Grief had me twelve shades of fucked up. It was as if everything I once cared about suddenly faded into grayscale, the vitality drained, leaving only the bones of my old life behind. I was blindly stumbling around, searching for color in cheap motels and dirty dive bars—searching desperately for the girl I was before losing the person I loved most in this world.
I ended up in Jacksonville this past August, right around the time The Black Rose opened and they hired me on the spot. It’s a far cry from the dream job I fumbled at one of the top women’s magazines in the country, but beggars can’t be choosers. I was told I’d make good money as a bartender here, although I’ve yet to see it reflected in my bank account. I have a couple of regulars. Most of them misogynistic middle-aged men who I secretly hate.
“Did my ticket come through?” Adam’s voice snaps me out of my haze.
I hadn’t even noticed it printing. I rip it free and get to work on an espresso martini before sliding it across the bar to him.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks, girl.” He drops a few coffee beans in the drink and saunters off to a two-top by the French doors.
The January day is nice enough to have the patio doors open, the breeze cutting the scorching heat. He sets the martini down in front of two handsome men in expensive-looking suits.
I wonder what their story is. Are they brothers? Are theylovers? What do they do for work? Are they here on vacation? Are they perhaps Secret Service on their lunch break?
I have to stop.
Everything I see serves as grounds for creative material—millions of great ideas collected in a Word document saved on my computer. The problem is, I can’t seem to do anything with them. I read and read, and then I try to write because what else can you do with an overactive imagination and a tanked career in journalism?
Of course, it’s not easy to write anything substantial when you feel like your life is in the gutter.
“Whatcha reading?” Zoe sneaks up on me, whisper-shouting in my ear. I gasp loudly, nearly jumping out of my skin as I shoot her a sharp look.
“Jesus,” I breathe, my heart rate slowly recovering. She claps a hand over her chest and laughs.
“So jumpy today.” Leaning over the bar, she quirks an eyebrow at my phone. “Are you reading smut? At work?!Serena!”
I roll my eyes but allow a small smile. Zoe’s got one of those endearing, absurd, always saying-something-crazy types of personalities I’ve always envied. She says the first thing that comes to her mind and can make conversation with a brick wall. Sometimes I’m stunned by how much she reminds me of Annie.
“Not smut,” I clarify, “but is it even a finished book if there’s no steam?”
She offers another loud laugh that sounds like wind chimes. “I’ve never seen anyone read so much.”
“What else is there to do while I’m bar-sitting?” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
“Do you see those guys over there?” She leans in, loweringher voice and discreetly pointing over my shoulder. “Freakinggorgeous. I think that one is an influencer.”
I follow her gaze toward the dark-haired man at Adam’s table and study his profile. From where I stand, I can tell he’s stunning. Black hair that spills over his forehead with model-like cheekbones and eyes a remarkable shade of sea blue. He lazes in his seat as he says something to his handsome friend with the mushroom brown hair and blue-gray eyes.
“What would an influencer be doing in here?” I scoff, leaning my elbow against the service bar. My eyes inadvertently lock with his and I quickly avert my gaze, turning back to Zoe as she sifts through a stack of crinkled cash.
“Fourteen dollars today. And I spent forty on happy hour last night, so that’s how my week is starting off!” Stuffing the wad of cash into her apron, she gives me a sardonic look and is off to charm one of our managers with a bounce in her step.
I cast a glance around the nearly empty restaurant, heave a sigh, and turn back to my book.
∗ Cue:Scott Streetby Phoebe Bridgers
2
Tatler’s Books is a small local hole-in-the-wall bookshop owned by a sweet elderly man with soft tufts of white hair. Age has slowed his steps but the twinkle in his big brown eyes and the soft wrinkle around his smile are warm and youthful.
The chime on the door sings as I push it open, announcing my arrival. The musky smell of old books pervades the air, filling my heart and head with a deep sense of calm. My shoulders instantly relax as I take in the familiar spot I’ve frequented every week since I moved here. The bookshop has been here since the early 80s. The floor is checker-tiled near the entrance with a dark green carpet blanketing the shelves on either side of the main aisle. A chipped dark wood checkout counter sits at the epicenter of the small shop. Eclectic paraphernalia and B-movie posters from the 1950s decorate the yellow-tinged walls.
A spot of white pops into my vision, peeking out from one of the aisles. Mr. Tatler breaks into a wide grin.
“Serena,” he says warmly.
“How are you, Mr. T?” I smile back. I’ve always foundinteractions with elderly people to be easiest for me and oftentimes the most genuine.
