“There’s still time.”
“There certainly is.”
“Enjoy it then,” he says, knocking his fist against the edge of the bar before he steps backward. There's at least one more comment on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. “Goodnight, Darren.”
“’Night, Jake.”
And whether I would’ve, I can’t watch him leave, Zach swooping by with a goofy smile and a pint glass. “I think everyone's set for the night. Can I get outta here?”
“Wipe down all the empty tables and counter space, double-check for trash and any other glasses, and then make sure the bathrooms are decent.”
It’s all stuff I’ll be doing later, once I’ve locked the rest of the world out, but he needs to get in the habit now if he’s going to last any longer than the rest of the bartenders who have come and gone. Riley and I have worked together long enough to pick up each other’s slack—however rare it is that we leave anything undone—but I really want to trust someone else, and I pretend Zach’s small scowl doesn’t mean he’s halfway to quitting already.
I shake off the worry that won’t make a difference tonight, and I clean up as much as I can behind the bar while I still have ahandful of customers slow about going home. None of us should be on our phones while we’re working, but while I’m waiting on everyone, I pull up Trailhead’s social media accounts—all set up by Adrian shortly before trivia and karaoke became weekly events here—and browse comments and reviews. V takes the time to respond to most of them when she’s here, but I’m nosy and eager to please, so I go through and like the best of them before Zach calls out a goodbye and I don’t fight it.
The dancers from Arizona use their arms to wipe sweat from their foreheads when they approach me for one more round, but they’re the only two left now. Weeknights can be like this, crowded for a few peak hours and then quiet toward the end, Trailhead located further away from the busier L.A.-area places that keep more people around until closing. I usually get the chance to unwind even before I’ve made it to my car, and some trashy reality tv is enough to carry me off to sleep once I get home.
Weekends, on the other hand, are expectedly wild from beginning to end, and those nights—or early mornings, really—are when I’m least likely to drive straight home after my shift. I often need a chance to settle down when my mind can’t find its own quiet, and it’s nearly a routine by now. One I’ve kept from my friends and exes and regulars and very temporary lovers, but share with one almost accidental friend. A stop I make once or twice a week.
Tonight I shouldn’t need it, but something has thrown me, and I’m restless in a way I don’t plan to dissect after a blowjob and some trivia.
I leave Trailhead behind me, and by the time I pull into a different dim parking lot, I’ve come to terms with not knowing why a scalding hot shower wasn’t enough to lure me home, and my stomach growls as though it appreciates my surrender. In case I needed any more reassurance, I spot a beat-up Toyota Corolla parked around the side of the building, and another tight thing inside me loosens. Then I slam my car door shut and click my key fob ‘til it chirps. The late summer night is perfectly silent as it drags me closer to people who have never demanded to hear all that much from me.
If I remember correctly, something above the front door used to make a noise when anyone came and went, but it’s been broken for at least a couple of years. Still, I don’t go undetected, and I return a couple of smiles on my way to the same booth I always take, its awkward position next to the kitchen leaving it undesirable to everyone else.
I can’t possibly care, though.
When I crash at a 24-hour diner, ambience isn’t much of a selling point.
I flop onto the cracked vinyl and drop my phone to the table before I scrub my face with my hands and hide there for a few unnecessary beats. Nothing is wrong—I’ve been so stupidly fortunate in my life, and that’s been true far more often than not—but I need to stop thinking so hard on a night that hasn’t called for it. Grabbing my phone again, I pull up a couple of different text threads. I'm tempted to bother any of a few friends who've allowed it for too long, but I doubt any of them are awake to chat,and I don’t want to know that for sure. Trailhead’s social media accounts aren’t active enough for anything to have changed since my last sweep through the comments. Then I thumb through a list of top ten spicy dinner recipes just for the hell of it, close to saving one when the kitchen door swings open and hits the side of my booth.
Trading my phone for the place setting that might’ve been here for hours, I’m as grateful for the chocolate shake slid across the table as I am for the raspy voice that’ll greet me next.
Along with a plate loaded with biscuits and gravy, the heaviness of it bound to soothe me to sleep.
And a side of fries, half of which will be stolen by the young woman handing them over now.
Then several extra napkins, mostly a joke after the night I spilled an entire milkshake in my lap.
“Didn’t expect you for another night or two,” she says.
I smile up at her and hand over a fry. “Hello to you, too, Sage.”