“Are you Teague?”
“Depends.”
“I’m Keely. Zoe’s best friend.” She leans on the bar. “Zoe talks about you.”
“If she does, she's probably talking about punk music. I’m just the delivery system.”
“She talks about you too.” Keely grins. She’s got the confidence of someone who’s been the loud friend her entire life. “She said you gave her a Shirley Temple when she tried to get drunk.”
“She was twenty-two and sad. That’s a Shirley Temple situation.”
“I’m also twenty-two.”
“But you’re not sad. You’re having a great time. So you get the Aperol spritz you ordered like a functioning adult.” I slide it across to her. “Tell your table the first round’s on Zoe and the second round’s at menu price.”
Keely takes the drink and goes back to the table. I watch her sit down and lean into Zoe and say something, and Zoelooks at me over Keely’s shoulder and shakes her head, laughing, mouthingsorryat me from across the room.
I don’t mind. That’s the thing I should mind about and don’t. Five girls showed up in my bar on a Saturday and they’re ordering drinks I have to dig for and taking photos of the neon and one of them just asked someone if we have a DJ, and I should be annoyed because this is Anthem, not a birthday brunch uptown, and instead I’m watching Zoe laugh with her friends and thinking she looks different in a group.
Not better. Different. She’s louder. She touches people when she talks, a hand on Keely’s arm, a shove to Jordan’s shoulder. She throws her head back when she laughs. She’s comfortable with these people in a way she isn’t at the bar with me, and that makes sense because these are her people and I’m just the bartender, but there’s a version of Zoe I’ve been seeing at my bar that’s quieter, more focused, and I realize now that version is the one she becomes around me specifically.
I don’t know what to do with that.
The night moves. I pour drinks and clear glasses and manage the room. The regulars are here too. Paperback guy left early because the noise hit his limit, which I respect. Pool table couple is playing doubles with two of the girls, who are terrible and cheerful about it. The bar is full, which means my tips are good, which means the Anthem fund gets fed, which means the contract in the drawer moves closer to being real.
At eleven, Zoe comes back to the bar. She’s flushed from laughing, cheeks warm, and she’s had two mules over two hours, which is her pace. She sits on her stool and the noise from the table is behind her and it’s almost like it’s just us again, except it’s not because Keely keeps looking over and whispering to Mia.
“Sorry about them,” Zoe says.
“They’re good for business.”
“They’re a lot.”
“They’re twenty-two. Twenty-two is a lot by definition.” I lean on the bar. “They’re your people.”
“Since seventh grade. Most of them.” She traces the rim of her mug. “Keely’s my ride or die. Mia and I were on track together. Jordan lives on my block. And Raquelle is Keely’s cousin who we adopted sophomore year.”
“You collect people.”
She looks up. “What?”
“You collect people. You walk into places and you keep coming back until you belong there and then you bring more people and the place changes shape to fit all of you.” I wipe down the bar. “You’ve been coming here for two weeks and you’ve already changed my Saturday demographic.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s something.”
She licks her lips. There it is. That quick nervous motion I’ve been tracking since the first night, the one she doesn’t know she’s doing. I’ve seen her do it when she’s talking about Station 11, when she’s listening to music she’s never heard before, when she’s sitting across from me and trying to figure out how much of herself to show.
She’s doing it now. Looking at me with those dark eyes and that soft mouth and I’m thinking about it, which is a problem because I don’t think about regulars. Regulars are transactions. Regulars are good for business. Regulars arenot people whose mouths I catalog while I’m supposed to be working.
“I like your bar,” she says. “I like the music and the neon and the sticky floor by the pool table.”
“The floor’s not sticky anymore. I mopped.”
“I like that you mopped.” She grins. “Can I put a song on?”
“The playlist is curated.”
