Page 32 of The Boyfriend Boycott
“Still part of phase two,” she says, as if it’s common knowledge. “The party, remember?”
Ah yes. The party she’s told me nothing about.
“Will there be a phase three?” There could be fifty phases for all I know.
“Why yes there is, thanks for asking.” She plops the binder down on the prep table and opens it to the tab labelledPhase Two. Of course she has a tabbed binder.
“Okay, tell me about this event.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking. We redecorate a bit, revamp the menu, and host an exclusive re-opening event for the other business owners and the city councillors.”
“It’s kind of genius,” I admit.
“I’m glad you agree.” Spencer lifts her chin and flashes me a smile. “But there’s a twist. They’ll all bring a cocktail and submit it for a contest.” I regard her for a moment, and it dawns on me that I still don’t know what Spencer’s motivation is for working so hard to help me. Part of me hopes that it’s just for me, just because she wants to, but the realistic side of me knows there has to be more to it.
“Why are you doing all of this?” I ask, searching her face to try and understand the enigma that she is. She lets out a sigh.
“I wasn’t going to say anything because I thought I might jinx it if I said anything too soon,” she starts. “I have a job opportunity. A travel company looking for someone to do PR for them. I don’t have official PR experience, but they like my marketing style and asked if I could submit a portfolio.”
“Ah.” My mouth tightens into a line. So, not because of me then.
“I need this job, Grady. I have no contracts lined up, and I’ll be in a real bind if I don’t figure it out quickly.”
“Where is it?” All I can focus on is the fact that it might take Spencer away from me, and when she answers, my worst fear comes true.
“All over the world. The office is based in Vancouver, but they want me to travel on their tours to make sure they’re projecting the right image. The salary will be consistent, and it’s a permanent gig. No more hustling for short-term contracts, wondering where my next paycheck is coming from.”
I suck a breath in through my teeth, stuffing down my feelings about what she’s just told me. I have no claim over her, no right to keep her here. There’s no denying that this job sounds like an incredible opportunity, and I like Spencer enough to want what’s best for her. Yet, I feel like if I can help her with this, if I can just connect with her, be the person she needs me to be, she might just choose me.
“Well, now I need to see what you have on the laptop,” I say, nodding towards it.
“Oh, yeah, this,” she says as if she’s just remembered why she came here in the first place. She doesn’t seem like herself this morning; her shoulders appear tense, and her normally raspy, buttery soft voice is tighter. She’s guarded, and now I understand with a bit more clarity as to why. She’s preparing to leave. “It’s the plans I’ve been working on for the bar. How we’ll redecorate.”
Spencer pulls out the laptop and sets it down on the small patch of the expansive metal table that doesn’t have ingredients and cooking utensils strewn about.
When she opens it, the screen is already on a mood board with inspiration for what looks like a sophisticated, yet laid-back and cozy, whiskey bar. The colours she’s chosen are dark and moody, the decor unpretentious yet elevated.
“This is …” I was nervous about what Spencer was going to come up with when she said she wanted to revamp the bar. I’ve always been protective over the Whisky Jack, and the experience of my guests. I never want anyone in the town to think that they can’t come if they aren’t dressed a certain way, or that it’s a place for special occasions only. The Whisky Jack is for everyone, and Spencer managed to preserve that feeling perfectly in her version. “You crushed it. Absolutely nailed it. I can’t believe you came up with this design.”
“I can’t take all the credit. Ally and I have a friend from high school who went into interior design, and I may have called in a teensy favour.”Any previous apprehension I had about Spencer’s plan for the bar dissipates, the knot in my stomach loosening a smidge when I see her vision. It somehow makes the bar feel elevated but still approachable, cool but still cozy. It’s exactly how I would have redesigned it if I had the clever thought to do so.
“It doesn’t matter. You are incredible.” Neither of us says anything for a moment, and Spencer gazes back at me, our eyes locked on one another. I know these are things she doesn’t want to hear from me, but I’m done holding back. She clears her throat, a blush spreading from her neck up to her cheeks, before she turns back to look at her computer screen.
“The best part is that we don’t have to change everything. The wooden bar stools are perfect the way they are, we’ll just get some cozy leather chairs to create more of a conversation space by the fireplace at the back. We’ll close for a couple days to get a fresh coat of paint and put up some bookshelves.” Spencer turns towards me, adding, “With your new menu, and the new look, the bar just needs a new name.”
“A new name?” I sputter in shock at her suggestion. “No. Sorry, Spence. That’s where I put my foot down. We’re not changing the name.”
“The Whisky Jack is a little … rustic, don’t you think?”
“No. I’m not changing it,” I protest. It’s the one thing I will stand firm on. I won’t budge. Not even with Spencer staring up at me with those sparkling green eyes that normally make me melt into a puddle on the ground.
“You said you’d trust me. You need to trust me.” She crosses her arms and something inside me is pleading to give in, to let her have this if it will make her happy, like I give in to everyone else. But I just … can’t. It means too much to me.
“I do. I’ve trusted you on everything we’ve done together so far,” I say. She squints at me again in skepticism. “Just give me this one thing. Please.”
“Why is this so important to you?” Her tone shifts into a softer, more inquisitive one. As stubborn as Spencer may be, she genuinely cares about what this means to me. She knows me by now, that although I may present a lighthearted exteriorto the world, it doesn’t mean that I don’t give a shit. I sigh, my shoulders slumping from their defensive position.
“I named it after my father Jack. The bar represents everything he stood for, as strange as that may sound. He was so warm and inviting, non-judgemental, a safe space for anyone no matter their social status. It made him a great doctor. Mason got to keep his legacy alive by taking over his clinic, this is the one thing I can do to honour him, too,” I explain, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve told anyone about it. It’s always felt heavy to talk about my dad and his death, what it means to me. I’ve never wanted to burden anyone with it, but sharing it with Spencer feels like I can finally lighten the load.
