13
the before and the after
Hannah - five years ago
“You don’t serve cocktails?”
The grumpy bartender looks at me with an expression that couldn’t be less bothered by my shock.
I stare him down. This has to be a joke. His face is stoic, completely unmoving, and I can’t help but bark a laugh. He rolls his eyes.
“What’s this establishment called, Mr. Barkeep?” I ask.
A pair of weathered eyes, wrinkled at the edges from what has to be decades of glowering, narrow at me. “Bars don’t need names. People know what they’re getting when they walk in the door.”
“Hmm…that’s deep. I shall henceforth call this placethe bar that shall not be named.”
Rowan laughs. The bartender does not.
I give the old dude my best toothy grin. “What about you? Doyou,you peach of a man,have a name?”
“Name’s Alan.”
Old school country music hums through the bar, filling the battle of wills in the space between Alan and me. Little does he know, I just dumped a man at the altar. I’ve got snark and sarcasm to spare.
“Listen, dollface?—”
My brows skyrocket and I gasp, clutching my chest. “Alan, are you flirting with me?”
He ignores me. “You want a cocktail? Go see my brother, Gary, in Denver. He’s the sold out pushover of the two of us, but you ain’t getting it from me. Beer, shots, liquor neat or on the rocks. That’s it. Take it or leave it.”
I smother a laugh, but Rowan’s already too far gone. Alan looks bored. “I’ll take whatever beer you have on tap.”
“Same,” Rowan chuckles as he sets our helmets on the bar top. “You think you could store these behind the bar for us?”
The scowly bartender gives the helmets a disapproving once-over. Doesn’t say a word.
Eyes locked on Alan, I whisper to Rowan, “I think that’s a no.”
Rowan pulls the helmets into his lap. “On second thought, never mind.”
Alan prepares our drinks while Rowan and I, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, stare at each other for a beat before tucking the helmets at our feet by the backpack and jacket.
Beers appear in front of us a minute later.
“I like you, Alan. You’re a good man even if you are a bit prickly,” I say, holding my glass aloft.
He huffs and moves to the other end of the bar, mumbling something aboutkids these daysas he goes.
Rowan and I sip in silence as I take in the place. If the worddivehad a picture next to it in the dictionary, this would be it. Tiny bar. Crotchety bartender serving half a dozen patrons seated on a row of mismatched wooden stools.Small platform stage in the back that might have been used for solo musical acts at one point in time, but now serves as a dais for what is clearly Alan’s pride and joy: the jukebox.
“You think that used to be a dance floor?” I ask Rowan, referring to the floor in front of the stage. It’s slightly more worn and discolored than the rest of the place, littered with rickety wooden tables and chairs. I can feel the splinters lodging themselves in the thighs of the people filling those seats as we speak.
“Nah, sounds like too much fun. Alan doesn’t like fun.”
“Alan may not like fun, but who’s to say all these finepeople don’t know how to have a good time.” Sure, everyone here is old enough to be my grandparent, but they can’t all be Alans.
A smirk forms slowly across Rowan’s face. “Only one way to find out,” he says before he hops off his stool and ambles to the jukebox.