Chapter Text
Simon arrived at the bar before anyone else, unlocked the door and exhaled. That felt like enough, getting to work before anyone else could notice he was late.
He walked into the staff room to assess the damage. It had been a rushed close on Sunday night and the evidence was spread across the small office and the busy bar. He started by lightly organising the paperwork scattered over the wooden desk, which took up the entire left-hand wall.
He then looked over the rota and calendar to double-check who he was expecting. The whiteboard calendar hung above the desk and had Simon’s scrawled handwriting displaying who was working when, which events they had on, and any big holidays coming up.
Being a Tuesday, Simon had assumed that the bar would be pretty quiet, so had only organised for him and two other people to come in, and would probably send one of them home around 9.
On a weekend, he’d usually start with 6 bartenders and see what happened.
The bar was relatively small, fitting 5 bartenders stood very close together on a busy night, with one in the back clearing and washing glasses then bringing them back out. Or, on a Tuesday, two bartenders stood a decent distance apart with Simon in the back office doing admin.
Unless, of course, he got that famous, unexpected Tuesday rush that Mark had predicted always happened when he needed it the least. Mark had a lot of strange superstitions and beliefs about the bar, and bartending in general.
For example, calling the bar ‘quiet’ summoned the noisiest, worst customers on Earth (although Simon was sure he stole that from doctors and firefighters.) and he always tapped beers before opening them for good luck.
He missed Mark a lot, but he knew that handing the bar over to him was the best decision for both of them, and he knew Mark was doing really well.
When he had first moved to San Francisco, Simon had felt totally useless. He had a 6 year old niece that he was fully responsible for, a missing arm, no real work experience, and enough trauma to retire an experienced psychiatrist at the top of their game.
He was depressed, broke and willing to do anything to make ends meet. Finding a job was never going to be easy, but his friend had introduced him to Mark after a few months of living rent-free, and Mark gave Simon one thing he’d never been given in Eden. Trust.
Bartending is not a famously hard job, besides mixing cocktails, but Mark took very little shit when teaching Simon the basics. He was tough on Simon, rarely cutting him slack for making mistakes due to his lack of arm.
Simon appreciated that a lot. Condescension made Simon shrivel up and pity made him gag. Growing up surrounded by strong, unempathetic role models had limited his acceptance of assistance and had made him very stubborn.
Mark had handed over the bar to him the year before, when he’d decided he was too old to run a bar anymore and had moved away to be closer to his daughter. It was hard for Simon to run the bar by himself at first, but he’d gotten the hang of it, cutting the staff that made his life harder but otherwise keeping strictly to what Mark had put in place for him. If Eden had taught him anything it was how to follow orders.
He was restocking the bar fridge when the door swung open and revealed Beth, a very smiley 24 year old with blonde curls and small fine-line tattoos visible across her pale arms.
“Afternoon Simon!” her bright voice instantly lit up the space and Simon found it difficult not to feel just a little bit better.
“Hi Beth,” he stood up from the crouched position he was in next to the fridge,
“Good day so far?” she ambled past the front bar and through to the staff room, which led into the back of the bar.
Simon swallowed. She was just being polite, and probably didn’t need a play-by-play of his meltdown, luckily for both of them he wasn’t that kind of person.
“It was fine.” That was sufficient. “You?”
She launched into a monologue about how her girlfriend wanted her to move in with her, but Beth liked her flat and her girlfriend’s flat doesn’t allow cats. But she can’t move out because it’s too far from her job, plus it belongs to her family so isn’t hers to sell.
Beth always had a lot to say, but she was the most optimistic person Simon knew, so he liked hearing about her life.
“-so I’m sure we’ll figure it out, Rose’s brother wants to move out of their parents’ house soon so maybe he’ll move into her flat, and we can get a new flat together in between here and her job.”
Simon nodded attentively, lining up bottles of Corona as Beth talked and helped set up the rest of the bar. Once the fridge was full, Simon started down the stairs to the cellar to check the kegs.
“Does he know I’m late?” He heard a whisper come from the bar.
“Yes Tyler, he does,” he shouted calmly up the stairs.
“Sorry man!”
A shuffling followed this, along with some whispers and, what he could assume was, Beth telling him to get his shit together.
The bar opened and, luckily, Mark hadn’t been right yet. Or at least, Mark’s voice in Simon’s head.
A slow trickle of regulars came through the door, affording Simon some time to sit and respond to emails. After a long day, however, Simon abused his power as manager to take a small power nap in the office, head leant unsuspectedly against the wall, so if anyone walked in he looked like he was just in thought.
Someone did walk in a little while later however, snapping Simon awake.
“Hey man, it’s looking a bit lively out there, do you mind giving us a hand?”
Tyler and Beth were Simon’s most capable employees- despite Tyler’s outwardly stoner appearance, he knew what he was doing, he was great with people and he was pretty good under pressure. This meant that if they couldn’t handle a Tuesday rush, Mark’s premonition had rung true once again. Shit.
He emerged from the back office to find a mass of very drunk, very loud college students crowding the bar. This was busy, even for a Friday or Saturday.
“I don’t know where they all came from!” Beth yelled over the crowd.
“Jesus, okay,” Simon shook himself a bit, waking up and preparing for customer service, “What can I get for you?”
✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷
Grace stared down at his phone, the number blurring on the screen the longer he looked at it. He’d been sitting there for quite some time, the pile of marking long-discarded.
This was the longest he’d gone without talking to her in 6 years, except for the 4 days last year that he’d broken his phone while she was on holiday with her family.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing something to happen, but he wasn’t sure what. He kind of wanted the phone to ring without him needing to initiate anything. He also wanted the number to disappear.
What he knew he should do, in the most reasonable part of his brain, was delete the number, stand up, make some dinner then fall asleep in front of the TV.
But he was not a reasonable man.
“Hello?”
“Ryland?”
No one really called him Ryland. It sent a shiver down his spine.
“Hey. Uhm-”
“I’ve been meaning to call you.”
He felt sick. “Yeah? Me too,” he stared over to the box of her belongings, a perfect excuse wrapped in cardboard and full of physical memories.
“Yeah. How are you?” She sounded good. Fine, even.
“I’m alright.” He sighed, feeling half ashamed, half relieved, like hiding to piss in a bush on a long walk.
“Good! Good, I'm glad.”
“I miss you.” it leaves his lips before he can realise he’s thought it. He bites down on his lower lip, covering his face with this hand.
“Yeah? I miss you too.”
“I have a box with some of your stuff in it. That’s why I called. I can drop it over tomorrow if you’re around.” he said plainly, a lump growing in his throat.
He knew why they had broken up, and he knew for sure that it was for the best, but he missed being around someone who knew him like she did. Someone that made him feel like she did.
“Or,” he heard her swallow through the phone, “Or I’m free now. I could come and get it.”
✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷
A small band had been playing at a new venue a few doors down from ‘The Hail Mary’, causing the college kids to swarm around the three unsuspecting bartenders like excited puppies around a singular mother dog. Except instead of milk it was beer.
It was non-stop for a bit, slowing down just enough for them to take their individual breaks after an hour or so. Beth sat crossed legged on Simon’s office chair during hers, eating a sandwich and propping her phone up on her pink and white water bottle to watch YouTube.
After her, Tyler went to sit out by the bins and smoke a cigarette. Simon took out the bins during this time and found him crouched next to the glass bin, cig in one hand, yellow vape in the other, his phone balanced between his knees. Simon raised a slightly judgemental eyebrow, but thought better than to comment.
“Anything to eat?” He offered instead.
Tyler reached into his pocket, produced a protein bar, and waved it at Simon. “Dinner,” he called it.
Simon had nothing to say to that, so ducked back into the office with a small scoff.
“Hey, Si,” Beth’s voice came from the bar, “Could you come out here a sec?”
He sighed shortly and passed out of the protective walls of the office. He knew what that meant- someone had asked for a manager and Beth couldn’t convince them it was definitely not worth their time.
“What can I help with?” he said sternly, eyeing up the three guys leaning over the bar. They were no older than 23 with matching haircuts and equally shit dress senses. One was using a beer bottle to keep himself steady, head ducking onto the bar every few seconds.
The biggest of the three stood opposite Beth, his finger waving in her face. Upon hearing Simon’s voice, he turned his head and dropped his hand, clearly intimidated. He had a stupid grin on his face which wavered when his hand dropped.
“I’ve cut them off because his friend threw up in the toilet.” Beth leaned back and whispered in Simon’s direction.
“Woaahhh” the biggest guy cut in, “He threw up! Not me! So why don’t you just pour me another pint? I won’t tell!” He threw his hands up in mock surrender, as if him ‘telling’ was Simon’s biggest concern.
“Fellas, I’m afraid that if one of you has thrown up and my staff believe you are too drunk, we have every right to cut you off.”
He was not afraid, and had no shame in cutting these guys off as he knew what it could turn into very quickly. He tried not to be too aggressive with his tone and hoped it had come across as such.
“We are PAYING customers!” the man on the left spat, “We’re trying to give you money and you’re saying noo? That sounds liike pooooor business practice to me!” he burped at the end and Beth turned up her nose instinctively.
“Ew man, you’re putting her off,” the one in the middle said, elbowing him in the side. He was the least drunk, but that did not comfort Simon at all.
He had short blond hair that was spiked forward slightly into his eyes. It was clearly his haircut first and the two shorter men had copied it, as they both had brown, curlier hair which was being forced into strange spikes with inordinate amounts of gel.
“Sorry sweetheart, he's gross. And way too drunk. Me on the other hand? I’ll tip you reeeaallly well.”
Simon and Beth shared a look.
“Oh sorry buddy! I didn’t realise she was youurs,” he slurred on the last word, pointing between the two of them.
Beth spluttered, half laugh, half shock.
The man’s eyebrow raised with this, “No? So you’re available?”
She spluttered again, shaking her head. Simon went to defend her, or just give her an escape, but Beth had been a bartender for years and wasn’t new to men like this.
“No, I am not.” She replied calmly, going to take the empty beer bottle to put in the bin.
As she reached out, he put his hand on hers, “Can your boyfriend fight?”
She pulled her hand backwards sharply with a small disgusted yelp, causing the bottle to shatter on the floor.
“I think it’s time to leave.” Simon said bluntly, stepping in front of Beth, over the broken glass.
“Woah I’m sorry buddy, I was just trying something on with your gorgeous employee,” he rolled the ‘L’ and ‘E’ in his mouth, hissing the last sound out with an undeterred grin. “But we’ll leave! It’s a good thing she’s not your girlfriend, I’d hate to fight a cripple.”
The word lands in Simon’s ribs before he has a chance to fully process what the other man had said. He heard a small gasp from behind him but didn’t turn to meet it. Instead, his gaze narrowed and he repeated slowly - “I think, that you three, should fuck off.”
They did, stumbling towards the door, keeping the smug looks on their faces with a painful lack of defeat surrounding them. The blond man muttered to them as he reached the door, turning before he could leave to call Beth a ‘slag’ and saunter out.
“Are you okay?” Simon asked, once the dust had settled.
Beth swallowed and nodded. “Are you?”
✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷
It was a really bad idea. Grace knew that and the sick feeling remained in his stomach, sloshing around and moving to his throat as he heard a buzz at his flat doorbell.
Waiting for her to climb the 2 flights of stairs was torturous, and Grace wondered whether he could cancel over text in that 30 seconds, but before he could deliberate any further a knock pierced his brain.
He leaned forward and turned the handle on instinct, and there she was.
She was slightly shorter than Grace, but had good posture so came across as taller than she was. Her hair was tied in a very messy ponytail, a dark red mass of curls secured by a thin, dark blue scrunchie.
A few curls framed her face, a grown out fringe which she had debated cutting again throughout the last few months of their relationship. Hidden slightly beneath the ringlets were a pair of gold framed, circular glasses that complimented her brown eyes and the freckles that covered her bronzed skin.
She had a matching septum ring and small gold hoop earrings. Grace noted that she had probably made a bit of effort, whether for him or not, as she was wearing winged eyeliner and her least scruffy jumper that she saved for smart-casual events. Her worried expression faded slightly when he opened the door.
“Hey Ry.”
“Hey. Come in.”
It felt strange inviting her into a flat that she used to have keys for. Watching her step into the living room that had once been hers, past the mantle where a picture of the two of them had once been and taking a seat on the sofa that they had picked out together.
“Can I get you a drink?” He asked, aiming to break the tension but not succeeding. At all.
She shook her head in response, so Grace crossed the room to sit opposite her, choosing the blue armchair she’d found years ago at a junk sale and bought because it ‘matched his eyes’.
At the time he’d joked it was a slightly odd reason to buy a chair, but he appreciated it nonetheless.
“The box is over there,” he mumbled, gesturing to the corner of the room.
She nodded slowly, “Thanks. For getting everything together.”
He nodded back, “No worries.”
They sat in awkward silence for a little too long, both too scared to initiate anything.
“How are Rocky and Adrian?” she finally said.
“They’re good. Driving me to work sometimes when it’s cold.” Or when I’m hungover because I went out drinking to get over you.
“That’s good. I miss them.”
Grace nodded. He’d felt bad encouraging his friends to cut off contact, but considering he only had two, he felt it was only fair.
In his defense, he hadn’t made them stop talking to her, but they were loyal people and had known Grace for years before, so it did make sense.
“How have you been?” He asked, finally meeting her eyes after the sick feeling had settled in his stomach.
She talked about her job and her friends and how moving back in with her sister was great for their relationship. All Grace could hear was how well she was coping. He was happy for her, she deserved to be happy.
They caught up for a while, settling into a rhythm they had perfected and were finding again, like old grooves made in doors when they’re shut in a certain way for too long.
When a silence fell again, it felt less awkward. Grace used this gap to stand up and retrieve the box. Not as a sign to leave, but more as an invitation to reminisce.
This was understood, and the lid slid off without question as he sat down next to her.
“Why did you keep this?” She laughed, holding up a popped stress ball that leaked when she squeezed it.
“I don’t know! You were so upset when it broke I think a part of me thought I could fix it.”
She smiled and shook her head, “Put it in the bin Ry.”
He reached into the box, moving some t-shirts and revealing a book. Shit.
“Isn’t this yours? Why are you giving it to me?” She reached in and pulled out The Goldfinch. It was a new copy, never touched or dog eared, but it had been opened.
“Uh you said you’d never read it, and I loved it when I did years ago. So I bought you a copy a few months ago for your birthday. I thought you might as well have it now but I was hoping you wouldn’t notice until you’d got home.” He was rambling slightly, feeling his ears go red.
She looked up at him. “Thank you.”
They smiled at each other for a quiet second, then she opened the front cover.
He watched her read, his mouth slowly opening. He had written something on the front page and forgotten about it. Shit shit shit shit. He tried to peer over to remind himself what he’d written. As he leaned over, her gaze caught his, then dropped to his lips. Before he could realise what was happening, her lips crashed onto his.