Page 1 of The Barkeep and the Bro

1

MITCH

Number one rule of owning a bar: the buck always stopped with me.

Except, the buck never actually stopped. It kept going and going.

There was always a fire to be put out, a conflict to resolve. Yesterday, I was without a bartender. He won big betting on a playoff game that ended with a shocking underdog victory and immediately quit. So, in addition to my regular manager duties, I was stuck serving drinks for ten hours. After a lifetime of running Stone’s Throw Tavern, I was used to the constant stream of chaos. Some people were married to the loves of their lives. I was married to a bar. I’d been married before, but once was enough for me.

Fortunately, today was Sunday. The bar didn’t open until noon, giving me the morning to rest and recuperate. I looked over at the perfectly undisturbed right side of the bed, the sheets and blanket tucked into their hospital corners. Twenty-three years of sleeping alone, and I still hadn’t worked up the nerve to sleep in the middle of the bed.

The house I owned was a stone’s throw away from my bar, hence the name. It was a small cottage that sat on a dirt road tucked into the woods. It had been a fixer-upper, and back when I had more energy, I was able to rewire all the rooms with ceiling fans, update the kitchen, and build a sun porch. I could hear the gurgling of the Hudson River in the distance.

I enjoyed the silence with coffee and a newspaper, one of the few people left who didn’t subscribe to the e-version ofThe Sourwood Gazette. I liked feeling the newspaper in my hands and the accomplishment of reading it cover to cover.

I made a list of what needed to be done. First and foremost, find a damn bartender. Again. Mr. Gambler had only been with me two months.

Afterwards, I went outside to chop wood for the fireplace. Today was a warm day for January—thirty degrees. But the temperature was expected to plummet this week, so I made hay while the sun shined.

While I was chopping wood, Cal and Leo stopped over with a box from Maple Street Donuts. We’d all known each other growing up. Leo and I were friends with Cal’s older brother. And by a quirk of fate, we’d all wound up gay single dads–in fact, we called ourselves the Single Dads Club. I didn’t have family in the area anymore, so we leaned on each other throughout the years. Watching each other’s kids, helping through the latest parenting struggle. Leo had preteen twins, Ari and Lucy. Cal had a quiet ten-year-old boy, Josh, and through his new relationship with Russ, he’d gained another ten-year-old son in Quentin. I had the oldest kid in the group—the benefits of knocking up your high school sweetheart—and so I prepared them over the years for what was to come. From the awkwardness of puberty to the hell of teenagerdom.

“Hey, Lumberjack.” Cal walked over and placed the box of donuts on my patio table. “Seriously, were youtryingto dress like Paul Bunyan this morning?”

I looked down at my red and black checkered flannel shirt. That was not intentional. But with my grizzly beard and broad chest, I definitely looked the part.

Leo grabbed a donut and plopped into one of the patio chairs. Even on a lazy Sunday, he still managed to look sharp with his peacoat and dark slacks. As the mayor of Sourwood, he was always on and probably had some official business to attend to later.

“You know you can buy pre-chopped firewood at the store,” Leo said, his tone having a perpetual ring of sarcasm. “They even sell them in neat, tied-together bundles.”

“That’s for fancy people like you.” I placed another log on the chopping block.

“One of the perks of living in a modern society. The only people who chop their own wood are Instagram influencers thirsty for likes.”

I didn’t know what half of those words meant. A perk of owning a local bar: no need to futz with social media. Down went my ax, two wood halves tumbling off the block.

“Now I’m jealous I don’t have a fireplace,” Cal said.

“I thought Russ had one.” Leo bit off a chunk of his cinnamon donut.

“It’s gas. You can turn it on with a remote.”

“The joys of suburban living,” I said with a smile. Cal’s boyfriend Russ lived in one of the fancy new subdivisions in Sourwood, a big step up from Cal’s current house on the older side of town. “You excited about the move?”

“I’m too busy packing up and trying to sell my house. My real estate agent says we need to bring in new furniture and stage the house.” Cal rolled his eyes. “I feel like my house is entering a beauty pageant.”

“Townhomes and Tiaras,” Leo joked.

“And you’re going to clean it before it goes on the market?” I loved Cal, but the man was a bit of a slob, a habit Russ was admirably trying to break. Fortunately, Josh was more into cleanliness than his dad, but that was an uphill battle I wanted no part of.

“We’re tidying up.” Cal swirled his finger around the donut box to find the ideal selection and pulled out a Boston cream. “Do you want one, Mitch?”

“Save me an old fashioned.” I hurled my ax down and split another log in half, two clean pieces of wood falling to the ground. “Do you need help packing up and preparing the house?”

“You’d help with that?” Cal’s eyes opened wide. He was a big kid at heart.

“Of course. Leo and I would be happy to help.”

Leo shot me a glare for roping him into this plan, but he didn’t object. We had each other’s backs. Speaking of backs, I gave mine a strong rub to ease out the tension.

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