Page 56 of Prime Time Romance

Where earlier in the night I could afford to stop to chat or make a beer recommendation, now I’m pouring drink after drink with no time to pause in between.

Seth keeps playing one hit after another.

The dance floor is so full that I can’t even see the base of the stage.

And the more people dance, the thirstier they seem to get.

And as fast as I’m pouring, I can’t seem to keep up.

I’m at the point where I’m seriously considering finding a way to track down Sherry to come and help me because the happy faces are getting increasingly annoyed as they need to wait for their next rounds. I don’t even realize I’ve run out of glasses until I reach for a pint and my hand comes back empty.

“Here.” Brynn lifts a tray of clean glassware onto the counter beside me.

“Where did that come from?”

She points at the dishwasher. “I ran a load while you were pouring whiskey shots. You were running low.”

I want to thank her, but the bar is crowding up again, and people are starting to get pushy.

“Fletcher, a refill on my Diet Coke when you get a second?”

“Do you know how to make a dry martini?”

“I liked that beer you recommended earlier. What was it called again?”

“Two Buds, would ya, Fletch?” a tall football-player type calls.

Before I can reach for them, Brynn has the beer fridge open and the caps off.

“What are you doing now?”

Her response is to grab a pint glass and pull the beer tap for a local IPA. “I’m helping you.” She glances at the packed bar. “This town likes beer way more than I imagined. I’m a little afraid to see what happens if they don’t get it.”

She serves the beer in her hand to the waiting customer, then picks up a bottle of cheap rum. “Besides”—she flips the bottle in a complete 360-degree turn and catches it—“not to brag or anything, but I spent two whole summers working behind the bar at Applebee’s.” She tosses the rum bottle again and attempts to catch it on the back of her hand. Her aim is off, and the bottle hits her knuckle and then falls to the floor, where it catches the edge of the mat and rolls—still intact—toward the dishwasher.

“Reflexes of a cat,” she says as she bends to pick it up, then goes back to pouring the rum.

Fortunately, the next two hours are free of major disasters. No power outages. Ample glassware. Brynn is a blur in my peripheral vision, serving beer, talking to customers, and smiling.

I could have used her back home at my dad’s place. Not that an insanely busy night was ever my problem, but I like this feeling that she’s got my back. That we have this ability to communicate without actually saying anything.

I hand her the vodka she’s about to ask for. She slides me the malty stout my next customer doesn’t even know he’s going to order yet.

She tosses me a bar rag to wipe the spot where my last customer sloshed his beer. “Hey, we’re running low on—”

“Moosehead. I know. I got it.”

By the time I have the keg out of the storeroom and hooked up, it’s two a.m. The place has cleared out some, but there are twenty-odd bodies still finishing their drinks or slow-dancing to the playlist Seth left running after his last set.

I ring the old brass bell hanging from the corner of the bar.

“That’s all for tonight, folks. Get home to bed and then come back tomorrow and spend your money. If you need a safe way home, come and talk to me. Otherwise, good night.”

Twenty minutes later, the place is basically empty.

The only other person left inside is slumped over next to the taps, one arm extended toward an empty glass. She’s pulled her hair up into a sweaty bun, but she missed a piece that is stuck to her neck. The blond is fine, but she looks better like this. Less hair, more of her face.

“I don’t know how you do this every night.” She lifts her head up just enough so that she can look at me. “It’s exhausting. My cheeks hurt from smiling. My legs hurt from squatting, and my emotions hurt from being so nice to everyone.”