Saylor ties it on and gets to work.
Over the next week, Backroads finishes coming together.
Ellie runs the renovation like a campaign. Every surface polished, every chair level, every tap tested twice.
Tildie handles the drink menu. The prospects rotate through kitchen shifts.
Tonight it's Beats, who burns everything but follows Ellie's orders without complaint, which is all she requires.
And Saylor fills in the gaps.
She cleans without being asked. Memorizes the tap layout in one afternoon. Learns the POS system faster than any of us have.
She's good at this. Saylor’s efficient and anticipatory. She sees an empty glass before the customer lifts their hand. Restocks napkins before they run out.
She moves behind the bar with the economy of someone who's learned that being useful is a form of armor.
Ellie notices.
I catch her watching Saylor during a slow stretch on Thursday, and the expression on Ellie's face is one I've seen before. It's the look she gave Tildie during her first week.
Recognition. One survivor clocking another.
I'm behind the bar, restocking bottles because Ellie pointed at the speed rail and said "empty" and that's all the instruction a prospect needs.
Tildie shows up Friday to help with reopening prep. The introduction is brief.
"Saylor, this is Tildie." Ellie gestures between them with a rag in one hand. "Tildie, Saylor. She's new."
Tildie extends her hand. Dark hair in waves, amber eyes assessing without intruding. "You pour or mix?"
Saylor shakes it. "Pour. Never been good at the fancy stuff."
Tildie grabs a case of limes from behind the bar. "Good. The fancy stuff is for people who charge twelve dollars for a gin and tonic. We charge six, and we're honest about it."
The corner of Saylor's mouth twitches.
Tildie catches it and doesn't push. She sets the limes on the cutting board and hands Saylor a knife. "Wedges, not wheels. Ellie's picky about it."
They work side by side in a silence that isn't uncomfortable.
Two women who understand each other's perimeters without being told where the lines are.
I watch from the end of the bar where I'm installing a shelf bracket Ellie asked me to mount three days ago.
My excuse for being here. Prospect work.
The real reason is standing behind the bar in a black Backroads t-shirt Ellie gave her, sleeves rolled to her elbows, cutting limes with a precision that shouldn't be attractive and is.
We fall into a pattern.
Statistics three times a week. She explains regression. I pretend to understand it.
The penis pen makes her laugh twice more before I finally retire it for a regular ballpoint, and she looks almost disappointed.
After class, sometimes we walk in the same direction. Not together. Adjacent. Two people heading toward the parking lot who happen to be having a conversation.
She's a social work major. I learn this on a Wednesday when Dr Petrov assigns a paper connecting statistical methods to a field of study and she mentions hers.