Kit grins and takes her proffered hand, helping her sit up and then stand. “Yes, ma’am, you did.”
“Well, fiddlesticks. I didn’t even get to enjoy the show you boys put on.”
“Don’t worry,” Kit says with a wink. “I enjoyed it enough for the both of us.”
She laughs and pats his chest, right over where he has the tattoo that goes with mine. She may squeeze a little, but Kit doesn’t say anything.
Sometimes we have to get strict about our no-touching policy, especially in the case of the bachelorette parties, but Mrs. Donner’s harmless.
She grabs her purse and walks us to the door, rooting around for her pocketbook. She gives us two twenties each, and we thank her, hamming it up by adding a drawl to our “Thank you, ma’am,” and tipping our hats to her.
Kit and I grab all the supplies and load the van. The side of the old Dodge used to advertise Kit’s other company—Hutchinson & Co Cleaning—but the new lettering has the Buffed & Polished logo in bold colors and a stylized set of abs on the doors.
“You got more to do today?” I ask.
“Yup. A cabin at my parents’ and one of the Airbnbs in town.”
Hutchinson & Co is a regular cleaning service. He’s the only one in town, and his parents own a few rental properties, which is how he started. Sometimes he cleans for the lodge too, but those jobs are few and far between in the off-season.
“Lunch?” I suggest as we slide into the front seat, picking up our T-shirts before I sit. It’s one of the hottest days of the year today, and my skin is warm from the sun beating down while we worked in the driveway.
“Hell yeah.” We spend a minute putting our shirts back on before he starts the engine and we head into town.
I check my phone. There’s a missed call from my uncle, which is weird. I’ll return the call later. I clear the rest of the notifications—social media and junk mail—and focus back on Kit.
He gossips about his family, complaining about his sister who still lives with his parents. She’s in her late twenties and I love to tease Kit about how he’s thirty-two and also still living with his parents.
“It’s in the basement,” he insists. “That’s different.”
We drive past the old mill building with its For Sale sign. I have no idea who’s going to buy a fifty-thousand-square-foot building that hasn’t been used in so long that people can’t even remember what it used to mill. But it’s pretty close to town, and therefore a big eyesore.
Here, New York, is a sleepy little place when it’s warmer. There are only a few options open for lunch, and we pick Sweet Persuasions, the coffee shop and bakery. We sit outside, since it’s a sunny day, and pick up our sandwiches. Mine is grilled veggies and mozzarella, served on a toasted baguette. Yum.
“How’s the bar fund coming?” Kit asks.
All the money I earn from this side gig goes into my Buy Your Own Bar Someday Soon fund. That’s literally the name of the bank account online. I’m dedicated as fuck. Even the twenty in my pocket will go in.
It’s not that I don’t like working for Hunter at Sirens. But the Schaefers who own the lodge have pretty much checked out. Hunter and I brainstorm ways to bring more business in and the Schaefers, who claim that we have autonomy, slap us down. Usually, it’s after we’ve already announced the event or special or whatever it is that we’re trying to push. Hunter and I have a hunch that they only know what’s going on because they see it on Instagram instead of reading the emails we cc them into. So sometimes we just . . . throw secret parties.
Not ideal, I know.
I’d love to have a bar of my own. Maybe walking distance from the house I rent. Some place I could bring my golden, Princess, to work with me, some place that is busy every day, not just in ski season or Sunday night when there’s half-price happy hour. There’s enough business in the winter for another bar . . . if you can survive through the summer.
“Eh.” I shrug. “Slow but steady.”
We talk about the local real estate. Silas, who’s a part-time agent, messages me anytime something comes on the market. The problem is that in a town this size, there’s only a few places that are already kitted out as bars. One of those is sitting right across the street, but the guy who owns it is asking a ridiculous price. I don’t know why—he doesn’t need the money. He owns several properties and businesses in town, like the one the dispensary rents and the old theater. About half of them are shuttered and listed for bonkers prices.
The locations in my price range all need work—bars built, bathrooms upgraded, and in one case, squatters kicked out. I don’t have the money to do the first two or the heart to do the last one. Winters are tough up here.
Leo, who works in construction, tells me he’d do the work for free in exchange for a partial ownership. Silas, when he’s not working as a real estate agent (in a town this size, I’m sure if you added up all of the work the agents have, it wouldn’t even amount to a full-time job), is also a photographer. He takes pictures of our drink specials at Sirens and would do the same for me in exchange for free drinks. And Kit’s got his cleaning services to offer.
Even with all that free labor and the love that comes with it, I still need a lot more money if I’m ever going to afford a place.
“You’ll get there,” Kit says, always the optimist.
“Maybe by the time I’m forty.”
“You could quit the bar and work more for me,” he teases. We both know I wouldn’t do that to Hunter.