Page 41 of Until the Storm Breaks
Now she types away, occasionally asking me about quantities while I serve the trickle of customers. Old Eddie’s at his usual spot, nursing his Rainier and shot. A couple of Seattle tech workers debate IPAs at a corner table. The jukebox plays Tom Petty low enough for conversation.
The door opens and Adrian Lowe walks in.
Of course he does. Because my night was going too smoothly.
He’s wearing linen in that way that says ‘I summer in the Hamptons’—crisp white shirt, tidy blonde hair, and the kind of tan that comes from leisure, not labor. He scans the bar like he’s assessing it for a review, then spots me and his face lights up with recognition. He makes his way over, sliding onto a stool directly in front of where I’m working.
“Maren! Wonderful to see you again. I was hoping you’d be working tonight.”
The way he says it, like he’s been thinking about cominghere specifically to see me, makes my skin crawl just a little. But I paste on my professional smile.
“Adrian.” I finish pouring a beer for another customer and slide it down the bar. “What can I get you?”
“What do you recommend?” He leans forward on his elbows, getting comfortable. “I’m sure you have excellent taste.”
There’s something in how he says ‘excellent taste’ that feels like he’s not just talking about drinks. I ignore it, keeping my smile professional.
“Depends what you’re in the mood for. Beer? Cocktail? Something stronger?”
“Surprise me. I trust your judgment completely.” He watches me intently, like I’m about to perform a magic trick.
I turn to the bottles, considering. Part of me wants to give him something basic, a vodka soda, just to see his face. But my pride won’t let me. I grab the rye from the middle shelf and start building an Old Fashioned. The familiar motions—muddling sugar and bitters, adding the whiskey, then ice, stirring slowly—give me something to focus on besides his watching eyes.
“This place has real character,” he says, looking around at the worn wood paneling, the ship’s wheel on the wall that’s been there since the seventies, the photos of Dark River through the decades. “None of that manufactured nostalgia you see in Seattle bars trying to look authentic. This is the real thing.”
I wonder if he realizes how condescending he sounds, talking about my bar like it’s some anthropological discovery.
“We try,” I say dryly.
“How long have you been running it?” he asks, missing my tone entirely.
“Seven years.” I express the orange peel over the drink, the oils misting the surface.
“You must have been quite young when you started. What, early twenties?”
“Twenty-one.” I slide the drink across to him, then move toring up another customer at the register, grateful for the brief escape.
“That’s remarkable. Most people that age are still desperately trying to figure out what they want, drinking too much, making terrible decisions.” He pauses, taking a sip and nodding approvingly. “I spent a few summers in my early twenties convinced I needed to be Kerouac, complete with the unnecessary road trips and terrible poetry about gas stations.”
The self-deprecation catches me off guard. It’s the first time he’s sounded like an actual person instead of a walking MFA program.
“Sometimes you don’t get to figure it out,” I say, wiping down the bar next to him. “Life just happens and you deal with what’s in front of you.”
“Spoken like someone with a story.” He turns the glass in his hands, studying the amber liquid. “I’d love to hear it sometime. Over dinner, perhaps? There’s this excellent place in Seattle that sources everything locally. You’d adore it. They do this thing with oysters that’s absolutely transcendent.”
And just like that, pretentious Adrian is back. Because sure, let’s drive six hours round trip for oysters. The whiplash is almost impressive.
“I’ll add you to the waiting list,” I say, moving down to where Lark sits at the end of the bar, pretending I need to grab a bottle behind her.
“Is that the Adrian guy you mentioned?” she asks, leaning in. “The one renting the Peterson place?”
“That’s him.”
“He’s giving major villain energy,” Lark whispers with a grin. “Like if Draco Malfoy fucked a thesaurus.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing as I return to Adrian, stopping to top off Eddie’s shot glass first.
“You know,” Adrian says, “every time I think I understand something about this place, I realize I’m still just a tourist.”
