Page 5 of The Barkeep and the Bro

She spun around. “What kind of vetting did you do with Watson beyond rehashing fratboy memories?”

“I looked over the prospectus and data and test results he showed me.” I wasn’t completely incompetent. It never occurred to me it was all fiction, that somebody would pull a fake on this level.

She was practically running to get to our office, not waiting for me. I grabbed her arm, out of breath.

“Serena. It’s going to be okay.”

“How? I invested my clients’ money in this, too. Being one of the few women in our office, I’ve had to work twice as hard. I don’t have the same room for error.” Her glare could strip the paint off a car.

“Maybe Will Watson is yanking everyone’s chain,” I said jokingly.

Her ball-crushing glare reminded me this was not the time for jokes.

“Let’s grab a drink. It’s early but needed. Bloody Marys for breakfast?”

“Charlie, you need to be serious. You’re never serious. Everything is like one big party to you, like you’re still in the frat house. This is a big, serious fucking problem.”

I tried to smile through the character assault. I tried to bring the light because life was serious enough. I held her arms, holding her in place. She was a little taller than me, which made moments like this a touch awkward.

“We’ll figure it out. We’ll get through this. It’s going to be okay, Serena. There’s always a solution.” I bore into her with every genuine feeling I could muster and pushed my fear to the side. I took a deep breath and motioned for her to do the same. “It’s going to be okay.”

It was not okay.

It was very not okay.

An hour later, I was fired. My co-workers all decided to go on a coffee run while I cleaned out my desk with security looking over my shoulder. Serena, too.

I texted her to see about meeting up, but she didn’t respond.

An hour later, she dumped me via text.

And because I had given up my apartment to move in with her, an hour later, she texted again to inform me I was now homeless.

Charlie fucking Porterfield, are you the man?

3

CHARLIE

Two weeks later, I was a scoach closer to being the man again. I had a place to live.

After Serena threw me out, I couch surfed at friends’ places for a few days, but nobody had any vacancies to let me crash long-term. New York apartments were tiny. But even then, it was kind of surprising that none of my friends would let me stay with them for an extended period of time. My best friends Skeeter and Asa had a studio apartment and live-in girlfriend, respectively. Friends from work weren’t returning my calls. My parents were in the process of selling my childhood home, so the timing didn’t work.

I couldn’t find anyone who had a spare room, but eventually, through pleas on Facebook and Instagram, Amos came through.

Amos and I went to the same summer camp as kids. At camp, we ran in different circles—I played sports, while he focused on arts and crafts. We were friendly in that tangential social media way, where we followed each other and would occasionally like a picture or post, but we’d never make plans to hang out.

He was looking for a roommate for his apartment. And I could get along with anyone. I was voted Most Congenial and Most Likely to Succeed in my high school yearbook. At least one of those was still true.

The only catch was that he lived in Sourwood, a small town about an hour north of Manhattan. It would make commuting to find a job a pain, but as I thought about it, I found myself eager to be away from the city and its bad energy. Sourwood could be a fresh start.

I lay on the twin-size bed I purchased in my own bedroom in my new apartment. Empty cardboard boxes and used Ikea instruction manuals were crinkled on the floor beside a newly constructed dresser. I breathed in the smell of independence and cactus blossom wall scents plugged in the hallway outlet.

Amos knocked at my bedroom door. “Are you decent?”

“Yeah. What do you think I was doing in here?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I knocked and asked if you were decent.”

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