Page 39 of Voyeur Café

“What about you? How have you been?” Brian shifts theconversation to me, adjusting the sleeves of his white oxford shirt.

“Been real busy with the shop, haven’t had time for much else,” I respond, leaning back against my workbench. “No complaints, though.”

“Any updates on the bar?”

“Currently, it’s boring paperwork and prep.”

“Do you mind if I ask,” Brian looks through the glass wall, then back to me, “Why a bar? The motorcycle thing I get.” He holds an open hand out, gesturing between me and my shop. “It suits you, but what’s the motivation behind the bar?”

Brian’s presence makes my venture in Palm Springs less isolating. I met most of the people I know here throughTurbine, and they’re understandably apprehensive about trusting the guy who’s unseating a local favorite. A lot of the regulars have warmed up to me, but my bar is still a taboo subject. Brian’s the first one to show any interest.

“My grandad—the one who left me the BMW—ran a biker bar, and I spent a lot of time there with him as a kid.” I leave out the details of why I was always at a bar as a small child. Grandad was the closest thing to a dad I’ve ever known, and Mom left him to do most of my parenting. I can’t blame her. No one should have to raise kids alone, but it doesn’t always reflect well on her when I share those details. “He always told me that everything worth knowing can be learned behind a bar.”

“Never would have thought of that, but he had a point,” Brian laughs.

“I’d perfected pouring beer with the right amount of head before I could reach the taps on my own.” My hands mimic the proper form, holding an imaginary glass at a forty-five-degree angle, showing the pouring motion I’ve repeated thousands of times.

“Did he hold you up to show you how to pour?”

“When I was real little, he did.” I point to a battered wooden stool against the far wall. “Eventually, we made that stool over there for me to stand on.”

Brian walks over and inspects the decades old piece of homemade furniture. “Solid construction.” He taps a wooden leg, smoothed with age and use. “He taught you well. Impressive that you still have it.”

“I kept the pieces of him I could. That’s the answer to your question about the bar, too, by the way.” I run all ten fingers through my hair before sliding them into my front pockets, shifting my weight against the workbench. “He died when I was fifteen. It made sense to me at the time that opening a bar was the best way to keep him close and learn the lessons he never got to teach me. I did a lot of dumb shit as a teenager, but that kid had at least one good idea.”

“Sounds like it,” Brian agrees, nodding as he moves to leave. “I’m looking forward to seeing how it comes out.” He pauses by the front door. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Don’t forget,” I tell him, pointing toward the coffee and white paper bag he left on the counter.

“Those are for you.” He smiles.

“Thanks, Brian. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I didn’t,” he says, pointing over my shoulder.

“Allie?” I ask.

He smiles and nods with knowing amusement before turning around and walking out the front door of my shop.

Watching Allie, who’s having an animated conversation with Hector, I take a sip of the coffee. It’s an Americano, of course. The paper bag holds a turkey sandwich on rye and a bag of BBQ chips, my usual order. Her memory is perfect, like the rest of her.

It never made sense to me why the guy I bought Station 19from wouldn’t sell to her. I finally had the opportunity to ask him last week when he came by to see how things were going. Evidently, he didn’t believe she was serious when she brought it up because the dollar amounts she talked about were too low.

He got cagey and changed the subject when I asked why he told me no one would care to seeTurbinego, making it obvious he was afraid I’d rescind my offer if I found out how upset the community would be at losing Allie andTurbine. It doesn’t sit right with me. This town deserves better.Alliedeserved better.

My eyes lock on the movement of her yellow dress as she walks behind the counter. I scan the curve of her body from the short hem of the dress, over her ample hips and soft belly, up to her electric smile, and land on giant teal eyes that stare right back at me.

Holding up my drink, I mouththank you.

She waves her hand in the air dismissively, cheeks flushing, before turning back to Hector, chestnut ponytail bouncing along with her animated hand motions.

The temptation to extend her lease and surrender the idea of opening a bar in Grandad’s memory comes to the forefront of my thoughts.It’s been coming up with a disturbing regularity lately.But asking Allie to stay would mean giving up on Grandad, and I can’t do that. He raised me, and there are too many things I never got to learn from him. Working behind a bar is the most connected I feel to him, and it’s the reason I bought Station 19 in the first place.

My phone buzzes, lighting up with Allie’s name.

Allie: Eat! It’s 1:30 already!

Me: You didn’t have to do this.

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