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She’s got it worked out to a science by now.
Anne takes the last shift at the bar — from 10pm all the way to last call at 2am. She has to rush from her other job, waiting tables at Coleman’s, to relieve her brother just before she has to clock in. W.D. always hands his shift over to her gratefully; he has to make it back home in time to study a bit before bed. (Both Wheelers have classes in the morning, and their competition to keep their grades higher than each other’s might be the only thing that motivates Anne out of bed in the morning.) Anne supervises the bar for a few hours, closes up, and returns home — only to wake up in six hours to do it all over again.
So, she doesn’t have free time. It doesn’t matter. She’s getting paid, she’s going to school, and she’s on her way. Somewhere. She doesn’t know where she’s headed, yet, but she’ll make it there if it kills her.
Tonight it seems that it very well might, because she nearly breaks her head open trying to get to work in time. She’s rushing across the street to the brightly lit establishment of Lettie’s -- where the music and lights tell her the night is already in full swing. Her hands are in her hair, pulling her curls up into a hasty bun, and she makes a sharp turn to avoid a glossy new Volante when the curb catches her foot, and she trips.
Only Anne’s quick reflexes save her from hitting the ground. She catches herself on the car besides her, ending up sprawled across it instead. She’s anything but graceful (a sharp contrast to her usual sure-footedness on the ground). When she pulls back, her jaw is aching, and there’s a nice smudge of lipstick on the Volante’s pretty silver paint job.
“Dammit,” she mutters, and considers the car. It’s almost an improvement.
By the time she makes it through the doors, it’s already 10:02. She despises being late; she hates the look her brother gives her from across the bar even more.
“Don’t,” she warns, before he can even say a word. “Just don’t with me. Not tonight.”
W.D. whistles, reaching behind him for a bottle of something shiny. “That kinda day, huh?”
“You know it.” Anne watches her brother pour the shot like a starving orphan waiting for his daily slice of bread. As soon as he slides it across the bar to her, it’s gone.
She drops the empty glass onto the table and sighs. “Okay. Now I’m ready to work.”
W.D. rolls his eyes and pulls the shotglass away.
When Anne finally makes it behind the bar, the usual crowd is buzzing with impatience. She sends her brother off with a distracted wave, knowing he’ll be asleep when she gets home. (W.D. wakes up even earlier than her to get to his construction job, but that’s what it takes if they want to keep their little apartment and stay in school). She has no time to say goodbye to him. She’s too busy taking orders, running the bar, and entertaining all of the usual customers.
She’s gotten to know a lot of faces by now; a lot of the people here are those who frequent the bar most nights. There’s Constantine, a heavily-tattooed man who always orders vodka-and-rum, yet never seems the worse for it; Chang and Eng, twin brothers who stop by every other weeknight, and are usually more distracted by the dance floor than the drinks; Mary and Florence, pale twins, who order a martini and tequila cranberry, respectively. The normal crowd is all here tonight.
And then, there’s him.
Anne doesn’t know the man at the end of the bar. As far as she knows, he’s never dropped by Lettie’s before. She’s never seen him in her life. The only things she can tell about him at first glance are that he’s absolutely hammered already (at ten o’clock? He doesn’t waste any time) and that he doesn’t quite belong here.
Lettie’s isn’t a poor place, by any means, but… they’ve got a specific clientele. Their bar appeals to certain people, and this man — with his glossy business suit and fancy Rolex on his wrist — doesn’t fit the mold. Rich boys don’t belong in city bars. This man should be drinking champagne out of sparkling glasses, or spread out over the private bar in his penthouse — not hunching in the corner of Anne’s eye.
She’s too distracted to pay much attention to him for most of the night. Rich Boy isn’t a demanding customer. She refills his glass of whiskey every half hour, keeping an eye on his tab in case she has to cut him off. He barely raises his head to look at her. If any of her regulars came in looking so miserable, she’d try to strike up a conversation; but something tells her Rich Boy won’t bite.
(What sort of problems could he have, anyway? Surely he’s not struggling to stay in school, or to afford a roof over his head.)
She sends a Manhattan down the bar to Crystal, and studies Rich Boy out of the corner of her gaze. His face is flushed, but even she can admit that he’s handsome; the haze in his eyes does nothing to dull their incredible blueness. His hair is perfectly coiffed, as if he’s got a stylist waiting out in that fancy car ready to fix it for him.
As Anne watches him, he downs an entire glass of whisky in one.
A pretty, rich white boy with a drinking problem. She’s not impressed.
The night winds on; slowly, the regulars grow more and more wild. Keeping them in check is always the highlight of Anne’s night. Between yelling as Charles to get down from the table and warning Walter that if he tries one more drunk backflip he can do his acrobatics in the parking lot, she’s kept too busy to worry about any lone drinkers.
Once midnight passes, however, the night begins to wind down. Anne watches the slow trickle of customers make their way out the doors; she sees them off with designated drivers, Uber, or a taxi if they’ve got nothing else. By the time last call finally arrives, the bar is deserted except for a few stragglers.
“You’ve gotta get going, boys,” she tells Constantine and Charles, who are still debating something over a round of empty shot glasses. “Sun’s almost up, and I’d like to get some sleep tonight.”
“Try the vodka,” Constantine advises. “It works wonders.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She shows them to the door, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders at the first gust of cool winter air. It’s a beautiful night to be done with work. As soon as she gets home, she’s going to pass out and sleep like the dead.
“Ya know, Anne, if you’re kicking us out,” drawls Charles as he steps onto the sidewalk, “you might want to peel Pretty Boy off the bar before you lock up.”
“What?” she reels around, baffled; it only lasts a split second. The moment she sees him still hunched in his seat, slumped over with his head in his arms, she has to stifle a groan. She nearly forgot about Rich Boy.
“I’ll take care of him,” she insists, waving Charles off. “You got a way home?”
“Yeah, don’t worry.” Charles grins at her. “I’m only a block away from home. I can walk it.”
She studies the small man in front of her, but swallows down her reservations. She’s seen Charles in a fight; even after a few drinks, he’ll be okay. “If you’re sure. Have a nice night, now.”
“You too!”
She watches him until he reaches the corner of the street; then she heaves a sigh. Slowly, she turns back to the bar.
If only he could have picked some other night to get wasted; any other night. (Preferably, when she wasn’t working.) The last thing she wants to be doing at the end of her shift is trying to rouse a drunk who’s already plunged to the bottom of his glass.
Anne tries to avoid it as long as possible. She wipes down the bar, sweeps the floors, picks up a jacket that someone left lying around — they’ll be back for it tomorrow, no doubt — and clears away any glasses. She doesn’t try to be quiet about it; actually, she makes as big of a racket as possible, hoping Rich Boy will wake up and stumble off on his own.
It’s just not that kind of night. By the time the bar is clean, Rich Boy is slumped against his arm, lightly snoring. Anne feels her face twitch in frustration.
“Ooo-kay,” she sighs, stretching her arms over her head to feel her shoulders pop. “Let’s do this. Come on now, rise and shine. You can’t sleep here.”
She prods the man. He groans.
“I know the feeling. C’mon, I wanna get home too.”
Rich Boy buries his face in the crook of his elbow and lets out another snore. “Jus’ lemme sleep,” he moans. Anne has to puzzle over what he said for a second; his words run together like a river.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” she mutters. Finally, she gives his bar stool a swift kick. “Boy, if you don’t get your alcoholic ass up, I will drag you out to the garbage cans and leave you there. You think I’m kidding? Let’s go!”
Finally, the drunk is roused into something resembling consciousness. He pushes himself up, blinking at her through a haze as heavy as a curtain. “Hmm?” he says, and furrows his brows. “Wha’s… where… where’m I goin’ on?”
In spite of the cesspool of frustration brewing in her gut, she can’t help but think, oh god, he’s cute.
She doesn’t have to force herself to place a hand on his back, guiding him off the bar stool. His movements are slow and uncoordinated, though she’s guess that’s more the fault of the bottle of whiskey he drank than his impromptu nap. “You fall asleep in all the bars you go to, or is this one just special?”
“You’re special,” he answers, almost absently. Then he pitches forward, balance abandoning him like a sinking ship. Anne has to grab him by the collar to keep him from getting a face full of bar floor. Once he’s regained his balance (and finished choking), he’s able to mutter out, “Not a great night for me.”
“I’m shocked.” Anne shakes her head. “You got a phone?”
“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’, slowly listing sideways once again. “I shook it. The phone. The chains of modern technology. I freed myself.”
“Yeah, from an Uber ride.” Anne can barely afford a ride for herself; she’s definitely not calling one for this guy, who probably lives on the Upper side of Manhattan and would cost an arm and a leg to send off. “Gonna have to settle for a taxi, then.”
“No!” he exclaims, startled; than a little more vehemently, “No. Can’t leave my car. Someone’ll steal it.”
Anne thinks of the car outside, with its glossy paint job and million dollar engine. Hell, the moment she saw it she almost wanted to steal it. He’s got a point. “Well, you’re not driving it home.”
The drunk stares at her. Even with eyes rimmed red and hazed with liquor, he’s still got a puppy-dog face that could rival an actual puppy. It could rival Anne’s.
She sighs.
“Where are your keys?”
Driving helpless bar patrons home is not in her job description — especially not when said patron murmurs out an address and winds up passing out on her shoulder before she can even get the key in the engine. Luckily, she knows this part of the city like the back of her hand; and, turns out, he doesn’t live too far away. She gets him to his less-fancy-than-expected apartment building, parks the car, and nudges him awake.
“This is your stop,” she tells him.
He stirs. His whiskey-drenched breath warms the side of Anne’s neck. A low groan slips from his lips, and he groggily lifts his head to look at her.
When his eyes open, they’re gazing straight into Anne’s own.
She can’t explain what happens. It feels like a spark — one that shoots through her and goes straight into him, connecting them as sure as the wiring that keeps this fancy car moving. His eyes widen, and all she can think is that they are blue — past the haze of drunk exhaustion, they are a brilliant, sparkling blue.
His mouth drops open. For a moment, all he can do is stare; and she stares back.
“Thanks,” he finally murmurs, and slowly, unsteadily, pulls himself out of the car.
She watches him until he stumbles into his building, and the door shuts behind him.
“Anne! Anne!”
His sister is so distracted by the bustling bar that she almost doesn’t hear him. W.D. is nothing if not determined, however. Even if he has to raise his voice to a shout in order to be heard over the patrons’ hoots and hollers, he’ll do it. Not like anyone’s paying attention to the guy behind the bar not serving the alcohol anyway.
Finally tearing her attention away, Anne spins around to face him. Her face is flushed, flowing with warmth -- W.D. knows better than to think alcohol has anything to do with it. Anne has her hair braided neatly down her back, she's wearing her nice earrings, eyeshadow, and lipstick. The only thing that tips W.D. off more is the guy she's been busy talking to for the past fifteen minutes.
The guy himself has become a familiar face around Lettie’s in the past few weeks. Ever since the night he came in and had to be carried out, Phillip Carlyle has stopped by the bar at least five times a week. W.D. might wonder if he should slip him some AA pamphlets with his beer, were he not certain that Carlyle isn't coming in for the liquor at all. He only stops by around ten o'clock -- right when W.D. is getting off his shift, and Anne is getting on.
He glances between his sister and her… friend, to the crowded bar bustling behind them. “You got this?”
Anne’s eyes flash in annoyance a second before she waves him off. “Yeah, I'm fine! Just -- go on --”
W.D. raises his eyebrows and glances pointedly at Carlyle. His sister’s face flushes. “Go home!”
He can tell when he isn't wanted. W.D. raises a hand, offering them a lazy salute. “Alright. Don't forget to keep the drinks flowing.” (He really wants to believe Anne wouldn't be too distracted to do her job; if she is, he knows Charles will just hop over the bar and start serving free drinks to everyone, again.) His sister, always the epitome of maturity, sticks her tongue out at him. W.D. rolls his eyes.
Whatever is going on between his sister and their latest regular patron, he’s better off not knowing. His shift is over -- it’s absolutely not his problem.
“Soooo…” Phillip drags out the note for a beat too long. The expression on his face is enough to make Anne laugh out loud; he looks like they’re just been walked in on. “That’s your brother?”
“W.D,” she agrees pleasantly. “You probably have some hazy memories of him, before you went and drank yourself into a coma.”
He sighs. “One night. Am I really never gonna live that down?”
“Never.” She turns away for a quick second to mix Rosalia a tequila sunrise (because damn W.D. for implying she can’t do her job and flirt at the same time, does he know her?). When she turns back, Phillip is watching her, unabashed admiration in his eyes.
“You know, when I got cut off by my parents I was convinced it was the worst day of my life,” he says. “But turns out it was something good — because if I hadn’t come into this bar and gotten completely wasted —“
“Completely,” she concurs.
“Then I never would have met you.”
Anne’s breath catches in her throat. She’ll never get used to that — Phillip’s ability to say things and be so genuine about them. She sometimes thinks it’s like he’s never had to be afraid to open his heart to someone; but she also knows how untrue that is. Phillip understands the risk, but he’s not scared to do it anyway.
For some reason, he’s chosen to open his heart to her.
There’s a lot dividing them, to be sure — upbringing, social class, race, worldviews — but when Phillip smiles at her, Anne feels brave. Even if they met now or a hundred years ago, over a bar top or while one of them was flying through the air…
She can’t help but feel they were meant to find each other.