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“Yeah, this is making me jumpy.” Tilly snapped her fingers, a habit that drove Julia nuts. She nodded to the bikes. “There are a lot of rough guys here, as in bikers. Nothing like the wannabes on the Cliffs, right? We’re going to see the real deal tonight, better than that show on cable. I mean, look at all these damned motorcycles. Plus, what do they call their women?” She snapped her fingers again, her eyes bouncing from friend-to-friend for the answer.
“Ol' or old ladies, I think. There might be some tough women, too.” Poppy added.
Edie’s voice was high and tight. “But we’re tough, right?”
Julia glanced over her shoulder at her friends. “Settle down. Tilly, your snapping makesmejumpy. Stop worrying and embrace the possibilities. Let’s do this. The music sounds great, right? We’ll check that out after we get some drinks.”
She took a few steps only to stop dead in her tracks. Haven, on her heels, slammed into her. “What the fuck…”
But Haven saw it then.
They all did.
Inscribed above the bar in chipped lettering, read RHETT’S WAKE. Julia had no idea it was the bar’s full name. In Torch River, the bar was simply known as the Wake. Why Rhett? Seeing her brother’s name was like receiving a message.
Their blank looks confirmed that the significance was missed by all, friends since middle school, except Haven, who had been her bestie since diapers.
Haven, who had known her brother and had held Julia as she broke down upon news of his death.
Haven, who had listened to and held Julia over the years when the grief recycled.
Haven squeezed her shoulder and offered a supportive smile.
Julia smiled back. She felt safe. Watched over and protected. Besides, they were Torch River’s golden girls. Untouchable. The invisible assurances drove her forward, escorting her into the Wake with its unknown and unfavored.
* * *
Even though the mid-May evening was cool, it was hot and humid indoors. Fans hugged the whitewashed ceiling and spun rapidly. The ill-reputed Wake was gritty and dark, exceeding any dive bar Julia could have imagined, and its patrons were rougher-looking, exuding a quiet presence that came from hard times and how to live them. The crowd was dressed in jeans and t-shirts, the bikers noticeable by their leather vests full of patches and the woman with them who were of all ages and provocatively dressed, displaying a generous amount of cleavage.
Hemmed-in by bodies, Julia and her friends endured curious stares, cocked heads, and fleeting inspections. They were shuffled and bumped, often with apologies, while they made their way to the scarred primitive bar.
“Epic fail.” Haven announced and rolled her eyes.
Poppy settled her elbows on the countertop. “You think? We stick out like a bunch of sore thumbs.”
“Well, sore thumbs or not, we’re going to have fun. The first round is on me.” Julia lifted her chin at the woman with braided white hair piled onto her head moving as she filled a series of pint glasses from the taps.
“You’re next,” the bartender said, turning one-hundred-and eighty degrees and placing them in front of a massive thick man. “On your tab, Khan.”
The woman approached the group, her eyes briefly connecting with each of theirs. “You’re new.”
“Yes ma’am,” they chorused, flashing her their perfect white smiles.
She grinned back, her dark brown eyes sparkling. “Well … Welcome to the Wake. I’m Sammi. What’re you having, ladies?”
“Uh …” Haven studied the shelves behind Sammi.
While Haven struggled with her selection, Julia realized she and her friends couldn’t fake it. Despite their thrifted clothes and efforts to fit in, they imbued privilege and sure and certain futures. She decided what she wanted, despite not seeing any champagne. But what the hell, she’d ask. It was the perfect drink to quench her thirst and to celebrate being out with her friends.
“Can you make a French 75?”
“Is a pig’s ass pork?”
She burst out laughing. “Yes ma'am, it is.”
“I don’t have flutes or wine glasses, so it’ll be in a highball. And I don’t have Champagne, so it’ll be made with prosecco. Still want it?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
