Page 9 of Roommate's Guide to Love

This makes me stop in my tracks, and I know this is her attempt of guilting me into staying. She knows I’ll do anything for my kids. She’s seen me bring in clothes for one whose family lost their house in a fire. She knows I pay off school lunch debts. She knows those kids are my world.

But what I need to do for them right now is to stand up for myself. Stand up for them. They might not get it now, but I hope maybe one day, they’ll know that I did this for them just as much as me.

“That does hurt me,” I say. “I love each and every one of my students. But I teach them every day to do the right thing. I teach them that sometimes the right thing isn’t the popular thing, or the easy thing. And that caving to peer pressure is never a good move. And if I caved right now and didn’t teach that book…if I cowered and did what was told of me, even though I knew it wasn’t right…then I’d be going against every single thing I’ve ever taught them. And I won’t do that. I respect myself too much. And frankly, I have zero respect for anyone in this room.”

And with that, I turn my back, slam the door behind me, and storm to my room to collect my things.

I guess summer break is starting a little earlier this year.

3

porter

When you own a bar,there are things that just become a normal part of your occupation that no other business owner has to go through. Call it the bartender’s version of the death and taxes guarantee.

Regulars will always bitch and moan about something that’s wrong. They don’t care that it’s been wrong for twenty years, they’re still going to complain. Two of my regulars, who bear a striking resemblance to the two old dudes from the Muppets, love to bitch about the lighting. That it’s too dark and they can’t read their newspaper. I inform them that the lighting has been the same every day since they first started coming here when my dad owned it, and maybe, just maybe, that it’s their eyesight getting a little worse for wear.

They tell me to shut my trap, get better bulbs, but before I do that, pour them another beer.

There’s also the guarantee that just when I’m starting to feel comfortable and things are going smoothly, something will break, burst, or catch on fire, needing me to pay a hefty repair bill. Two months ago it was the ice machine. Three before that was the fryer vent. And while I hate forking over that money, if I want The Joint to survive, I need to suck it up and pay the piper.

And lastly, and this is a guarantee: When it’s a Friday night, and the drinks are flowing and the music is playing, that you will get hit on by a woman.

I’m not being conceited. It’s just facts.

“Hey, Porter. What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?”

I let out a groan as my back is turned from the voice, which gives me the chance to mumble what I actually want to say.

“Flash your tits to someone. It’s what you do every fucking week.”

But, when I turn around from pouring whiskey into a rocks glass, I’m wearing nothing but my signature smile as I face Emily Babcock.

“Just gotta order, Em. Whatcha feeling tonight?”

I’m purposely non-flirty with her. No use of the word “hun,” “darlin’,” or “beautiful.” But that doesn’t matter when it comes to the one woman in town I’m pretty sure every man has had a nighttime visit with—she’s going to assume you’re flirting with her just by speaking.

“Vodka soda with a lime. And maybe you, if you’re up for it?”

“One vodka soda, coming right up.”

I purposely ignore the last part as I go to make her drink. Emily has always been one to throw herself at men. Hell, she’s been doing it since we were in high school, which is the only time I fell for her come-ons. But I don’t remember it being as bad as it’s been recently.

Then again, I’ve never had live music in here on a regular basis, which I have the past few Fridays. I’m going to assume that’s the direct correlation.

This is what I get for trying to make an extra buck.

Some of my younger clientele—the ones who come in when my grumpy old men head home for the night—have been on me to get some sort of entertainment in here. Which, I don’t know what they’re talking about. I have a jukebox, televisions, and pool tables. What else do you need at a hometown dive bar?

After a while, I was tired of hearing about it, so I caved—but just to prove to them it wasn’t going to work. That it wouldn’t drive up business, or bring in new faces into our small town of Rolling Hills, Tennessee.

All it proved was that I don’t know shit.

So now every Friday night we have some sort of musical act, my bar is busier than ever, and I have to deal with the likes of Emily Babcock more than usual.

“Here you go.” I hand Emily her drink and start to take someone else’s order, figuring she’s going to hand me her credit card. She shouldn’t need me to tell her the price. She’s been coming in nearly every weekend since she turned twenty-one, so I’m a little baffled as to why she’s still standing here. And why she’s staring at me like she’s trying to figure out a riddle.

“Cash or tab?” I ask while I gesture to the next customer. After they signal to get them two more beers, I realize that Emily is still staring.

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