CHAPTER 1
“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.”
J. M. BARRIE, PETER PAN
“To bang, or not to bang? That is the question.” Kaylee peered at me from behind her black-rimmed glasses and set a briefcase on the stool to her left. She’d just walked in, and instead of saying hi like a normal person, this was how she greeted me.
Frowning at the empty highball glass I’d just finished drying, I debated how to best respond to my good friend’s noteworthy dilemma. “Are we talking about a guy? If so, I recommend making a pro-con list.”
“No, Abby. My hair. I love your bangs.”
“Oh. Thank you, it has pockets.” I’d taken to saying Thank you, it has pockets as a means of dealing with the discomfort caused by unexpected compliments.
Picking up a second highball glass, I wiped it clean of watery residue and checked my watch. Kaylee was an hour early, not that I minded. She usually shuffled in ten minutes before closing on the nights she had custody of our car, already wearing her pajamas and a silk bonnet on her head. By then Walker, my boss, would be playing “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley over the bar’s speakers. He had this automated to happen every night, four times in a row, even when he wasn’t here. His way of driving out the stragglers.
Currently, “Monster Mash” reverberated from overhead, a herald of the season, with Halloween just around the corner. The end of October to January 1 was my favorite time of the year for so many reasons, not the least of which were all the decorating opportunities. Orange lights zigzagged across the bar shelves behind me, and I’d covered every tealight on the dining tables and bartop with ceramic ghost covers. I’d also set up a creepy, black Halloween tree—like a Christmas tree, only a spooky and leafless fake willow instead of a lush and vibrant evergreen—in the corner of the dining area, complete with cobwebs, strings of spiders, an eyeball, finger, and miniature ceramic doll head ornaments.
More doll heads—larger ones, fifty or so—were strung back and forth high above the entire bar. They hung from fishing line, which gave them the appearance of floating midair. I’d spent all spring and summer cackling in hilarity while making the heads at my pottery studio via slip cast molds procured for fifty cents each at Goodwill. Their freakishness did not disappoint, and I’d loved watching some of the customers cringe, smile, and then laugh uncomfortably while drinking under the doll head canopy.
“I’m tired of this haircut.” Kaylee tossed her long braid over her shoulder, curls straining against and protesting the tidy style. She slid onto the stool adjacent to the one holding her briefcase.
I gave Kaylee’s hair a quick once-over. I liked her hair, and she’d mentioned before that cutting bangs would require her to chemically remove the natural curl.
So I said, “I like your haircut and the curls.”
“I knew you’d say that. But thank you. I like it too.”
The bell over the front door jingled, announcing one or more new customers just as the song switched to Frank Sinatra’s version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I liked Frank, but I’d always considered it an impertinent and bossy song; who was he to tell me how to spend my Christmas? Plus, late October was entirely too early for Christmas music.
“Be with you in a sec,” I called without looking toward the sound, keeping my eyes on Kaylee as I reached for a few drink menus and cocktail napkins. “I don’t understand wanting to change something about yourself you already like. If you like your hair, don’t change it. If you don’t like your hair, have at it.”
“See, I knew you’d say that too.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Your statements are unsurprising, and I am unsurprised by your unsurprisingness.”
I frowned. Kaylee was obviously in a sassy mood tonight. Maybe her court date hadn’t gone well.
“Gee. Thanks,” I said, sending her a disgruntled look, knowing better than to argue with a lawyer.
“You’re in a rut, Abby.” Her eyes turned soft. “You do the same thing every day. You wear the same thing every day. You eat the same thing every day. The only things you change are the color of your nail polish and your hair cut.”
“And look how happy I am.” I glanced toward the door to count the newcomers but found only a solitary man, already sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar closest to the door.
A huge, enormous, colossal mammoth of a man. He was so big and tall, the rest of the bar seemed to shrink in comparison. Great. Just . . . great.
“Who is that? Is he a regular? Why do you look so irritated?” Kaylee glanced between my face and the man, keeping her tone hushed even though we were too far away for him to overhear our conversation, especially with Frank Sinatra crooning at us over the radio, telling us our Christmas will be merry and little this year.
Even so, I also lowered my voice. “It’s just, we’re less than an hour until closing and he’s not a regular. Convincing non-regulars to finish up and head out can be . . . annoying.” And he was big. And he was male.
This wasn’t always the case, but in my experience—maybe nine times out of ten—a big, burly guy coming into the bar so close to closing didn’t typically want a quick drink.
Her gaze stayed on him, assessing. “He’s handsome though, right?”
“Is he?” I grumbled, putting back all but one drink menu and one cocktail napkin.
“Uh, yeah. Very. And he looks familiar. . .” She placed her elbow on the bar, narrowing her eyes as she leaned an inch toward him, as though to see him better in the dim light. “I thought you had owl vision. Who does he look like?”
The truth was, other than noting this person’s size and a general impression of his clothes, my eyes were blurry with visions of tonight’s likely unpleasant conclusion: my coworker Ingrid and I coaxing him to leave, failing, and then having to either call Walker at home or the security company.
I didn’t care if this stranger was objectively the best-looking guy in the world. After tonight I had three days off. Anyone making me work late tonight was a blobfish.
“Whatever.”
My voice must've hinted at my thoughts because Kaylee tore her attention from the man, her eyebrows raised expectantly. "Why do you always sound so irritated when there’s a hot guy? Why do you dislike hot guys?"
“You have to admit, hot guys have hot guy problems, which are like first world problems on steroids.”
“Come on, everyone likes hot guys. It's biological. There's nothing you can do about it. You have no choice.”
I would've argued with her, told her that I had nothing against hot guys in general, but she made a sound of protest before I could speak.
“Abby.” Her eyes were full of sympathy. “Eventually you're going to have to date someone.”
Ugh. Dear. Lord. Not this again!
“Do I, though?” I’d tried dating. In fact, I’d even tried marriage. Everything about it was a horrific disaster, on so many levels. This topic was why Kaylee and I currently shared just a car instead of a car and an apartment.
“Yes.” She looked entirely earnest and concerned. That just made her pushing worse. “You can't let one bad experience—what, eight, nine years ago?—dictate the rest of your life."