The Wild One by Gemma Burgess Page B

introduces us. It’s the owner of Potstill, Gary.
    Gary doesn’t even meet my eyes, just takes his phone out and answers a text, sighing deeply, while Joe, unbidden, gets him a seltzer with lime. Gary looks like an ex-boxer who eats way too many subs. Bug eyes, receding pale hair, a nondescript goatee that isn’t bushy enough for Brooklyn.
    Gary takes a long drink, burps loudly, and finally looks up. “I’m closing the bar.”
    â€œWhat?” Joe is shocked. “Why? Last night was huge. This could be a great live music venue—”
    â€œPeople who watch music don’t drink whiskey,” says Gary, with total confidence.
    â€œWe could offer other drinks, expand the bar—”
    â€œThere is no ‘we,’ Joe. There’s only ‘me.’ I own the place. You just manage it. Don’t forget that.”
    Wow, Gary is an asshole.
    Joe takes a deep breath, clearly trying to stay calm, and finally asks, “When?”
    â€œI’ll put it on the market at the end of the summer. I’m going to my place in Nantucket until then. My wife’s having another fucking baby. She refuses to stay in the city.”
    Did he just say another fucking baby ? Charming.
    â€œOkay,” Joe is suddenly very interested in polishing already-clean glasses. “Thanks for letting me know.”
    Gary stands up, drains his seltzer, and, without even saying good-bye, leaves the bar. The door slams behind him.
    There’s a long silence.
    â€œI can’t believe that’s it,” mutters Joe finally. “Potstill is dead.”
    â€œMaybe someone will buy it and see the potential…” My voice trails off into nothingness.
    â€œNo one is going to look at the numbers and keep this bar open, Coco. They could make a lot more money ripping the guts out and building something new.”
    Joe sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a gesture that reminds me of Julia. She texted earlier: she’s recovered from Peter the Magnificent and is now out with Pia and Angie, while Madeleine rehearses with her band. I’d usually be with them, I guess, or maybe in the old days with Ethan while he monologued at me, teaching me things I didn’t want to learn. I’m glad I’m here, though. This feels like the right place to be.
    â€œIf I could do one thing right now, it would be to make this bar a success,” says Joe wistfully.
    â€œIf I could do one thing right now, I’d…” My voice trails off. I can’t tell Joe the truth. He’d just think I was silly. And I don’t want just one thing, I want three. I want to be thin. I want to fall in love. I want to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my damn life. And I have no idea how to do any of the above.
    â€œYou want another Whiskey Smash?” I ask.
    Joe grins at me. “Sure.”
    As I make them, Joe takes his iPod out of his back pocket.
    â€œYou know what annoys me most about Gary? He doesn’t even like music. He agreed to let Spector play here because he owed someone in the band for helping him out with some pot deal.” Joe reaches up to an ancient set of speakers and stereo system. “I don’t particularly like pot. But I fucking love music.”
    A new song comes over the loudspeakers. “This is MGMT,” he says. “Time to Pretend.”
    â€œIt’s great…” I say. But Joe isn’t listening.
    Then he looks back at me. “Let’s get langers.”

 
    CHAPTER 10
    So we do.
    By the time the bar closes, we’ve sampled most of the whiskeys behind the bar, plus three more Whiskey Smashes (me) and four more Rob Roys (Joe).
    A few more patrons come in, but each time, as if on cue, the previous patrons leave. Which means practically no actual bartending is done. Instead, we listen to music, talk, and, you know, drink. I can’t think of the last time I had this much fun.
    Later, sometime around