Page 19
You can do this.
The world isn’t falling apart.
“You feeling all right?” Elsie’s voice has my eyes flying open; she’s standing directly beside me with her hip on the counter and an eyebrow hitched. “You’re really fucking pale all of a sudden. I can cover the bar if you need to go sit down.”
“I was just lost in a thought. I’m fine.” I force a smile.
I’m fine.
How many times have I said those words lately? They’re my default response at this point. Like I’m sorry for your loss, they’ve lost all meaning. It’s something to stifle awkwardness, but it’s a lie.
Elsie’s eyes narrow as if she doesn’t believe me, but she lets it go. Over her shoulder, I eye the empty spot Dad was just occupying at the bar.
“Where’d my dad run off to?”
She glances to the back door. “He said he needed some fresh air.”
“The last thing he’s getting out there is fresh air.” I start to walk past Elsie, but she nudges my arm.
“Don’t worry. I know what he was after, so I already snuck these out of his hiding spot.” She pulls a pack of cigarettes from behind the bar and hands them to me. “He’s not going to find what he’s looking for.”
“Thanks for looking out for him.” I crush the pack and toss it into the trash.
“He’ll just buy another pack eventually, but at least it’ll slow him down.”
“When did I become the parent? I swear he’s worse than I was when I was a teenager. It’s like he’s trying to kill himself.”
She breathes out a laugh, but it lacks amusement. “He’s better since you’ve been back, believe it or not. He’s trying.”
“This is him trying?”
“Yeah, Harloe. These past couple of years have been… nothing good.” She frowns, turning to the bar as a couple walks up.
Through her cherry-painted smile, worry lingers in her gaze. I’ve missed out on so much that I don’t even know what Elsie is talking about. At least he’s had her. No matter how this bar falls apart, the staff is like family.
I wish Dad could see that. Everyone fights for him when he won’t do the same for himself.
More people pile into the bar, and I focus on what I can control. Drinks, music, service. Elsie, Rob, and I fall into our routine. Ransack is falling apart, but behind the bar, we pour drinks and weave around each other like a well-oiled machine.
Rob has been working behind the bar since he graduated from high school, and Elsie has been helping Dad for at least a couple of years now. As for me, I grew up behind this bar, watching Mom mix cocktails until I was thirteen and she finally showed me how to do it. At first, they were virgin because she wouldn’t let me touch the alcohol. Finally, at eighteen, she started teaching me how to mix real drinks, starting with her famous Bloody Mary. She let me have only a sip to make sure I got it right, and since I hate tomatoes, I had no interest in sneaking more.
I prefer a simple whiskey or beer like most of the ranchers who come through these doors. But that might be because anything too fancy reminds me of Mom.
When the sun sets, Rob turns up the music, and I fall into my routine. It’s easy to get lost in pouring drinks. My boots scrape and tap the floor as I work, holding the beat of the music while I stir and serve.
“Manhattan,” a green-eyed woman with copper hair orders.
She’s part of the joint bachelor-bachelorette party occupying almost a quarter of Ransack. I don’t recognize her or most of the freshly twenty-one crowd that comes in because I was gone for the past decade. They were too young when I graduated from high school for me to have known them, but they’ve grown up while I was away.
I glance over my shoulder and scan our selection. “We’re out of vermouth.”
One more thing to add to the ever-growing list.
She frowns. “How about an old-fashioned?”
“Coming right up.”
I’ve had to say no to a few orders tonight, and I sense customers getting frustrated. On weeknights, Ransack is filled with regulars asking for beer and whiskey, so we have them covered. But weekends tend to be a more diverse crowd, with a wider range in tastes.
