He gives it one short pump. “Louis. I’ll give you a rundown, try to keep up.”
He tells me which beer is at each tap, and I do mnemonics to remember what a lager, pale ale, IPA, red ale, wheat beer, and dark ale are. There are only two kinds of wine: red and white. They’re both table wines, which I assume means they’re cheap and probably not very good. I keep that thought to myself, though.
A pair of men come in and take two seats at the bar. It’s just after three thirty in the afternoon.
“You’re up. The guy on the left is Mike, and the one on the right is Jerry. They work at the ice cream factory in the next town over. Mike drinks the pale ale, and Jerry drinks the wheat beer. Ask them if they want the special. They usually do.”
“Okay. Should I ask them what they want to drink first or—” His arched brow tells me everything I need to know. “I’ll pour the beers.”
I do exactly what Louis did, tipping the glass so it’s at an angle. It’s unnerving to have Louis watching me like a hawk while I pour the pale ale first and then the wheat beer. The pale ale has slightly less foam than his and the wheat beer a little more. I don’t think I do a bad job, and Louis doesn’t comment either way.
Thankfully they’re slightly different colors. The pale ale looks like normal pee, and the wheat beer looks like the morning pee after too many drinks and not enough water, possibly of someone suffering from a UTI.
I bring them their beers, thankful when I give the right one to the right man. “I’m Teagan, I’m helping out Louis today. Would either of you be interested in today’s special?”
“Sure would, darlin’,” Jerry says with a smile. His front tooth is gray.
“Same here. And it’s about time Louis hired someone with a nicer mug than his.” Mike lifts his beer in my direction and drains half the pint in three long swallows. The foam coats his mustache, and he uses the sleeve of his jacket to wipe it away. “Might as well pour me another one, the first never lasts long.”
“Of course, I’ll be right back.” I meet Louis at the tap. “They both want the special, and Mike wants another pint.”
“Pour the pint first, then I’ll show you how to put the order in.”
I do as Louis says, and he takes me over to the computer. He swipes his card and taps the buttons faster than I can follow. Today’s special is the burger. It comes with fries or, for an upcharge, a side salad, onion rings, or waffle fries.
He goes back to the beginning and makes me key everything in on separate orders. I’m very glad I have a decent memory, otherwise this would be a lot more overwhelming.
I spend the next several hours pouring beers, serving wine that smells like it’s halfway to vinegar, and placing food orders—mostly people get the special. I mess up a few times along the way, but the customers seem to like me, and when I tell them I’m Van’s sister, it wins me some more points.
At seven thirty things start to wind down, the dinner rush long over. I notice that some of the men who were here when I first came in are still sitting at the bar, nursing pints. I want to ask Louis if they’re safe to drive, but I don’t want to stir up any trouble.
As if he can hear my thoughts, he steps up beside me. “Bob doesn’t drive. He lives in one of the apartments above the pub.”
I glance up at Louis. I want to ask how often Bob is here and if he always sits at the bar all day long, drinking beers, eating the free peanuts and nothing else as I wipe down the outside of the freshly washed pint glasses and set them in the freezer so they’re frosted when I pour a fresh pint. Apart from the Guinness. That’s the only beer that gets an unfrosted glass.
“He was a POW in Kuwait.” Again, he answers the questions I don’t have the courage to ask.
I fumble the glass and he catches it, setting it in the freezer. “Where’s his family?”
“Right here.” Louis motions to the bar. He pats me on the shoulder. “You’re new here. It takes some time to figure it all out.”
I nod, although I feel like he’s saying a lot more than his words imply.
Five minutes later a man settles on the stool at the end of the bar. The spot has been empty all day. I glance over and my breath catches. Even with the brim of his ball cap covering half of his face, I’ve come to recognize that set of shoulders. Which should be concerning since I’ve only seen them a few times. But Aaron Saunders has a presence. Something about him makes the room buzz with new energy. Women sitting at booths cross and uncross their legs. They sip their drinks and whisper to each other.
He touches the brim of his ball cap and says something to the two older ladies who sat down at the bar and shared a special while nursing bottled beers. They do what every woman who seems to be given his positive attention does: giggle like schoolgirls and touch their hair. They throw their heads back and laugh, and he smiles in return, lighting up the entire bar. Based on what I’ve witnessed so far, Aaron Saunders is a shameless flirt, and the women around here eat it up. They chat for a minute or two, at least until Aaron’s phone screen flashes, and his attention shifts to the incoming message.
The women go back to sharing the remains of their cold fries, still stealing starry-eyed glances at Aaron. I find it a little annoying. Especially since he’s been anything but flirty with me.
I take a deep breath and make my way down the bar. His phone is in his hands, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a frown. At my approach he sets the device facedown on the bar and lifts his head. His mouth opens and closes, that frown deepening and a furrow appearing between his brows. Here we go. I steel myself, ready for his prickly demeanor.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he barks.
Mike and Jerry, who are still sitting at the bar several stools down, food long eaten, beers replaced with coffee, both glance our way.
I smile brightly, not wanting him to see how his sharp tone affects me. “I work here.”
“Since when?” His furrow turns into something between shock and annoyance.
“Since today.”
“I thought you were here for the weekend.”
“Plans change.” And mine have changed a lot in forty-eight hours. “What can I get you, Aaron?”
He blinks a couple of times and blows out a breath. “I’ll wait for Louis.”
I lift one shoulder and let it fall, as if his snub doesn’t mean a thing to me. But it drives me bonkers that he has clear disdain for me for no reason I can see. I shouldn’t care, and yet it feels a lot like a challenge I want to take on to get him to change his tune. I saunter down the bar, checking on customers, making sure drinks are topped up or bills are handed over and change is made as I go. It’s a full five minutes before I reach the other end of the bar, where Louis is.
“Aaron want his usual?”
“I’m not sure. He said he’d wait for you.”
Louis raises a single eyebrow. It seems to be his thing. “Do you know how to make a root beer float?”