Page 13 of Play Along With Me
"But you're good at reading people," Kevin insists. "You're a writer, so you can read into people. It's why I keep coming back—well, that and your heavy pour." He taps his empty Manhattan glass appreciatively.
I sigh. "Kevin, I don't know anything about hockey except what you've forced upon me over the past year. I've never seen him play."
"Not asking about his hockey. Asking about his temperament. His character. I'm thinking about bringing him into our organization. Big investment. What's your gut say?"
I start polishing a glass that doesn't need polishing. "You should follow your gut, not mine."
"Humor me."
"Fine. He seems..." I search for the right word. "Steady? Like, not a douchebag, which sets him apart from ninety percent of men who come in here wearing suits." I think about how he handled Collin's apartment prank with more grace than most would have. "And he has a sense of humor about himself, which is rare in men who look like they bench press Volkswagens for fun."
"Good observations," Kevin nods seriously, like I've just delivered a scouting report rather than basic human decency criteria.
I glance down at the credit card slip and notice an extra twenty tucked under it, along with some writing on the receipt. While Kevin drones on about "locker room presence" and "mental toughness," I discreetly pull the receipt closer.
For your Lego-free future. —The Door Pounder.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it, interrupting Kevin's hockey monologue. I quickly shove the receipt into my pocket.
"Something funny?" Kevin asks.
"Just remembered something," I say vaguely, then add, "About Jake. I would give him a chance, if you're asking my professional bartender opinion."
Kevin beams like I've just validated his entire life's work. "My thoughts exactly. Good head on his shoulders. Could be exactly what we need."
He finally stands, leaving me a predictably generous tip. "Thanks, Audrey. Always appreciate your insights."
"Anytime, Kevin. See you next week—same Manhattan, same burger, same hockey talk."
He laughs, pointing at me as he backs away. "That's why you're the best."
After he leaves, I fish the receipt from my pocket and read the note again. It's... kind of charming, in a dorky way. Most guys who try to flirt with me at the bar either get too personal too quickly or go full peacock with exaggerated stories about their amazing lives. Knock-knock boy managed to be funny without trying too hard.
Not that I'm interested. The last thing I need is another relationship, especially with someone who lives in my building and is friends with Collin, of all people. Plus, I'm still not over Daniel, a fact my Instagram search history could confirm if it weren't sworn to secrecy.
I finish my shift around eleven, change out of my work clothes in the employee bathroom, and head home on the T, zoning out to my "Characters Who Need Stories" playlist. It's a collection of songs that remind me of people I want to write about someday, when I finally get my act together and become the writer I keep telling everyone I am.
The truth is, I'm not a stand-up comedian. I don't know why I told Kevin I did it once, except that "aspiring writer" sounds so cliché and sad, especially when you're approaching thirty and haven't published anything beyond your college literary magazine. "Stand-up comedian" has a certain boldness to it—like, yes, I deliberately get up in front of people and risk humiliation on a regular basis. Much more interesting than "I have seventeen half-finished Word documents and a Substackwith three subscribers (my mom, my best friend, and someone named BobLovesBooks42 who might be a bot)." But he knows I'm a writer too. After he had one too many Manhattan's and swore up and down that I needed to entertain for a living. Well, sir, I am trying to use my wit to entertain the people.
Bartending pays the bills and gives me excellent material. Every shift is like a writing workshop where people volunteer their life stories, personality quirks, and dialogue patterns. I've been at the Liberty for two years, and my Notes app is bursting with character studies, weird conversations, and plot ideas.
When I get home, Mr. Darcy greets me with his signature blend of neediness and disdain, winding between my legs while somehow communicating that I am late and therefore a terrible cat mother.
"Yes, I know, the service around here is appalling," I tell him, dropping my bag and heading to the kitchen to feed him. "You should speak to management."
I pull the receipt from my pocket and, after a moment's hesitation, stick it to my refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a typewriter. I collect weird little mementos—not in a hoarder way, but in what I prefer to call a "potential creative material" way. My fridge is a collage of receipts with funny notes, fortune cookie predictions, and ticket stubs from movies I've mostly forgotten.
Leila calls it my "physical Instagram feed," which I resent for its accuracy. Speaking of Instagram...
I grab my phone and, before I can stop myself, open the app and type "Daniel Westfield" in the search bar. I've gotten it down to only checking twice a day, which I consider remarkable restraint. Morning and night, like a very sad, pathetic vitamin regimen.
Daniel and Janine are back from their honeymoon. Their latest post shows them unpacking in their new apartment, all sun-kissed and glowing. The caption reads: "Home sweet home with my forever person. #newlywedlife #blessed"
I make a gagging noise that startles Mr. Darcy. "Sorry, buddy. Just having an appropriate reaction to excessive hashtag use."
This is fine. Totally fine. I'm doing great.
I close Instagram and open my laptop instead. My weekly Zoom writing group meets tomorrow night, and I still haven't written my pages. It's a small group of four women I met in a creative writing class two years ago. We've stuck together, meeting virtually every Wednesday to share our work and provide feedback.
