“We’ve gotta keep it down,” I whisper. “The cops are probablycrawling for DUIs tonight. Let’s not give them a breaking-and-entering charge too.”
“You literally have a key,” Ellie says flatly. “I don’t think that counts as breaking and entering.”
“Okay, fine, but I still probably shouldn’t be doing this, so at least try to stay quiet.”
My pulse quickens a few beats as we approach the door. Could be anxiety, or maybe I’m just excited to finally show off what our team has been busting our asses over. I carefully sort through my keys, trying not to let them jingle too much as I locate the newest one, still silver and shiny as it was when I added it to my keyring in early October. I twist it into the lock, and the door swings open with a whine that, given the state of my nervous system, mimics a siren. All these renovations and we still haven’t greased the hinges, huh? Go figure. I point my phone flashlight toward the glossy new hardwood floor ahead of me, motioning Ellie in.
“Can we turn a light on?” she asks, one hand hovering over a switch.
“Not that one. There’s another on the far side of the bar. Just stay close to me.”
“Staying close,” she confirms, hooking a finger through one of my belt loops. It triggers a highway of goose bumps down my side. “Lead the way.”
With roughly three feet of visibility, I feel my way past the kitchen and behind the bar, where I flip a light switch—just one. A single bulb illuminates the counter, and I recoil, blinking into the brightness. My contacts are still shifting into place when I hear Ellie gasp through her nose, launching me into a minor panic. “What? Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” she whispers. “It’s just…this is unbelievable.”
By the time my eyes adjust, Ellie has already wandered to the other side of the bar and started nosing around the seating area. Her face blooms into a smile that gets bigger each time she spots a new detail. The old library-card-catalog-turned-coffee-table has been a Sip staple for as long as I can remember, but the paint on the enormous community mural behind it has barely dried. I rest my forearms on the bar, supervising Ellie’s self-guided tour. The newness of it all hasn’t entirely worn off for me, but it’s gotten a little less exciting with all the long hours and manual labor. Her fresh set of eyes has me soaking in the specialness all over again.
“How much of the furniture is new?” Ellie runs her blue fingernails along the back of the green-velvet bucket chairs huddled near the fireplace. Never have I wanted to be a chair so badly.
“Almost none of it,” I say. “It’s all just reupholstered or repainted. Except for the bookshelves. Those are built from the old floorboards.”
“I love that. Like the shop is built out of its own history.”
In the dim glow, Ellie’s shadow dances behind her, rounding the corner toward what used to be the screened-in porch. It’s now a proper room with floor to ceiling windows, more appropriate for Illinois weather year-round. She disappears out of view, and for the first time, I’m alone in the new space. I’ve worked my fair share of closing shifts, but I’ve never seen Sip like this—late at night and with no one around. I expected it to feel spooky; instead, it’s almost sacred.
“How long did all this take?” Ellie asks from the room over. Her hushed voice carries through the emptiness, echoing off the back wall.
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“Ten months-ish for the major renovations?” I count out the months on my fingers to check my math. “Construction wrapped up in September, and we’ve been getting it ready to reopen since then.”
When she wanders back into view, Ellie’s coat is unbuttoned, and her blonde hair stands up straight with static where her hat just was. “Can we hang here for a little while?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say. “Make yourself at home.”
If Sip had a tagline, that would be it:Make yourself at home. Like most shops and restaurants on the main drag of our little downtown, the building was a historic house back before any of us were born. The first floor is still laid out like a living room, and even as an employee, walking into Sip has always felt a little like visiting an old friend’s house. An old friend with a big, noisy family and very expensive taste in espresso machines.
Gingerly, Ellie drapes her coat over the butter-colored couch, then plunks herself down in one of the bucket chairs. Her red corduroys against the green velvet make her look like a Christmas decoration, and under different circumstances, I’d hand her a mug and ask her to pose for some photos we could post to announce our holiday hours. I snap a mental image instead, hanging on to the way her thumb traces circles on the velvet armrest.
“I like the new logo,” Ellie says, tipping her chin toward theclean, simple Sip logo painted over the bar and the matching stacks of to-go cups on the counter beneath it.
“Thanks. I designed it.”
“Impressive,” she says. “Did you do the interior design stuff too?”
“Nah, I had nothing to do with that.” I wander her way, hugging the walls to avoid any sightlines from the front windows. “I just helped haul furniture and made the behind-the-scenes videos.”
Ellie folds her arms over her chest, blocking the hint of nipple that was previously poking through her halter top. Sort of a loss for me. “I have a hard time believing that’s all you did,” she says.
“Does designing the website count?” I offer. “I helped with the rebranding, but that’s just because I have tenure and basic Photoshop skills. And I’ve been coming to Sip since I was twelve and barely out of the closet, so I know this place better than…almost anyone.” I sink into the chair next to her, and for the first time since we paid our bar tab, Ellie’s eyes are level with mine. They’re extra blue against the pink of her windblown cheeks, and I’d tell her that if I weren’t so sure I’d trip over every word. Something has me feeling unsteady, but I’m not sure if it’s the vodka sodas or the glisten in her sea glass eyes.
“This is really impressive, Murphy.” Ellie tilts her head, still staring at the logo over the bar like it’s an optical illusion. “I bet you could do this sort of work full time. You could work in branding or be, like, a small business marketing consultant.”
Privately, I’d need to consult with Google on what either of those jobs entail, but for now, I just say, “Thanks.”
