CHAPTER FOUR | OLIVIA
I hopped down from the last step of the Greyhound bus and felt my Adidas sneakers strike the hot black asphalt with a heavy thud. Then I glanced up, taking in the massive brick building that towered over the bus terminal: Hartford’s Union Station.
I made it. I’m here. I’m in Hartford—
“Hey, lady!” a sharp voice heckled from behind me. “Are you gonna stand there all day, or what?”
I suddenly remembered that there was a line of passengers waiting to de-board the bus behind me, so I quickly swung my duffel bag over my shoulder and hopped forward.
A dense cloud of sticky hot exhaust poured from the rumbling engine at the front of the Greyhound, swirling around my bare legs and immediately warming through my frozen skin.
I had unknowingly picked a bus seat that was positioned directly beneath an A/C vent, which meant that I had spent the last five hours of the journey being pelted with ice-cold arctic air. Stepping out into the sweltering midday summer heat felt like a welcome relief.
The stench of diesel fuel hung in the air, mixing with the aroma of freshly baked bread that was wafting from a Subway sandwich shop at the far end of the bus terminal.
My stomach grumbled. Besides the paper cup of black coffee and stale muffin that I had devoured at the bus station back in Providence, I hadn’t eaten all day. I was starving.
I slid my cell phone out from the pocket of my cutoff denim shorts and glanced at the screen.
1:35 p.m.
I had agreed to meet my new roommate at two o’clock at a bar just down the road from Union Station. That didn’t leave much time for grabbing a sandwich.
Hopefully they have food at the bar… I sighed as I shoved the phone back into my pocket and trudged onwards, following the flow of foot traffic towards the bus terminal exit.
I had spent the last hour of the bus journey scrolling over a map of downtown Hartford, familiarizing myself with the twisted grid of streets and bridges and squares. I had also plotted my route to the bar, and I had no problem putting my plan into practice as I navigated along the bleached-white stretch of sidewalk that lined Asylum Street.
Now that I was out of the station, I felt the full force of the summer sun glaring down on the back of my neck. After walking a block, my skin was tingling under my oversized Block Island sweatshirt. After another half a block, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I came up to a bus stop on the side of the road, and I heaved my duffel bag onto the metal bench. Then I gripped the hem of my sweatshirt and started to roll it up over my shoulders, revealing the thin white tank top I was wearing underneath.
I had the sweatshirt halfway over my head when, out of nowhere, I heard a chorus of wolf-whistles.
I jerked the sweatshirt over my head and immediately spotted a pair of construction workers leering at me from the opposite side of the road.
“Don’t stop, baby!” one of them called.
“Yeah! Keep stripping!” the other bellowed. “We wanna see you take it all off!”
“Unbelievable,” I muttered under my breath. I hastily tied the sweatshirt around my hips, then I swung my duffel bag back over my shoulder and continued making my way down the street.
“Hey, don’t be shy, baby!”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that they were following me, walking in the same direction on the sidewalk that lined the opposite side of the street.
I tried to ignore them. I tried to concentrate on the cracks in the white sidewalk. I tried to focus on just putting one foot in front of the other… but I couldn’t stop the rush of adrenaline that was spilling into my bloodstream.
My heartbeat was pounding through my temples at a million beats per minute. An angry red flush flooded my cheeks, and my fingernails dug into my palms as I balled my hands into fists.
“Come on, baby! You know you love the attention! You wouldn’t be struttin’ around in them little Daisy Duke shorts if you didn’t!”
I clenched my jaw and pinched my tongue between my teeth, holding in everything that I wanted to shout back at the two pigs who were trailing me across the street.
Ironically, this sort of unwanted attention was exactly the sort of thing that I had been trying to escape when I made the decision to move to Hartford.
Now, I wondered if that had all been one big fat mistake.
I had been in Hartford for less than five minutes, but part of me already wanted to turn on my heel, run back to the bus station, and book a myself onto the next Greyhound headed back to Rhode Island.
The catcalls coming from across the street slowly faded as I made my way to the end of the block, disappearing under the commotion of engines revving and horns honking. I still kept a swift pace as I made the left turn onto Trumbull Street.
Vaughan’s Public House was located in an open-air brick arcade that branched off of Trumbull. I had caught my breath by the time I reached the tall, black wooden doors of the pub, but my body was still pulsing with adrenaline. I glanced at my phone screen. One-forty. I had made the half-mile trek in five minutes.
I guess I had time for that sandwich, after all…
I wasn’t hungry anymore, though. Being heckled by a pair of perverted construction workers had been enough to kill my appetite.
But I could use a drink… I thought as I pulled open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
Inside, Vaughan’s was narrow and dark. A long wooden bar stretched the length of the room, and behind it, tall shelves were built into the wood-paneled walls and stacked with glass bottles of booze.
Besides a lone patron — a fuzzy, bearded old man who looked like he was suffering through some sort of existential crisis, huddled over a glass of whiskey at the end of the bar — the place was empty. I stowed my duffel bag under one of the bar stools, then I took a seat.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked me without looking up from the brass beer tap handles that he was polishing.
I glanced up at the selection of spirits that lined the wall behind the bar.
“A shot of Jameson, and—” my eyes darted to the assortment of brass tap handles, “—a Sam Adams.”
The bartender narrowed his eyes and shot me a curious look, then he shuffled down towards the opposite end on the bar, pausing to click on a jukebox. A pair of old speakers crackled to life behind me, and I heard the soft strums of an acoustic guitar fill the bar.
I eased back onto my stool and let out a deep breath, trying to relax as I watched the bartender slide a frosted pint glass under the tap and fill it with frothy, golden beer.
He dropped the pint glass onto a paper coaster and slid it across the bar towards me, then he pulled a bottle of Fireball down from the shelf and poured a generous serving into a shot glass.
Carly Simon’s voice crooned through the crackly speakers, and I recognized the song — You’re so Vain — as the bartender slid the shot glass towards me.
“Cheers,” he said.
I raised the shot in a silent salute and forged my best attempt at a smile, then I brought the glass to my lips and tilted my head back. The wickedly hot burn of cinnamon and whiskey immediately engulfed the inside of my mouth. I stifled the shiver that trickled down my spine as heat swept through my chest, warming me from the inside out.
I dropped the empty shot glass onto the bar, then I wrapped my hand around the pint. The thin layer of ice that coated the glass melted under the warmth of my palm and turned into condensation.
I considered taking a swig, then I decided to wait. There’s no rush, I reminded myself. I still have twenty minutes to kill before my new roommate gets here…
Speaking of my new roommate…
I pulled out my cell phone and tapped open my text inbox. Besides a few brief messages that we had exchanged back and forth — a photo of the spare bedroom that was available, a negotiation on the monthly rent I would pay, and making the plans to meet here at Vaughan’s after I got into town — we hadn’t said much else to each other.
The only thing I really knew about him was that his name was Duke and he was a fireman here in Hartford.
I tapped my feet absently to the beat as Carly Simon sang through the second verse of the song, and it suddenly struck me that agreeing to move in with a total stranger probably hadn’t been the smartest move.
Then again, my decision to move to Hartford had never been about being smart… it had just been about getting far the hell away from my hometown, and fast.
There hadn’t been anything special about Hartford, besides the fact that it was far enough away from Rhode Island, and there happened to be an opening for an EMT at the Fire Department. Once I saw a clear path to escape, I had booked a one-way ticket to a new life, in a new town, where nobody knew my name.
And here I am…
I looked down at the faded black duffel bag that was wedged under the bar stool. Everything that I had to my name was stuffed into that bag. Whatever didn’t fit had been left behind…
The song was building up to its second chorus through the crackly old speakers, and then I heard the squeak of the bar door swinging open. I lifted my eyes and saw a man stride in, his eyes locked right onto me, and I saw the corners of his lips turn up as he hovered by the end of the bar.
For a split second, I wondered if this was the person I was meeting. Was this my new roommate?
No way, I decided, passing my eyes over him dismissively. He’s too… pretty to be a fireman.
The guy standing at the end of the bar looked like the kind of tall, dark, chiseled, Hollywood-handsome hunk that might portray a fireman on some sort of far-fetched TV drama… but in real life? Not a chance. Firemen don’t look like male models. At least not where I came from.
I bet the closest he’s gotten to fighting a fire is blowing out candles on a birthday cake… I thought as I turned back to my beer.
I was staring down at a crack in the wooden bar when I saw a shadow swarm over me.
“Hey,” a deep voice said. I didn’t have to look up to know that Mr. Hollywood was taking a seat in the bar stool directly next to me. I rolled my eyes and scrunched my lips together.
Be nice… I tried to tell myself, but it was too late; I was fresh out of patience, and I was done being nice.
The shot of Fireball had helped, but there was still too much residual adrenaline leftover in my veins from earlier. If this guy seriously tried to hit on me, it’d be like dropping a lit match onto a puddle of gasoline.
I jerked back in my seat and glared up at him.
“Can I help you?” I demanded.
His eyebrows shot up. “I’m just having a seat. Is that… ok?”
“Look behind you,” I said curtly.
“Uh…” his brow wrinkled and he plastered on one of those charmingly clueless smiles. He glanced over his shoulder slowly, then turned back to me. “What am I looking at?”
“How many seats are there at this bar?”
He frowned again and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Thirteen,” he reported after counting them off under his breath. “Minus the one you’re sitting in. Oh, and minus one for Willie Nelson over there.”
He nodded back to the old man at the opposite end of the bar, who had since finished his glass of whiskey and proceeded to hum along drunkenly to the Carly Simon song.
“So… eleven,” I snapped, blinking up at him. “When you walked into this bar, there were eleven empty seats to choose from.”
“Ok?”
“Ok,” I repeated. “So why did you choose the one right next to me?”