I’d prefer serving since I’ve done it before, but it seems like this is all they’re offering, so I nod. “Of course.”
Monroe writes something down on my resume. “Great. Dylan, did you have any other questions?”
“I’ll, uh, just look at this again for a second, so go ahead and fire away, boss lady.” Dylan slides the paper towards him, but I can feel his eyes on me as Monroe starts to grill me about my work history and expectations for the job.
Most of them are standard interview questions, so I get through it all fairly smoothly, confident I’m saying the right things when she hums in agreement each time I pause, her grin still in place as she jots down a few notes.
“I think that’s it from me. Don’t worry too much about your lack of pint pouring experience. DeeDee will have you trained up in no time.”
“You’re not going to throw her in the ring with DeeDee, are you?” Dylan pretends to be aghast as I look between the two of them.
“Baptism by fire,” Monroe shoots back. “If she can survive a training session with DeeDee, she can survive anything at this bar.”
“Is that the girl with the pink hair?” I ask, doing my best to keep up.
“The one and only,” Dylan chimes.
“She seemed sweet. She offered me a tequila shot to calm my nerves.” I start shaking my head as soon as the admission leaves my mouth, scared I’ve incriminated myself or my future co-worker. “I didn’t take it, of course. I think she was joking.”
The two of them burst out laughing, Monroe looking as exasperated as she does amused. “Oh, she wasn’t joking. I will need to have yet another stern chat with her before I head out tonight. Speaking of heading out, you need to get on the floor. We still don’t have enough cooks for you to miss rush hour.” She points a finger at Dylan and then focuses on me again. “If we haven’t totally scared you off, I’d love to give you a final answer about the job tomorrow. I don’t think it will come as a surprise to say we’ve pretty much made up our minds.”
I reach for her hand again and return her friendly squeeze, relieved to see she seems to have made up her mind in my favour. I’m sure my bank account is the thirstiest thing in this bar, and more than that, this is the only job I’ve interviewed for that actually strikes me as fun. The second pink hair girl popped up with the tequila, I knew this was more than a place where the employees punch in, punch out, and go home.
Maybe that’s what I need: a little more fun.
“Yo, Mister Manager!” The farmhand hipster who led me to the office appears in the doorway, waving at Dylan. “We need two orders of those little fajita things, and we all know what happened the last time I tried to make them myself.”
Dylan slaps the top of the desk and stands up. “Two orders of little fajita things coming right up.”
I follow after him, exiting out into the little hallway that runs between the kitchen and the front of house.
“Hey, uh, Renee.” Dylan pauses, doorframe-width shoulders blocking most of the hallway as he turns and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes on me. “It’s really good to see you again.”
Dylan doesn’t do pleasantries. There’s no half-sincere ‘Hey, how are you? I’m fine, thanks,’ when he’s around. If he tells you it’s good to see you, he means it with all of his heart.
It’s one of the first things I ever admired about him, and it’s what makes me stop and consider my answer before I reply.
Seeing Dylan again is many, many things. It’s disorienting enough to make my steps feel like I’m sleepwalking. It’s surprising enough to have my heart booming, leaping into my throat and choking my breaths. Standing here in front of him has the echo of that aching, desperate longing threatening to break loose from the box I tucked it into so long ago.
It’s another moment of chaos I can’t control.
Yet as I watch him watch me in the shadows of the hall, the racket of the kitchen behind him clashing with the clinking glasses and thumping music of the bar behind me, I realize there’s still nothing I’d rather be staring at than the sight of that trademark shrug of his and those sexy little tufts in his hair he can never get smooth.
“It’s good to see you too, Dylan.”
His grin turns into a mega watt smile. I let myself soak up the light for a second before turning to leave.
“Hey, Renee!” I’m about to step into the bar when I hear him call my name. “I think a sock just fell out of your bag.”
Two
Dylan
ENJAMBMENT: The continuation of a sentence from one line of a poem to the next
“My friends, you have tuned into the all request Friday show on Toulouse FM. I am your host, DJ Danger, and—”
A scoffing sound interrupts me where I’m holding a spatula in front of my mouth like a microphone, shuffling around the kitchen to get appliances prepped while the rest of the staff works through their shift opening tasks alongside me.
“Do you have a problem, Zachy Zach?” I demand, making a show of covering the spatula like I don’t want my imagined audience to hear what I’m saying.
If Zach could scowl at the nickname, he would, but his wholesome farm boy face always looks like he just ate a big slice of fresh-baked apple pie and can’t bother being mad at the world. The closest he can get is a few creases between his eyebrows.
“DJ Danger?” He’s smirking now. Even his smirk looks wholesome.
“I’m working on the fly here, man,” I defend myself before uncovering my microphone substitute. “Excuse the interruption, valued listeners. I have just been joined by my fellow show host for the night. Allow me to present to you: the Fresh Faced Fool. Say hello to the audience!”
I offer Zach the spatula. He grips the handle with one hand while pointing at his face with the other.
“Fresh faced? Come on, man. I. Have. A. Beard.”
Everyone in the kitchen laughs at that. We cut him a big enough break not to say it to his face, but everyone who works at this bar calls Zach ‘The Adorable One’ behind his back. I suspect he grew his blond scruff of a beard in an attempt to give himself some kind of edge, but the only result was that he now looks like a slightly older and even more benevolent farmhand. His fondness for flannel doesn’t help.
He’s also one of my best friends here at Taverne Toulouse, and the wholesome bastard works so hard I know the place would fall apart without him. I only tease with the greatest love in my heart.
Also it’s funny as fuck to piss him off.
“You heard the man,” I continue, snatching the spatula back. “He. Has. A. Beard. And don’t any of you forget it. The Fresh Faced Fool will be conveying delicious meals to our customers and taking orders for more all night. If you’re tuning in for the first time, cherished listeners, allow me to explain: Toulouse FM is the only radio station in Montreal—nay, the world—that also operates a fully functional bar and kitchen. Stop by Taverne Toulouse on Avenue Mont-Royal tonight for good tunes, cold drinks, and even better company because in exactly one hour from now we. Are. Open!”