“Okay, first of all,” she calls out, voice muffled by the shelves, “you have the most bachelor fridge I’ve ever seen. Eggs, beer, leftover takeout, and… oh my God, Reed, you actually have a jar of pickles. Amelia would cry tears of joy.”
I arch a brow, leaning back in my chair. “You always go through people’s fridges?”
She pops up with the jar of pickles in hand, grinning. “Only when I’m hungry. Which is always.” She twists the lid, takes one out, and crunches happily before continuing like she never left off. “You’re missing out, by the way. Pickles at breakfast? Elite move. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
I shake my head, amused despite myself.
“Why the interest in my bar?” I ask finally.
She pauses for a moment, jar still in her hand, then turns to look at me. The humor fades, and her expression becomes steadier, more vulnerable.
“Because it feels real,” she says simply. “So much of what I film in LA is staged, curated, filtered. But Boots & Bourbon? It’s… different. It’s lived-in. People actually feel there. You’ve built something that has soul, Reed. And I want to show that. To film it, to capture the way it feels when you walk through those doors.”
Her words hit harder than I expected, pressing against the part of me that always wonders if people only see my scars, never the effort I put into everything else.
I clear my throat, leaning back. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
She laughs, light and easy again, as she sets the pickles on the counter. “It’s just honest. That’s all people want, something that doesn’t feel fake.”
Before I can respond, she’s already jumping into her next idea. “Okay, content ideas, hear me out. We could do a behind-the-scenes of you setting up for the night. Like, people love that kind of process stuff. Or a spotlight on local musicians you bring in. Maybe even a series about the regulars, you’ve got characters in there, I know you do.”
Her eyes flick to me, bright and mischievous. “Though we might need to work on your on-camera face. Right now you’re giving me ‘I hate my life.’”
I let out a huff of a laugh, shaking my head. “Appreciate the honesty.”
She beams with triumph and pulls out a notebook from her bag that she left on the counter last night. She’s already scribbling, rambling about angles and lighting; about capturing the glow of the bottles against the shelves, and about filming small snippets of conversation between patrons.
I don’t stop her.
Because as she talks, I realize something; she sees the bar the way I once did, not as a reminder of what I lost, but as a place worth building.
And damn it, that makes me want to see it through her eyes, too.
She’s pacing now, with the pickle jar forgotten on thecounter, her notebook open in one hand while the other waves wildly as she talks.
“Okay, imagine this,” she says, spinning on her heel, hair flying around her face. “A mini-series: Night at Boots & Bourbon. Like, quick clips; the neon glow outside, people laughing, glasses clinking. And then you’re behind the bar, all broody bartender, but secretly soft. The internet would eat you up, Reed. I promise.”
Her pen scratches across the page, creating messy loops and arrows connecting half-formed ideas. “We could do themed nights, too. Oh! Maybe a girls’ night highlight where we show which cocktails pair with which songs. People love that interactive stuff. And—wait, wait—do you still have that dartboard? Because, Reed, I swear to God, we could make a whole thing out of ‘drunk dart confessions.’ Viral. Instantly viral.”
She’s smiling brightly, words pouring out faster than I can follow, stumbling over themselves as she rushes to say them. Her sunshine lights up every corner of the room, banishing shadows that have stayed too long.
I sit at the table, coffee cooling in my hands, just absorbing all her radiance and beauty.
The way her nose scrunches when she’s excited; the furrow of her brows when she scribbles something down; the little bounce in her step as she moves from the fridge, to the counter, to the table, and back again, like her body can’t contain the energy.
She doesn’t even notice me staring, and I shouldn’t be.
I know that, but I can’t help it.
A faint but genuine smile touches my lips, feeling strange—foreign, almost—after years of forcing them for strangers at the bar. This one comes easily, sparked just by watching her be exactly who she is.
Her light. My shadows.
She talks and talks, and I let her because every word reminds me that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to sit in the dark forever.
layla
. . .
