone else at the other end of the bar that was waving him over.
As Harold walked away, someone I’d never seen before slid onto the barstool next to me. He wore a thick coat that looked like it had seen better days. I glanced down, noticing his shoes were just as worn as his jacket. He smelled of vodka and dirt. This definitely wasn’t his first drink of the night. He leaned against the bar top, exhaustion radiating off him like heat radiating off the sun.
Harold walked back over, setting a napkin down in front of the guy. “My usual,” the man slurred, pulling a ringing phone from his coat pocket. He stared at the screen for a moment before answering.
“Hey, honey,” he said, his tone softening. I could tell he was doing his best to sound sober. “I’m sorry, baby. Daddy won’t be able to pick you up tonight. I’m busy at work. Maybe this weekend—if Momma says it’s okay,” he said, his gaze dropping, shame written all over his face. “Love you too, honey,” he added before hanging up.
“Harold, make it a heavy pour, will ya?” he muttered.
“Rough day?” Harold asked, adding a few extra seconds onto his pour.
“Different day, same shit,” the guy said, glancing toward me now. “Haven’t seen you around before. You new here?”
I scoffed. This guy didn’t even know the half of it. “Guess you could say that.”
“Names Daniel, but my friends call me Danny,” he said, sending his drink down in one gulp.
“Jace.”
“Whiskey your usual?” he asked, wiping his mouth of the tiny bit of liquor that had slipped past his lips. He recognized my drink just by looking at it. He definitely spent most of his spare time here.
I nodded, looking down at the glass I’d been holding onto for a while.
“I’m more of a vodka guy myself,” he went on. “But I’ll drink anything, really. Whatever I can get my hands on.”
