Then
Ethan was in the middle of an argument when he first saw her. Mick Dewey was giving him shit about the change he’d given him – again – and he was explaining simple math to him – again – when he looked up and saw her leaning on the bar. A few tendrils of hair had plastered themselves to her forehead and she had the faintest sheen of sweat above her upper lip. She was looking around the place as if it were a museum of curiosities rather than a shitty dive bar, and there was a faint look of bemusement on her face that he’d soon learn was pretty much permanent. Two truths were immediately apparent: she was absolutely gorgeous and she definitely didn’t belong there.
He leaped along the bar to get to her.
‘Hey, what about my change?’ Mick called. Ethan gave him the finger, which was maybe not the best customer service, but was pretty standard when bartending at a place like Billy Jack’s, perpetually full of loudmouth drunks (all of whom he loved dearly, of course). Anyway, he’d gone to high school with Mick, who used to beat the shit out of him when they were playing basketball, so it was nice to exercise a little power over him now. A little retribution.
‘Hey,’ he said to the beautiful girl, leaning across the bar in what he hoped was a casual-yet-rakish way. ‘What can I get you?’
She looked up, startled, and stared at him for a couple of blank seconds. ‘Um . . .’ she said. He realized it wasn’t going well.
‘A woman of few words,’ he said, ‘I like it,’ and then kicked himself for sounding like a dick. ‘I’m Ethan.’ He stuck his hand out, feeling like a door-to-door salesman who had just agreed a nice deal on a deluxe vacuum cleaner. She continued to stare at him as if he’d just pulled a rabbit out of somewhere unmentionable. He worried briefly that she thought the foul smell that constantly permeated the bar was coming from him. It’s the dishwasher! he wanted to shout. It stinks! Well, that and Mick Dewey, who was staring intently at his palm and counting out the change for the fifteenth time, lips moving soundlessly as he did it. The staring continued for a few more beats. It was brutal, his hand just dangling there in space. Dewey was going to look up any minute and see him get shot down by this beautiful girl, and he’d never hear the end of it. He couldn’t let that happen. He reached across and gave her a little nudge on the shoulder. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
She snapped out of it, her eyes refocusing on him. ‘Ruby,’ she said, placing a soft hand in his. ‘I’m Ruby.’
‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Like the song.’
‘Oh, sure,’ she said, and he could tell by her uncertain smile that she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Normally he had a rule against dating women who didn’t have an innate knowledge of late 1960s rock (other deal-breakers included not loving The Big Lebowski and not hating Jeff Koons) but she was so cute standing there in front of him that he decided he could overlook it. Just the once.
‘You from around here?’ he asked.
‘Born and bred,’ she said, and her tone suggested she wasn’t too proud of the fact.
‘Oh yeah? How come I’ve never seen you in here before?’ To his knowledge, every citizen of Beechfield had filed through Billy Jack’s double doors at least once in their lives. The poor kids came in because the beer was cheap and the jukebox was good, and the rich kids came to marvel at the poor kids and feel superior to them. The poor kids didn’t mind so much because sometimes the rich kids would challenge them to a game of pool and the poor kids would clean up. And if they didn’t win, there was always the fun sport of beating up a rich kid.
Ethan was one of the poor kids.
Ruby gave a little shrug. ‘I’m only back for the summer,’ she said. ‘I just graduated from Boston College and I’m moving to New York in the fall so . . . just passing through, I guess.’
‘But you grew up here? In Beechfield, I mean. Not in Billy Jack’s.’ He was rambling. He leaned over and poured himself a finger of whisky – normally he didn’t drink on the job, but talking to her had him a little off balance. ‘I’m just surprised I never ran into you at school or whatever.’
‘I went to County Day Prep,’ she said, a little embarrassed.
‘Oh, a private-school kid. That explains it. I was Beechfield High all the way. Go Greyhounds.’ What was he even doing, he wondered? It was as if he were hovering outside of his body, watching himself make a total asshole out of himself, but powerless to stop it.
‘Yeah, well, my dad’s Alec Atlas,’ she said, as if that answered everything. Which, in fairness, it did.
‘Oh yeah? I’ve heard of Alec Atlas.’ Everyone had heard of Alec Atlas. A poster of the man hovering above a genie’s bottle was plastered on every bench, corkboard and window in town. ALEC ATLAS: YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND. The town was littered with ‘Atlas Specials’, as they were known, developments stacked with mini-mansions and called things like ‘Whispering Pines’ or ‘Venetian Dreams’. Over the previous ten years, Atlas Specials had replaced nearly every single field, apple orchard and wooded area in the town, much to the displeasure of some of the older residents, Ethan’s father very much included.
‘Yeah, everybody’s heard of my dad,’ she said. She didn’t look pleased about it.
Ethan felt for her: he knew what it was like to live under a parent’s shadow in a small town. ‘What do you want to drink?’ he asked. ‘On the house.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to do that.’ She flushed slightly, which he found adorable.
‘It’s the only perk of the job.’
‘Okay, then . . . I’ll have a whisky. Bourbon, actually.’
‘A girl who drinks bourbon, huh? I like it.’ He poured her a generous measure and handed it to her. She took a sip and he saw her wince – not much of a bourbon drinker after all. ‘Do you want some Coke in that?’ he asked.
‘Just a little,’ she said, relieved.
‘Hey, Ethan! Who do I have to screw to get a drink in this place?’ He looked up to see Charlie Armstrong leaning over the bar and waving at him.
‘Why don’t you start with yourself?’ he shouted back. He tried to send a meaningful look Charlie’s way – a look that said ‘I think I’m talking to the woman of my dreams so get fucked’ – but, as ever, Charlie didn’t clock it. Charlie was his oldest friend, and Ethan loved him like a brother, as in half the time he drove him crazy.
‘C’mon, buddy! I’m dying of thirst over here!’ Charlie wrapped his hands around his throat and pretended to pass out, knocking into a disgruntled-looking Mick Dewey in the process. Ethan had been counting the number of scotches Dewey had been drinking that night and knew that he was close to fighting level: he’d have to intervene or Charlie would end up dying of something other than thirst.
He turned back to Ruby with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, be right back. Don’t go anywhere, okay?’
‘I won’t,’ she said, smiling over the rim of her glass, and at that moment he thought he might be in with a shot. At least he hoped he was.