Chapter Text
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind.”
You’re not sure how many times you’ve reminded Bob by now. It’s more than a handful for sure. And to be honest, you don’t mind either. But he’s a patron and you’re the barkeeper. It’s your job to close down The Hard Deck on Friday nights. Not his.
And it’s not like Bob helps every Friday. He’s absent more times than he’s here. Short assignments or training keep him busy. Keep everyone busy. Even so, out of professional courtesy, you have to remind him that it’s not his job. If he wanted to, he could sit by the bar and finish another glass of root beer while you tally up the register.
But Bob is not that kind of man. When he sees something needs to get done, he offers a hand. He’d done so the first time you’d met him some four-ish months ago. His friends had long returned to on-post or off-post housing with whoever they’d met or brought along that evening. But Bob had stayed.
Actually…
… Bob had been in and out of the bar all night that night because as it had turned out, he’d been the designated driver. (Come to think of it, he always is.) Of course, he had offered to make several trips because that’s the kind of guy Bob is; always making sure his friends get home safe and sound.
That he’d returned one last time had been a surprise though. “Just making sure I didn’t leave anyone behind,” he’d said before he’d asked “You need some help?”, one of his hands already on one of the many chairs to get stacked on tables.
Of course, you’d replied with “That’s sweet but I can handle it,” and then reminded him “Bob, you don’t have to do that.”
And he’d replied the same back then as he did today. “I don’t mind.”
And it’s not like you’re not getting something out of this.
Other than his help that is.
Bob is honestly quite easy on the eyes.
Sure, he isn’t as buff as Hangman or as tall as Payback, nor does he carry a stride like he owns the place. That’s Rooster. Bob isn’t ego-inflated like so many of them are or pretend to be. Nor is he loud. Show-off-man-ship belongs to Jake and Payback, definitely to Rooster, and a little bit to Phoenix. (Okay, let’s be honest, a lot! But Phoenix is different.)
No! Bob is gentle and selfless but not in a pushover way. He is kind but not without some sass. He is quiet but not necessarily shy. He is smart as a whip but never makes others feel less. He’s handsome in a ‘Hollywood’s Golden Era’ way but definitely not vain.
Add to that that he actually is quite tall and broad, there is no denying that Bob can hold his own in all categories. A solid ten out of ten, as much as you hate using that kind of scale.
So yeah, you’re getting something out of this, and like many times before, you catch yourself ogling him.
Bob is a neat guy. That’s not meant in a condescending way. It’s more an observation on your part. His clothes are always pressed sharp and right. His hair, despite its waviness, never seems to have a strand out of place. His face is always clean-shaven. These things are likely military-driven standards, considering everyone else in Dagger squad looks just as neat, but Bob always seems to look just a tad bit neater.
There’s also the fact that whenever he stands next to you, he always smells like he’s just stepped out of the shower, which apparently he takes on fresh-cut grass. Cause that’s what Bob smells like: like fresh-cut grass after some summer rain and something distinctively him. Somehow, it adds to the neatness.
Bob also seems to be a simple kind of guy. Again, that’s not meant to be condescending in any way. And maybe simple isn’t the right word here. Bob is neither plain nor basic. And he may appear uncomplicated outwardly, but humans, by nature, are complicated beings. No! Simple in regards to Bob aligns more with not wanting much. He seems content with little, someone who cherishes the small moments in life.
And lastly, there’s routine. You’re not entirely sure if it’s a Bob thing or another military-driven thing. All you know is that he always orders a root beer and a cup of peanuts first thing on arrival. Always quietly joins his friends and colleagues by the pool table after. Always sits on the same barstool towards the corner. And always waits patiently until Phoenix tells him to rack the billiard balls. And then, once everyone is ready to go, always makes sure his friends get home safe and sound.
He'd done so again tonight. Made sure that everyone got home safe and sound. And he’d returned again tonight. To help, of course. The only difference between now and then is that now, Bob doesn’t ask if you need help. He just does.
Bob stacks the last of the chairs near the pool table, then unplugs the Jukebox before he shuffles over to the bar. There’s already a root beer waiting for him when he takes a seat on the last barstool to be stacked away. “Thank you.” He smiles then takes a sip, and you feel him looking at you with his usual quiet patience while you tally up the till and card transactions.
You chuckle as you enter the numbers for the night, lightly shaking your head when you start dividing the money from the tip jar.
Of course, Bob asks. “What’s so funny?”
“You know, technically, you’re owed like two hundred bucks.” You lay out a few bills and watch intently as Bob’s face changes from confusion to something akin to horror and dismay.
“What?” There’s a pause and when you don’t say anything else, Bob starts to ramble. “No no no… I can’t accept that. That’s your tip. Well actually, the whole staff’s… I can’t… I couldn’t … I… I…”
With anyone else, you’d probably have a laugh, but Bob looks and sounds genuinely distressed. So you place a calming hand on Bob’s nervous one atop the counter, gently trace a circle into warm but tense skin. “I’m teasing, Bob.”
Bob sighs in relief, his eyes narrowing when he hears your soft laugh. “Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.” You tease Bob again, gently squeezing his hand before letting go, and you swear you catch disappointment cross his face; if only for a fraction of a second. But then Bob smiles his usual angled little smile, takes a sip from his root beer, and you continue counting the tips, keeping an eye on him from your peripheral.
Bob always looks put together. Today is no exception. But usually, he’s in his service khakis. On rare occasions, he wears his flight overalls. That only happens after long days. Only twice has he worn civilian clothing. If you remember correctly, that had been for planned events: Phoenix’s birthday and Coyote’s promotion.
You bite back a laugh.
There’d been times -when you’d first met Bob-, where you’d wondered if he actually owned any civilian clothing. And then, one Friday - Natasha’s birthday party to be exact-, he’d shown up in stonewashed 501s paired with a plain white Tee and a pair of well-worn boots, and you’d wondered why he doesn’t show up like that all the time.
Not that you mind seeing Bob in uniform. It’s just that he seems a little more at ease when he wears civilian clothing, his shoulders less tense when he gets to cast aside the hard-set rules about in-uniform-etiquette, his stance matching the softer features of his face, if only for a few hours.
It did prove your observation that Bob likes to keep things simple. To be honest, he’d kept it fairly simple tonight, too. It’s still a step above casual and there’s no denying: Bob looks good- like really good! - in a long-sleeved powder-blue button-down, dark-washed jeans, and a different pair of well-worn boots.
His hair is different, too. Not much. It just lacks the usual precision of the perfect military part, as if he had finger-combed the sun-kissed waves rather than using an actual comb, and the only reason said waves sit near perfect is that they’ve been trained that way over the years.
Overall, he seems softer in some ways and sharper in others. And yeah, you know that it shouldn’t be about looks. But you do wonder if Bob realizes that there’d been whispers about how handsome he is. Even Hangman had done a doubletake, snarky comment at the ready like usual.
“Well I’ll be damned. Looks like Baby-On-Board is going fishin’ tonight.”
“Sometimes, people dress nice just because, Bagman.”
“It’s Hangman. And sweetheart, no one dresses like that to go home alone. Especially not tonight.”
Hangman’s words had left a bitter aftertaste in your mind. So much so, you had needed a shot of tequila to wash it away.
You admit that part of you had thought the same thing. Not that it’s any of your business. Bob can do whatever he wants. Go home with whomever he wants. Especially today. But you’re not going to lie: you’d secretly exhaled in relief when Bob had shut down yet another very obvious request to get out of the bar. He’d been polite, of course.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m here with my friends.”
“They’re busy.”
“They are. But I’m their designated driver.”
“They’re adults. They can handle themselves.”
“They are. And they can. Most of the time. But it’s why I prefer to stay, just in case one of them can’t.”
Even now, you can’t help a bit of snort. There’d been a lowly muttered cuss and a jab about how Bob acts like some overprotective dad. But he’d just smiled, then politely added “enjoy your evening, ma’am”, which had earned him a not-so-polite goodbye.
Again, Bob asks. “What’s so funny?”
This time, you reply “Nothing.” Because you don’t want to delve into that conversation. Not right now. Not tonight. It wouldn’t be fair to Bob, to make him question why you care that you’re glad he hadn’t gone home with that beautiful, size two brunette. For that, the night is too short and the timing so wrong, especially since you’re too unsure of why you care so god damn much.
Always the listener, Bob waits with unwavering and gentle patience to see if you want to say more. You figured out some time ago that it’s a secret weapon of his. People often don’t realize that they’re spilling some of their deepest secrets until it’s too late. And even though Bob isn’t the type to let secrets slip or make fun, the night is still too short and the timing is still so wrong, and you’re still too unsure.
So you redirect your mind, circle back to the idea of compensation. “Since you’re not accepting money, how about a drink? On me? You can pick whatever you like and it can’t be root beer.” Your mouth ticks up in a roguish way and Bob seems to squirm under your persistence.
“You really not gonna let that go, are ya?” He runs a nervous hand over the back of his neck and you shake your head.
“Nope.” You pop the P and smile a toothy smile. “Now, what’s your poison, Lieutenant Floyd?” You sweep a dramatic hand towards the high-end bottles, notice how Bob gulps.
“I… uhmm…” Bob stutters in that endearing way when he doesn’t want to inconvenience someone. (When does he ever?)
So you reassure him. “Anything you like.” A beat of silence, Bob studies the bottles while you study him, and then it dawns on you. All the times that he’s been here, he’s never had alcohol. Not once. “I can make you a non-alcoholic mixer if you like.” You offer and this time Bob can’t seem to help a soft laugh.
He shakes his head, smiles that angled little smile of his. “It’s not that.” He pauses for a second, contemplation replacing the smile, then says “I do enjoy a good whiskey now and then.”
Interesting. “But?”
Bob studies the bottles again, nibbling on his bottom lip before he dares to answer. “Penny doesn’t have it.” He mouses out, watches as your eyes narrow.
“Penny. Doesn’t. Have. It?” You punctuate each word in disbelief. This is a Navy bar! Penny stocks all sorts of different liquors from all over the world, because her customers have been and are from all over the world. Granted, eighty percent is the affordable mainstream stuff, or else The Hard Deck would’ve gone out of business long ago. Even so, the “top shelf” is anything but mainstream. And combining everything… There is no way… Unless…
“Robert Floyd! Are you telling me you’re a whiskey snob?”
You know for a fact that you’ve never seen or heard Bob laugh the way he is laughing now. It’s wholehearted, hands-on-knees, nearly toppling off the barstool loud and genuine. It's the best sound ever and you wish he’d never stop because carefree mirth looks good on Bob. So so good.
But alas, he calms down, adjusts his aviator-style glasses before he finally answers. “Not intentionally.”
It’s quiet again. Just for a second. “How so?” You ask, still not believing what you’ve just learned.
Bob’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a memory-stricken smile taking over his features. “My dad was in the Air Force. He was stationed in the UK for a couple of years. Traveled all over. Scotland was a favorite place. And Macallan a favorite whiskey brand.”
You whistle. “I see. So he’s to blame that you’re a whiskey snob.” You tease and Bob laughs softly.
“Something like that.”
Another beat of silence, you rub your hands together. “Well, you’re right. Penny doesn’t have Macallan. But she has a bottle of Talisker Thirty-Five under the counter.” You waggle your brows, already pulling the bottle from underneath, and Bob’s eyes widen, mouth twitching and ready to counter, but he doesn’t get to protest. You hold up a finger to stop his thoughts right in their tracks. “Neat or on the rocks?”
After a moment of hesitation, Bob whispers “Neat, please,” and watches as you fill an old standard glass a little more than two fingers-width high.
You slide the glass his way, then finally finish counting and dividing the tips.
The bar had been packed today. A last hoorah type of evening. It’s always like this before the carrier leaves for training or short-term assignments. But today had been intensified and it definitely shows. There’s a lot more money than usual and you’re certain that at least one-third had been left by the Daggers and their support crews and their friends and families.
As much as you appreciate the extra cash, you’re not too fond of the reason behind it. And now, in the quiet of closing down the bar, reality sinks like a stone into the pit of your stomach. Clearly, it shows on your face, or else Bob wouldn’t ask “Everything okay?”
You’re not. But you don’t tell him that. Everyone is worried, not just you. It had been an ongoing topic throughout the evening, cheerful music unable to drown out whispered concerns and heavy-hearted goodbyes. There is no need to add to the weight of the impending deployment.
So, you muster up a smile. “Hmmm… Just thinking. Ten months of peace and quiet. No bar brawls. A break from Bagman’s obnoxious smile. And finally, some good fucking music.” Your face twists in pretended annoyance and Bob laughs.
“Oh, come on. We’re not that bad.”
“Swear to god, I was this close to ringing the bell when Rooster started another Jerry Lee Lewis medley. This! Close!” You hold up your left hand, index and thumb nearly touching, and Bob laughs again.
“That’s Rooster for ya.” Bob snickers. At last, he takes a sip from his whiskey, then makes his way behind the counter where he gets a rag and starts wiping down surfaces while you take the till to the safe in Penny’s office.
When you return, Bob has his back to you and is tying off a plastic bag. So of course, he’s surprised when he sees a couple of lemon sorbets on the counter the second he turns around. “Part of the benefit package.” You wink and Bob’s chest expands with a sharp inhale.
“As long as I don’t get you in trouble.” He hesitantly accepts the spoon you’re holding out to him, and once again, you can’t help a soft laugh.
If you were in trouble because of Bob, Penny would’ve told you long ago. She’s not oblivious. She knows that Bob helps when you’re closing. And she knows that sometimes, when she’s not around, Bob helps when the bar is still open. Although, Penny had made it clear that it’s “Sink duty only. And cutting lemons and limes. That’s it! And only Bob is allowed behind the counter. No one else. Especially not Hangman! Or Rooster!”
So yeah, you’re sure that you’re not in trouble.
It's just so typical of Bob though. To not want someone in trouble. It aligns with everything he is. Kind, helpful, and always listening, observant... Always so polite and selfless, considerate… A good man with a good heart…
“Do I have something on my face?” Bob’s voice pulls you to the here and now, and you feel caught.
Were you staring? Obviously, you were or else, he wouldn’t have asked.
You shake your head, then look around. The tables are clean, all chairs stacked, counters wiped, floors mopped. The billiard table and darts section look organized. Trash cans have new liners and there are fresh towels by the sink. Only two spoons and one old standard glass are left to clean.
“Better finish that whiskey, Lieutenant Floyd.” You point to the nearly empty glass.
“Or what?”
“Or I will?”
You’ve lost count of how often Bob has laughed tonight. “If you wanna have the rest, all you gotta do is ask.” He steps close and hands you the glass, then watches with rapt attention as you down what is left.
And damn…
Maybe there’s something to being a whiskey snob. You’ve had whiskey before but nothing like this. “God damn, that’s smooth.” You quirk an impressed brow and Bob chuckles, gently lifts his hand to your face, the pad of his thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth…
And suddenly…
The world is still…
… and you’re not sure if you’re warm because of the whiskey or because of how the palm of Bob’s hand is resting against your cheek. You only know that it feels good, your hand sliding up Bob’s forearm to his wrist, needing to feel his skin underneath your fingertips.
And you’re ready, so ready to close the gap, ready to take one step forward, ready to surrender to whatever you’re sure your heart has been trying to tell you all goddamn evening long. Except…
… except Bob recoils with two steps back, his slate-blue eyes wide with shock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… Just a drop…” There’s panic behind his eyes and panic in his breathing, and you’re not going to lie: his rejection hurts like salt to an open wound.
But you cannot fault him. You’d obviously read the moment wrong. Misinterpreted the action. “It’s okay, Bob.” You try to keep your voice steady to play it all down but Bob shakes his head.
He's tense. He’s never been tense around you. Somehow, that hurts more than the rejection. “I should go.” He whispers.
“Bob, it’s okay. You don’t…”
Bob has never interrupted you before. But… “It’s getting late. Long couple of days ahead. Will you be alright getting the rest by yourself?”
You nod, tight-lipped, and just reply “Yes”, watch when Bob grabs the trash bags. And dammit! You try to bite your tongue. You really do. But somehow, it feels odd not to say “You don’t have to do that.” So you do.
And Bob chuckles, if somewhat solemnly. “I don’t mind.” Of course, he doesn’t.
Your eyes follow him as he takes long strides towards the doors. He’s almost at the threshold, his free arm stretching out. You want to run up to him, want to hug him, but you’re scared that it might do more damage right now, your fear keeping you tethered behind the counter. So instead, you call his name and when he turns around, you quietly tell him to “Stay safe.”
Bob smiles but it lacks his usual tenderness. “I’ll try my best. You be safe here.”
You nod.
One last wave.
And just like that, Bob is gone, his last words on your mind when you lock up the bar. And so is everything that happened just before.
All!
Damn!
Weekend!
Long…
“If you keep wiping like that, Jimmy will have to refinish the countertop.” Penny’s voice snaps you out of the repeating memory and you apologize, sheepishly moving on to clean a couple of empty beer glasses.
The bar is quiet but no one is surprised. Almost all active-duty personnel is on some type of restricted liberty albeit the carrier not leaving until Monday. Even if restrictions weren’t in place, it would likely be like this. Spending the last couple of days with family and friends takes priority over outings at the local watering holes.
And truth be told, quiet isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s giving you and the rest of the staff a chance to catch up on all those little tasks and repairs that seem to fall to the wayside when it’s busy.
So far, Yvette and you have cleaned, inventoried and organized the entire stockroom. Girl power times two, you’ve cleared the spaces behind all fridges and freezers of dust and debris, and cleaned the bathrooms from literal top to bottom. Even the windows are streak-free.
Jimmy, on the other hand, has been tackling the odder jobs around the bar. Turns out that he doesn’t just know how to mix a mean Ramos Gin Fizz, he’s also the fix-it-all guy. Thanks to him, wobbly chairs and tables finally stand level again, the beachside deck sparkles with a fresh coat of sealant while a new balustrade wraps around the whole of it.
So, quiet is not necessarily a bad thing.
So long one is busy.
Then it begs for wandering minds…
On the farthest wall from the bar, Jimmy is hanging some newly framed photographs, Yvette standing a few feet back. There’s soft laughter and a little bit of teasing about how Jimmy might be a ‘Jack of all trades’ but “An interior designer, you are not.” Yvette has her hands on her hips and Jimmy raises a brow.
“The pictures are level. Nice straight line.”
“See, that’s the former military you talking right there,” Yvette points out. “Bottom line up front, by the book, and all precision. You gotta make it interesting. Make people want stop and to look at the wall. Maybe start a conversation.”
“Sweetheart, this is a Navy bar. Not the Louvre.”
“It’s not about it being like a museum. It’s about making it a welcoming place. Those kids have to deal with perfection every single day. It’s okay to leave it at the door once in a while. Especially here.”
Jimmy takes a deep breath and calmly asks “Alright. How would you like me to hang the pictures?”
It's always amusing to watch those two. Yvette is right, though. Jimmy is all about routine and precision. He always signs in at exactly 1645 hrs whenever he’s scheduled, albeit his shift not starting until 1700 hrs.
“If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late,” Yvette had rolled her eyes when she’d explained the reason why Jimmy does this, but a soft little laugh had given her away. She adores those quirks as she calls them. And according to her, Jimmy has become more flexible since he retired from the Navy. “Sometimes, he doesn’t sign in until four-fifty.”
You remember laughing wholeheartedly at that and how Yvette had said it just loud enough for Jimmy to hear. He’d stopped cutting limes into perfect eighth-inch slices and raised a brow, and Yvette in turn had stood on her tippy toes and given him a kiss on the cheek.
Just like right now. Just before Jimmy rearranges the picture frames into a more interesting focal point than keeping them in a single, precision-measured line. When he’s finished, Yvette is all smiles.
“Perfect.” She kisses Jimmy again.
“Anything for you, Sweetheart.”
Watching Jimmy and Yvette has your mind going to Bob, wondering what he would be like whenever he retires from the Navy; if he’d go softer through life, with less precision and less routine. If he’d allow himself more flexibility.
There’d been crumbs of that, little morsels of insight into what Bob might be like once he leaves the Navy behind: Phoenix’s birthday party, Coyote’s promotion, the deployment sendoff. But even then, his career had always managed to sneak in. Not surprising. It’s difficult to draw a hard line when it comes to life in the military. Even you know that.
Still, you wonder…
Not that you’ll ever find out, that shocked expression on Bob’s face on replay again.
You can’t fault him.
You really can’t.
He’s never shown any sign of wanting something beyond a casual after-work friendship. He’s never asked for your number. He’s never asked where you live or if you have a partner in crime. In fact, Bob has never pried into your personal life. Any and all information you’d shared with him had always been without prompt or pressure.
So why, oh why is your head in a tailspin? Is your bar really so low that simple acts of kindness have you falling dangerously fast?
Logically, you know that it’s more than that, more than doing some bare minimum. And logically, you know you can’t fault Bob for your own, confusing feelings.
But god damn it!
Why did he look like your touch was acid?
Why, brain? WHY?
“I’m pretty sure that glass is clean.”
You jump at Penny’s voice beside you, hear her laugh in response. You dare a glance her way, catching the knowing smile when she asks “What’s got you so distracted?”
You peer around, taking in and releasing a long breath. “Just hoping everyone gets back okay.” You can practically feel Penny staring holes into you as you try to avert your eyes. To be fair, it's not a total lie. You really do hope everyone comes home safe and sound. But damn it. Penny has always been observant. And you really wish she wasn’t right now.
“Everyone? Or just a certain someone?”
“Of course, everyone.” You answer fast. Too fast. And Penny’s smile widens.
“Even Hangman?”
You roll your eyes, try to match Penny’s teasing tone and posture, but your reply is flat when you say “Even Hangman.”
You don’t have to look at Penny to know that she’s still sporting that same knowing smile. You can feel it in her quiet presence next to you while you’re wiping down the counter again. The things you would give for a busy-as-hell happy hour right about now, even though it’s Sunday. Really! Anything to divert attention from the fact that you’ve been preoccupied and mopey all day.
But alas, the bar remains quiet. And Penny remains observant. “What happened?” She asks, her voice softer, and you look at her at last.
“Nothing.” You shrug, your lips twisting to hide disappointment, but again, Penny isn’t oblivious.
“Did you want something to happen?” She asks carefully, her face serious now.
As your brain scrambles to find an answer, a particular memory of when you’d first started working at The Hard Deck stands out. Penny had warned you about the charming ways of the many Navy officers. “A lot of ‘em are flirts. Harmless but still flirts. Especially Hangman, Rooster, and Omaha. While I cannot tell you not to go out with anyone who frequents this bar, I can encourage you to be careful. No amount of sweet talk is worth the heartbreak.”
It’s funny. She’d warned you about the smooth talkers. The suave confident ones. The ones who know that a single smile and a cheeky wink can get them anything they ask for. Yet here you are, mind on quiet patience personified, mind on Lieutenant Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd, the opposite of who Penny had warned you about.
You shake your head and answer at last. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I mean… I don’t know.” You shrug again, exhale a defeated breath. “I don’t know what I want. All I know is that I clearly read too much into something. And I’m kicking myself for it cause now things are weird and I feel like I lost… Like I lost…”
“A good friend?” Penny finishes the sentence for you and you nod.
Penny looks around the bar, chuckles at Yvette talking off Jimmy’s ear. Then her focus is back on you. “You know,” she starts, waits to make sure she has your attention, “quite a few of them take advantage of moments like this. Long deployments, I mean. One-night stands are a given. There’s nothing wrong with it, of course. Wanting comfort or release. You know, zero-strings-attached kind of fun. Especially if you’re not sure when or if you’ll be back.”
Penny pauses again, thinking for a second before she continues. “But Lieutenant Floyd never has, as far as I know… Taken advantage of the moment, I mean. And I don’t think he would change that, even when he’s quite fond of someone.”
There’s that knowing smile again, and you can feel heat creeping to your cheeks. “Penny…”
“What? He never helped Yvette or me close the place.”
You chuckle but stay mum as you process what Penny just said, and she nudges you with her shoulder. She looks around the bar, again, checks her watch, and sighs. “I think, I’m going to call it. Which reminds me... You might want to look for another part-time job for now. I can’t promise steady hours when the carrier is out this long.”
You nod, looking around as well. It truly is dead. Only two long-time regulars are here. Walter and George; veterans from the tail-end of the Vietnam War. They’re wearing jackets adorned with old unit patches and are playing cards, taking jabs at each other over who’s winning the round.
Jimmy is already making his way to their table, a tray with four beers in hand. You hear him say “on the house” and know it’s to soften the blow that the bar is closing early. But you also know that Jimmy is going to join them for at least one round of Rummy while Yvette sits next to him, her head on his shoulder and listening to them exchange stories from when they were in the service…
“You okay there?” Penny really has a way to stop your mind from wandering.
“Hmmm… Yup…” You ready a bucket with some soapy water and sling a dishtowel over your shoulder, hesitation in your step when you pass Penny on your way to clean the tables.
Of course, she notices. “I can hear the gears spinning from here. Spit it out.” She teases and your face scrunches at being caught.
“I… uhm… finally found a remote job in my field a few weeks ago.” You bite your lip and Penny quirks a very surprised brow.
“You did? Why didn’t you say anything?”
Another shrug, your lips skew into an abashed smile. “I guess I grew kinda fond of everyone here.”
Penny's brow arches impossibly high. She’s barely able to contain her amusement when she double-checks. “Everyone?”
You know what she wants to hear, but instead, you say “Yup. Everyone. Even Hangman.” You waggle your brows and Penny laughs.
Some ten minutes later, with all the tables cleaned and chairs stacked, Penny tells you to “Get out of here. We got the rest.”
You agree, go to grab your purse and the trash bags behind the counter. After a quick goodbye to Jimmy and Yvette, and a playful “behave yourselves” aimed at Walter and George, Penny hugs you. “Congratulations on the job. I’ll call you when I need help. If you still want to work here that is.” She offers.
You don’t have to think twice. You really have grown quite fond of this place. “Anytime.”
It's odd to walk out of The Hard Deck at barely past 3:30 p.m. on a Sunday. Or any day you work there. You’re so used to showing up when it’s still light outside and it being near pitch black by the time you leave that it feels almost wrong to be outside this time of day.
Late afternoon sun kisses your skin. In the distance, behind the dumpsters, you can see people walking along the beach. A few people are in the water.
You should feel at peace. Serene, even. But out here feels as empty as the inside of the bar. It’s more than the vacant beach chairs just past the deck. More than the absence of music and laughter. More than the emptiness of the parking lot.
Well, almost empty parking lot.
There’s Penny’s Porsche, Jimmy and Yvette’s F-150, Walter’s Beetle, your little Civic, and then…
There’s…
“Bob?”