That’s fine. Regulars are good for business. That’s all this is.
The nachos women leave. Paperback guy waves on his way out. The pool table couple starts a new game. Zoe stays until eleven and then slides off the stool and pulls on her jacket, a light denim thing, no patches, nothing on it, and stands there for a second.
“Same time soon?” she asks.
“Bar’s open every night.”
“But are you here every night?”
“I’m here every night.”
“Then I’ll be back.” She says it simply. No flirtation, no weight. Just a fact. She’ll be back. “Thanks for the music education, Teague.”
“Thanks for the tips.”
She leaves. The door swings shut. I wash her mug, wipe her spot, toss the napkin. Normal closing prep. Normal night.
Except I put on Horses after she’s gone, and I listen to it while I mop, and I think about a girl who said Chrissie Hynde sounds like she knows something you don’t and she’s not going to tell you what it is.
And if her voice is still in my head when I turn off the light, that doesn't mean anything.
Chapter Seven
Zoe
The cookies are perfect.
I’m not being arrogant. I’m being accurate. Grandma Eloise’s brown butter chocolate chip cookies have a documented success rate that spans three decades of church bake sales, two marriage proposals (one joke, one real, both accepted), and one incident where Pastor Williams ate six in a row and had to sit down in the fellowship hall because he said his heart was too full but actually he was having a sugar crash.
I baked two batches last night after baking more earlier in the week for practice. The first batch I ate four of while they were still warm because quality control is important and also because I have no self-discipline. The second batch is in a Tupperware container that Mom thinks I’m bringing to a friend, which is sort of true if you consider Captain Vera Donnelly a friend, which she does not consider me.
I waited. I didn’t go Monday. I didn’t go Tuesday, even though Tuesday I was at Anthem and it was three blocks from the station and my feet almost turned the wrong direction on thewalk home. I waited because Torres told me to wait and Torres knows things I don’t.
The walk to Station 11 feels different today. Last time I was running on adrenaline and a speech. Today I’m running on butter and chocolate and a plan that is admittedly just “bring cookies and see what happens,” which is less of a plan and more of a prayer, but Grandma Eloise always said prayer works best when you bring snacks.
The bay doors are open again. The engine is there, same as before, and I can hear music from inside the station, something muffled and bass-heavy. There’s a different energy today. More people. I can see someone moving in the kitchen through the window, and there’s a pair of boots by the side entrance that are different from the ones that were there last time.
I walk up to the bay door with the Tupperware in front of me like a shield.
Torres sees me first. She’s at the engine again, clipboard in hand, and when she spots me she does this thing with her eyebrows that’s halfway between recognition and amusement.
I hold up the Tupperware. “I brought cookies.”
“What kind?”
“Brown butter chocolate chip.”
She sets the clipboard on the wheel well, walks over, and takes the container from me. Opens it. Looks inside. Takes a cookie. Bites it. Chews slowly, deliberately, like she’s scoring it.
“These are good,” she says, in a tone that suggests good is an understatement she’s choosing on purpose. “Where’d you get the recipe?”
“My grandma.”
“Your grandma knows what she’s doing.” She takes another cookie. “Cap’s in her office. You want me to get her?”
“If that’s okay.”
Torres tucks the Tupperware under her arm. “Stay here. Don’t touch anything.”
