What the actual fuck is going on in this neighborhood?
For the record, I'm not avoiding Tate because she's too friendly. I'm avoiding her because I know exactly what will happen if I go over there. She'll ask questions the way she asks everyone questions, and I'll answer them the way everyone answers her questions, and she'll know about my uncle and the bar and the last five years and probably my personal life by the time I've caught myself doing it.
I don't talk about any of that. The safest thing, the smart thing, is to stay on my side and let her be someone else's problem.
Movement through the window again pulls my attention before I can stop it. Tate's coming back from the parking lot carrying a cardboard box, and I register legs first because of the angle, because of the way the window frames the view, because of the shorts. To call it shorts is inaccurate. It's nothing more than a piece of fabric that leaves little to the imagination.
Denim cutoffs with a frayed hem and an inseam that qualifies as a choice. My brain takes a second to catch up to what my eyes have already inventoried: white tank top, thin cotton, no bra—I clock this and immediately wish I hadn't—Doc Martens boots unlaced and slightly too big, bright neon yellow headband on her wavy, shoulder-length hair.
The box is awkward to carry, and she's got it balanced on her hip, one arm underneath, her whole body angled to compensate for the weight.
The shorts are … yeah. That's really a lot of leg. An aggressive amount of leg, confidently displayed, and my body immediately goes rogue, which means there's a brief window where I've gonewarm and tight and stupid before I've had time to object to any of it.
My jeans are uncomfortable. I shift my weight and grip the bar hard enough that the wood edge bites into my palm. None of this helps because she's still out there, adjusting the box on her hip, and when it tips, she catches it one-handed and laughs at herself.
I watch all of this. I watch all of it. I'm thirty-five years old with a bar to run and a liquor order I still need to place, and at least three things that needed doing an hour ago.
Tate disappears through her door while I'm still standing in the same spot, hand on the bar, glass forgotten.
This is annoying and so fucking inconvenient. My brain has developed a fault, and I find this unacceptable. But the worst part is getting a random boner just by watching her.
The fuck?
Then, two contractors angle something large through her door. The Rolling Stones iconic tongue logo, vintage print, professional frame. I stare at it for a long moment, then go back to wiping the bar.
I like The Stones. Lots of people like The Stones. This means absolutely nothing.
A Black Sabbath poster follows ten minutes later. Still explainable. Lots of people like classic rock. Could be decorative. I'm not making assumptions based on wall art.
Then three framed Led Zeppelin album covers get carried through in succession, and the explanation is getting thinner,but I'm managing it. She could just have good taste in music. This doesn't necessarily mean anything specific. Right?
The vintage Fender Telecaster makes it harder. That's not decoration, that's a statement piece, the kind of thing you hang in a—no. Not going there. Could be a coffee shop. Plenty of coffee shops have guitars on the wall. Maybe a rock and roll-themed coffee shop.
No big deal.
The neon beer signs arrive next. Pabst Blue Ribbon and Schlitz. Not the Target replicas, but the real ones that cost three hundred dollars each, because I priced them last spring and put them back.
Next is a dartboard. Then, six bar stools, metal, industrial, worn-copper finish. The exact ones Jason showed me last year that I said were too expensive for what we needed.
Lastly, a Marshall … Super Bass? Seriously?
My jaw aches from clenching it, pulse pounding in my temple. "Jason."
"Yeah?"
"What's she opening?"
He looks up, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. "You didn't ask?"
"I'm asking now."
"You've been avoiding asking for fourteen days." He smirks, and I want to wipe it off his face. "Actively not asking, like asking would mean you were curious, which you absolutely were not."
"Jason, I asked one fucking question."
"I don't know, man. She didn't say, and I didn't ask. You could go ask her yourself."
Okay, then. I walk out from behind the bar. My legs just do it, carrying me toward the door. I list reasons why this is a bad idea, but ultimately ignore all of them.
