“Here?”
“Back in Wisconsin. Beer and pop and fried things with a couple of homestyle entrées like chili or spaghetti—anything ground meat–based—for people who don’t want to deal with a three-course meal up at the clubhouse restaurant. That was moreof a linen tablecloth place. As opposed to picnic tables.” Jean recognized that the furniture was not an essential part of the narrative but some things you had to ease into.
“What’s the name of it? Their bar.”
“Bogey’s.”
“Like it says on your box of cards?”
It must be a scientist thing, that attention to detail. “I still have a couple of decks. From back in the day.” Or more accurately, she hadonepack left from home, in a faded blue box. Which now lived on Charlie’s bedside table.
“It’s a golf term, but my parents also hung framed pictures of Humphrey Bogart. The actor, like fromCasablanca.”
“With the white jacket, and the bowtie? He was cool.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t really give ‘loaded potato skins’ vibes but I guess maybe my mom thought he’d class up the joint.”
Charlie shifted behind her. “It sounds like you didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t like the pressure. My mother was always after me to smile and be polite and not draw weird cartoons on people’s bills or put hot sauce in the ketchup bottles. Basically, she wanted me to be less ‘me.’ Especially when I was working, which was most of the time.”
“Even when you were a kid?”
“Pretty much from the time I could carry a tray. That’s how I knew all the people my age whose families were club members, even though they went to the fancy private school. I guess even rich kids are impressed when you have unlimited access to a Coke machine.”
“I’m sure they liked you,” Charlie said. “With or without the soda.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t saybut not enoughbecause that would have given away the ending. “It was fine until I got older, but eventually it started to turn weird, especially if I had to wait on them. Was it worse if they left me a tip and made me feel likea charity case, or straight-up stiffed me, like I was their bitch? It’s hard enough to know where you stand at fifteen or sixteen without bringing capitalism into the mix. Plus I always worried I smelled like the fryer, from being there all the time. You know how when you’re so steeped in something you can’t even smell it anymore? I figured that was probably me and cheese fries.”
Charlie’s hand settled on her back, more warmth than weight. She thought of telling him that her perfume habit dated from that stage of life but couldn’t bring herself to admit she hadn’t always smelled like tropical flowers.
“There was one guy in particular who was sort of a ringleader.” Jean forced out a laugh. “So of course that was who I decided I wanted to be with. If you’re going to dream, dream big.”
“What was his name?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“I always believe you. Even when you’re making things up.”
“Smithson Oliver Barrett. Smitty to his friends.”
“Like you?” Charlie asked.
“I thought so. For a while.” She shook her head. Or maybe it was a shudder. “His great-great-grandfather made a fortune selling cheap beer to the masses, but supposedly they’d transcended their blue-collar roots. Everything was all very hoity-toity. Golf and skiing and let’s pretend we’re onDownton Abbey,Midwestern edition. ‘Our beverage of choice is champagne.’ That kind of thing.”
“Barrett as in Barrett’s Best?”
“Yep. The famous blue can of BB. Or as we called it, PP. Because that’s how it tasted. Although nobody said that in front of Smitty because he was rich and good-looking in that money way.”
Charlie reached past her, burying the base of his plastic cup in the sand. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Tan, straight teeth, expensive haircut. Maybe the eyes are a little small and the forehead bulges out, but everyone pretendsnot to notice because he’s young and cute-adjacent, in a generic way.” She glanced back at Charlie, catching the tightness in his expression. “Your hotness is totally unique, like an El Greco saint. Smitty was just okay, but that didn’t stop him from acting like his family was crafting luxury watches in a Swiss chateau instead of churning out the favored brewski of frat boys. His parents were even worse. They treated him like royalty. The heir apparent, on his aluminum throne.”
She waited for Charlie to share her amusement, but his smile was strained. “Families,” he finally said, like that covered it.
“They cut both ways, don’t they? If I’d stopped to think, I would have realized that a girl with ties to the greasy appetizer business was never going to be good enough for the little prince. But I wasn’t big on slowing down, so I totally blew off my parents when they tried to tell me I was ‘getting too big for my britches.’”
Jean traded her driftwood stylus for raking her fingers through the sand. “I’m sure you can see where this is going.” Maybe she could hand wave the rest, let him fill in the blanks.
