The Wild One (7 page)

“Everything okay?” I ask.

I feel like we're war buddies after what we just went through together. He probably has post-traumatic stress disorder. I know I do.

Joe shakes his head. “My bartender was late and just texted to tell me he quit, and my boss has been hinting about selling the bar. Another shitty night and no staff would be the last straw. The end of Potstill.”

I look around. Would anyone care if this placed closed? But I don't say that. “I bet you could easily get a job in another bar?”

“That's not the…” Joe sighs, picking up a lime and slicing it swiftly. “Potstill has been a bar, more than that, an
Irish
bar since 1891. It's got
stories,
you know? Nothing in Brooklyn has a real story anymore. Everything is new and shiny. I know Potstill is a shithole, but … it's got soul. It's worth fighting for.”

I look around at the bar through new eyes. Maybe he's right. This really
is
a good bar. It just needs a little love and attention, that's all.

“I could do it.” The words are out before I've even thought them through.

“You?” Joe looks up at me.

“I could be your emergency bartender tonight.” This time, my voice is louder, stronger. I almost believe it myself.

“Really? Wait, what's your name again? How old are you? Do you have any bartending experience?”

“My name is Coco Russotti. I'm twenty-one. My only work experience is as a preschool assistant, but how can bartending be any harder than running around after small children?”

Bartending is much harder than looking after small children.

I discover that pretty fast.

But Joe helps me out. He shows me where the most frequently ordered drinks are, shows me how to work the register—though I screw that up more often than not—and where to stash my tips.

After an hour, I decide working in a bar is awesome. It's like a night out, without the stressful stuff. I get all the fun—Madeleine's band, Pia and Angie riffing each other, Julia high-fiving anything with a pulse—but I don't have to worry about saying or doing the wrong thing. In fact, I'm having more fun than I have on a night out, maybe ever.

When Spector finishes its first set and takes a break, Pia, Angie, and Julia are still on their barstools, acting like they own the place, holding court with some too-cool bearded Brooklynites.

“What is with the beards, you guys?” Angie is saying. “Are you aware that you all look like extras in a movie about the Gold Rush? I can't tell you apart with those things.”

“What about the man bun? Do you secretly want to be a ballerina?” asks Pia. “And what's with all the plaid and the trapper hat? What do you call that, lumbersexual?”

“Maybe they symbolize that you don't work for ‘the man',” says Angie, putting bunny ears around “the man.” “Wow, you're all such independent thinkers. Except that you're identical.”

“Harsh,” mutters the guy with a beard and a man bun.

“Way harsh,” agrees his buddy in the plaid and the trapper hat.

“I work for the man,” says Julia, holding her drink up. “And I don't give a rat's ass—oops! Dropped my purse! Oh, thank you—” Julia meets eyes with a tall, cute, very clean-shaven guy in a suit who just picked up her purse. “Another corporate whore!” Jules holds her hand up. “Nice suit! What the hell are you doing in Brooklyn? Fivies!”

“Double fivies!” he replies, holding both hands up for a double high five.

“Hey!” Angie turns to Man Bun. “Being in touch with your feminine side doesn't mean touching my ass. Get lost.”

Joe glances up from his frantic lime chopping. “Everything okay? That guy bothering you?”

“Everything is fine, Irish,” says Angie, turning away from him just as the crowd clears a path for Madeleine to get to the bar. Funny, she has a little celebrity glow even off the stage. People are staring at her, and a couple of guys move in closer, trying to stand next to her. Wow. Madeleine has groupies.

“Can I get a Diet Coke, please, Joe?” Madeleine asks. “Coco? You're working here now?”

“Yes indeedy,” I say.

“She's the best emergency bartender ever,” says Joe. “So, Coco. You want to work here for real?”

“Yes.” My voice squeaks. Goddamnit.

Joe frowns. “You sure you're up to it? The hours are long, the work is hard, and the patrons are scum.” He grins at the crowd behind the bar, so charmingly that even calling them “scum” sounds like a compliment. “You need to be fearless. Are you fearless, Coco?”

I open my mouth to say yes, but then I look over at the front door of the bar and suddenly lose my voice.

Because Ethan, my boyfriend Ethan, my
cheating
boyfriend Ethan, has finally arrived.

He is smiling congenially in his smug little way, green rucksack on his back, tan windbreaker zipped up tight to the neck, hair fluffy as ever. As though nothing is wrong. As though he didn't cheat on me less than a week ago.

Forgetting to reply to Joe, I spin 180 degrees so my back is to the bar, and try to catch my breath. All week, while I've been hiding behind my phone, I never thought how it would feel to actually see him in the flesh.

It feels bad. It feels
really
bad.

But wait, why the hell am I freaking out like this? I
invited
him here. This is part of the revenge plan that Angie and I worked out on the stoop this afternoon. But I can't do it … I can't, I can't—

Yes, you can. You're in control.

That voice again. The spark.

You can handle Ethan. You can handle anything.

When I turn around, Ethan is standing importantly between Angie and Pia.

“Hello, mademoiselle!” Ethan calls, his voice unnecessarily loud and pretentious. “You're behind the bar? Marvelous! I'll have a chenin blanc!”

“This is a whiskey bar.” My voice is barely more than a whisper.

Ethan claps his hands. “Excellent! Barkeep! A vat of your finest whiskey!” God, has he always been this much of a dick? What the hell was I thinking?

“What's your poison?” says Joe.

Ethan puffs up his chest, preparing for a speech. “Something Scottish, of course, Islay preferably—”

“
Of course?
” echoes Joe. “Ireland makes whiskey too.”

“Irish whiskey?” Ethan wrinkles his nose, looking around the bar with sudden distaste. “I read a book—”

“Get out,” I say, my voice suddenly loud and clear.

“What?”

“I saw you cheating on me.” Everyone at the bar grows quiet, listening, all my roommates and Joe and a dozen strangers, but I don't care. “I saw you kissing a girl at the Jane Hotel last weekend.”

“She—no—” Ethan stutters, blushing bright red.

“You
cheated
on me. I saw you. Don't lie. We're over, Ethan. I am breaking up with you.”

My voice is shaking, and for some incomprehensible reason, my eyes fill with tears. I blink them quickly away. This is not a time for crying. This is a time for being angry.

My entire body tingles with shock that I'm doing this, high with the power of saying whatever the heck I want. “So get the … the
fuck
out of my bar and don't ever speak to me again.”

“How dare you—”

“How dare
you
?” Julia turns on him. “You cheated on my perfect baby sister, you little dickslime.”

“I—”

“Screw you, asshole.” Julia throws her drink at him.

Splat.
It hits him in the face, and for a moment, the entire bar goes completely silent. A split second later, before he can back away, Angie throws her drink at him too, and so does Pia. And then Madeleine's entire glass of Diet Coke.
Splat, splat, splat.

Ethan doesn't even stop to wipe his face. He just picks up his rucksack and
runs
out of the bar.

The moment the door slams behind him, the entire bar erupts into applause.

“Jeez, people love a little bar theater,” comments Angie.

I can't stop smiling. At this moment, I love everyone and everything in this bar. I love the world. This is what victory feels like.

Joe leans into me. “Nice work.”

I grin at him. “Sorry about the drama.”

“Don't worry about it. If you hadn't kicked that asshole out for cheating on you, I would have done it for badmouthing Irish whiskey.”

Joe holds up two little glasses with a half inch of whiskey in them.

“A toast to breaking up. It's never a bad decision.”

“Breaking up is never a bad decision,” I repeat, taking the glass of whiskey.

“This is Kilbeggan. Smooth, warm, just sweet enough. Very easy for the first-timer.”

I take a glass and try to maintain eye contact with Joe as we both drink.

The whiskey goes down easily. Then I start coughing helplessly. “
That
doesn't have a lot of fire?”

Joe grins. “You'll get used to it. Give it time. Welcome to Potstill. You're hired.”

 

CHAPTER
8

“Guess who got laid last night?” Julia skips into the living room and flops down on the sofa between Angie and me. “Moi!”

“Ew,” says Angie. “Have you showered?”

Julia throws her arms around Angie, rubbing her nose against Angie's cheek. “Nope.”

“Dude. You stink of cock.”

It's Saturday morning, and I've been watching TV and doing Facebook admin while Angie sews vintage buttons onto a jacket she made. It was so easy to defriend Ethan and everyone I met through him, it's like he never even existed. I can't believe I ever let him kiss me, I think, shutting my computer with a decisive good-riddance click and turning my attention to the girls.

I hear the front door slam, and Angie and I quickly look out the front window and see a guy bounding down the steps.

“That's him? What's his name?”

“Why didn't you ask your hook-up to stick around for breakfast?”

“Because I'm not that kind of girl. His name is Peter. And he was magnificent.”

“Peter the Magnificent?” Angie snorts with laughter.

Julia sighs contentedly. She is red-faced from kissing, her hair a tangled nest, eyes glassy with happiness and hangover. “What are you making, Angelique? It's like being in little house on the goddamn prairie with all this sewing and peacefulness.”

Angie smirks. “Seriously. Wash yourself. I could be pregnant just from sitting next to you right now.”

“Gee whiz, is that how it happens?” Julia says, biting her finger in mock stupidity.

Angie arches her eyebrow and is about to say more when Pia and Madeleine walk in, fresh—or not so fresh—from SoulCycle. “Oh, God. Don't tell me how much you love your fucking spinning class. I don't want to hear it.”

“Seriously, it's amazing, Angie,” says Pia, who is glowing with good health. “Exercise is the best hangover cure.”

Angie turns back to her sewing. “I grow weary of this shit.”

Madeleine stretches, touching her forehead to her knees with remarkable ease. “I'm taking a shower.”

“NO! I have to shower first!” shouts Julia. “I stink of cock! I stink of Peter the Magnificent!”

They both run for the hall, pushing one another. Madeleine easily wins, pounding up the stairs with glee. Rookhaven actually has two bathrooms, but only one shower is really good, and if both showers are on at once it does bad things to the water pressure, i.e., makes it disappear.

“Why are you smiling?” asks Pia.

I look up. “I am?”

I woke up thinking about Potstill and my new job and my new boss Joe, and I guess I've been smiling ever since. I'm in the best mood. My Ethan problem is dealt with. My job problem is dealt with. Which means I've taken the first steps toward changing my life.

But I don't say this out loud, of course. I'm just, you know, I'm not like that. Instead, I do a joyous wiggly dance in my seat, until Angie gives me a look and I stop.

Pia is now stretching in front of the TV with considerably less finesse than Madeleine.

“Why are you working out, Pia? You don't even need to lose weight,” I say.

“Working out isn't always about weight loss, Coco. It makes me feel more in control of my life,” says Pia, pulling herself up into a downward dog. “Maintaining a long-distance relationship and a career is hard. Working out regularly helps me handle my high-pressure existence.”

Angie catches my eye and mouths “high-pressure existence”? I try not to laugh, but a bursting sound escapes me.

“Whatever, bitches.” Pia lifts one leg back and up behind her, wobbling frantically. “The point is, I'm not thinking about Aidan. I'm focusing on my career. I have a big meeting today with that restaurant guy, Ray. He is considering partnering with me on a new food truck venture, so I'm taking him to this food truck festival thing, and—shit!”

Pia falls over with a squeak, and Angie laughs so hard she falls off the sofa.

This is what I love. I love all of us together, like nothing bad has ever happened or will ever happen. I love everyone being funny and silly. I don't want anything to change, ever.

At that moment, the doorbell rings. I skip to the front door to open it.

It's Vic, and a woman I don't recognize. She's in her forties—or fifties, I can't quite tell—and must be the daughter or maybe granddaughter of Vic's sister Marie, because she looks
just
like her: tiny, strong, and impish.

“Coco!” says Vic. “This is my niece Samantha, the smart one I was telling you about.”

Samantha reaches out and shakes my hand. I'm never ready for handshakes; my hand is slippery and awkward.

“I was hoping we could talk to all of you girls. Is everyone home?”