Page 45 of Prime Time Romance

Her smile is immediate. Her hands find mine, and she squeals. “Oh my god, this is going to be so much fun. Just like old times.”

I tear the vinyl cape from my neck and power walk toward the front door. As I push it open, I hear her yell, “Sloan Edwards, Carson’s Cove’s next Lobsterfest queen.”

I look down at my arms, and I have goosebumps.

14

Josh

Sherry may preach a no-drinking-before-noon rule, but she definitely doesn’t practice it. It’s either that or the raccoons around here have excellent taste in Scotch.

I find an eighteen-year-old bottle of Dalmore open on top of the bar, along with two glass tumblers that look like they’ve been filled and then emptied of their contents. There are no other signs of Sherry—or anyone else—in the bar this morning, but I can hear low voices that grow louder as one of the doors to what I think is a storage closet opens and two people emerge. The first is Sherry, with her hair pulled back like yesterday, dressed in jeans and a light-blue T-shirt with the Bronze’s logo embroidered over her heart. I recognize it only because it matches the T-shirt I stole from Fletch’s closet this morning. She spots me, and we make brief eye contact, but she otherwise ignores me as she holds the door open for a middle-aged man with a beer gut and an impressively thick beard. He’s carrying a large aluminum ladder. His shirt says Larry’s Lighting in thick black letters, which I read as he sets the ladder down next to the bar and helps himself to a second, very generous glass of Scotch. I presume Sherry didn’t offer this one, which I have deduced solely from the low growl coming from Sherry’s throat that’s aimed in Larry’s direction.

“I’m glad you’re fixing the lighting.” I attempt to make pleasant conversation. “It was getting tough to see in here.”

Her growl, which is now very much aimed at me, grows louder. “You’ll have to learn to live with the lights we have, seeing as I just sold Larry our ladder.”

As if illustrating Sherry’s point, Larry sets his now-empty glass down with a clink, picks up the ladder in question, and throws us a friendly wave before carrying it out the front door.

“Dickhead,” Sherry mutters under her breath.

“Why’d you sell him the ladder, then?” I ask, and immediately regret my question as Sherry shoots me a glare that I swear I feel all the way through to the back of my rib cage.

“Because he paid fifty dollars for it.” She ducks under the bar and reaches for the open Scotch bottle to screw the lid back on.

I shake my head, still confused.

“Lights are useless when you can’t pay the electric bill, Fletch.” Sherry rolls her eyes, as if disappointed that she has to explain further. “You know how I feel about useless things.” She makes no point of hiding the fact that this time she means me. And although I know she’s trying to make light of the situation, I can’t ignore the familiar churning in my gut.

I’d bet that if you asked her right now, Sherry would insist that the two of us have nothing in common. But I’ve stood in her metaphorical shoes. The ones where you make the choice between paying your water bill or your waitstaff. There’s never an easy option.

Sherry comes out from behind the bar, weaving the same path to the front door that Larry took only moments ago.

“Where are you going now?” I call after her.

She stops but doesn’t turn around. Instead, she sighs. “If the Lord spent a little less time on your looks and a little more on your brains, my life may have turned out differently. I’m going to pay the electric bill. God knows why though. This place might actually make some money if you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”

“Is there anything you want me to do while you’re gone?” I offer. “We’ve probably ruled out anything involving a ladder, but otherwise, I’m pretty decent with my hands.”

Sherry turns around. Her left eyebrow is making an impressive arc. “I think it’s probably better for everyone if you keep your hands to yourself. Just don’t burn the place down while I’m gone, okay?”

She’s gone before I can promise I won’t.

I stand for a few moments, just staring at the empty bar.

The place has its flaws. It’s dirty and dimly lit. There is actual graffiti on some of the walls, and it’s not the intentional this place is edgy kind.

Anyone walking in would say it is a lost cause, and yet…

The giant U-shaped bar in the center is crafted with the type of precise woodworking you just don’t see anymore. There’s a great mix of beers on tap—a few local crafts alongside the big brand names that everyone loves. The liquor selection isn’t too bad either. Some top-shelf bottles. A few others that will get you drunk for cheap. All of them are mixed together on the same shelf, just hanging out.

This place could be so much more with a few small adjustments.

Before I fully realize what I’m doing, I find myself ducking behind the bar to find a rag. I rationalize it by telling myself that I owe Sherry for room and board, and I’m making up for it with hard labor.

The dust and watermarks are easy enough to tackle. It takes half a bottle of Bar Keepers Friend and some serious elbow grease, but whatever genetic trait my dad had that made him compulsively wipe down his bar has clearly been passed to me because two hours later, it’s gleaming so beautifully that my dad would be proud.

I find a storeroom under the stairs with some cleaning supplies, a few extra kegs, and a big sink, where I rinse the rags and clean my hands. When I get back into the main area of the bar, there’s a blond woman sitting at one of the barstools, waiting.