Page 27 of The Boyfriend Boycott
“Make me feel like I’m not stupid for not knowing something.” My lungs hollow out at her statement. At the fact that having someone be patient with her, not make her feel less than, is somehow a foreign concept to her.
“It’s not hard. You’re not stupid, Spencer,” I say, regarding her across the kitchen. She’s quieter than usual as she considers my words. No quippy remark at that. “So, you never filled me in on phase two of the plan,” I say, shifting the topic. I lean on the edge of the counter with both hands. Spencer’s eyes dart towards my forearms as they flex. I love when I catch her looking at me like that. It gives me a shred of hope that I still have a chance with her.
“I don’t think you’re going to like it based on how you reacted to the suggestion earlier.” Spencer returns to her barstool and gulps the last of her wine down. I instinctively reach across the counter and grab the bottle to top off her glass.
“Try me,” I say. “I’m feeling more open-minded now.”
“Okay.” Spencer hesitates, searching for just the right words to position her suggestion. “I really think it would benefit you to revamp the bar, just a bit. Not an overhaul, but elevate it a little.”
I take it back. I’m not that open-minded. The thought of changing the Whisky Jack makes me grind my molars together. I made the bar the way it is for a reason. The whole point is that it’s not elevated. It’s accessible, it’s for everyone. It’s how I honour my dad in the only way I can.
“The Whisky Jack has always done well here,” I explain. “My customers like it just the way it is.”
“That’s because they’ve never had anything else,” Spencer says, and I hate to admit that she has a point. Sure, there are other places to eat in Heartwood, but they aren’t quite the same as the bar. “I hate to even go here, but if you don’t win against Carter and he manages to push through the motion to open Urban Ember, you will need to rebrand it anyway just to compete.”
“I need time to think about it,” I say, but I know time is something that we’re running out of, and fast. If we want to dothis, it needs to happen quickly. I pivot over to the stove, turning my back to Spencer as I dish out her food.
“Just don’t take too long,” she adds, like I need reminding. I hand her the bowl of steaming orzo and sausage and bring my own over to sit on the barstool next to hers. She takes the first bite, blowing on it carefully before putting it in her mouth. Her eyes roll back as she savours the flavours of the herbs.
“See,” she says, pausing to finish her bite. “This is the kind of thing you should include on the menu. This is incredible. Instead, you just keep slinging burgers.”
“Well,Idon’t sling the burgers. Doug does that. And everyone loves a burger and a beer.”
“I’m not saying you have to get rid of your burgers. Just add a few more options to the mix. We could redecorate inside so that it feels a bit fresher. Keep the homey, cozy vibes, but bring in some nicer decor. More whisky bar, less dive bar.”
I mull it over as I work on my bite of food.
“I want to show you something, and you can’t get mad,” she says, reaching down to her purse to pull out her phone. She opens her social media page and clicks on a picture I didn’t know she had snapped. It’s a great shot of the hand-carved wooden sign that hangs above the door of the bar. But it’s not the picture she wants to show me. She clicks on the first comment, and when she does, a whole lot more open up with it. “Just read through some of those.”
My eyes skim through the comment section and my heart drops. Remarks like ‘Heartwood is such a cute spot, wish there were more places to eat,’ and worse, ‘I liked the Whisky Jack, just seemed kinda dingy.’
They go on and on, listing reasons why the Whisky Jack didn’t satisfy them the way they thought it would have.It feels like a kick in the balls. All the work I put in to try and makepeople feel comfortable at the bar, and this is what they really think.
“Fuck. Reading them all laid out like that, it’s kind of brutal,” I admit.
“Sorry.” Spencer apologizes even though it’s not necessary. It wasn’t her who wrote those things. “I thought you should see it for yourself.” I release a breath through tight lips.
“Let me hear your big plan,” I say, but Spencer looks distracted suddenly, her eyes glazed over and zoned out on her phone screen. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” She clicks the screen off and sets it down on the counter in front of her. “Just my mom. She wanted to inform me that she’s booked herself in for a boob job.”
“A boob job? I can’t imagine that anyone related to you should ever need to get work done. Not that anyoneneedsto get work done …” I backtrack.
“I know what you meant,” Spencer reassures me. “She doesn’t need to get work done. She never has. This is the thing with my mother. She picks all the wrong guys who treat her like trash, and then she assumes that it’s something wrong with her. Now with my father about to marry someone twenty years her junior …”
“She’s feeling a little insecure.” I finish Spencer’s thought right as her phone starts to ring on the counter in front of us. The name Marla pops up, along with a photo of her that is the spitting image of Spencer. The same red hair, the same green eyes and gorgeous smile, just thirty years older and a little more botoxed.
“Hey, Marla,” she answers, and I can just make out her mom’s voice on the other end asking if the service is better now. “Yeah, I can hear you. What’s up?”
They sound almost identical, raspy in the way that makes my toes curl when Spencer says my name.
“Don’t ever get married, Spencer. I swear to God. It will only make you miserable. And that’s before you get divorced. It’s even worse once he runs off with some hussy and trades you in for a younger model. That’s all men care about, I swear.” Her voice is a faint buzz against Spencer’s cheek, but I make out most of what she’s said and cringe. Spencer doesn’t miss my visible wince at her words.
“Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’m not planning on getting married any time soon. It’s hard to get married when I’m not even dating.” I wince again, and this time she doesn’t seem to catch it, thankfully.
“Good. Did you get those pictures I sent? Dr. Bloomfield wanted some inspo pics for my new boobs.”
I can’t be certain, but I could swear I heard her say she sent Spencer pictures of boobs. I’m praying she saidboots, and that Dr. Bloomfield is a doctor in the same way that Dr. Scholl’s is a doctor.
