Haunted by Julian

"Table six wants another round, and table nine wants to know if the jukebox has a fifth song." "Tell table nine it's a four-song jukebox," Rook said. "Always has been." "I told them. They asked if I could sing." "Can you?" "Only when I'm scared." I slid the tray onto the bar. "Which, tonight, so far, no." He reached past me for the bourbon. His arm brushed my shoulder, and I felt it all the way down my spine. I pretended it was the draft from the door. The Drowned Rat on a Friday smelled like fryer oil and wet wool. Rain hammered the front windows. The Steelers game flickered above the register, and nobody was watching it. Eleven men in leather vests sat along the back wall, loud as a marching band. The Iron Wolves. I'd been pouring for them six weeks and still hadn't learned who owed who money. Rook poured. I wiped. That was our rhythm. "Bear's making pie again," I said. "I know. I can smell it." "Cherry. He burned the first one." "He always burns the first one." "Why?" "Stress." "What's he stressed about?" Rook gave me a look. Gray eyes, flat as slate. "It's a Friday, Tam." "That's not an answer." "It's the only one you're getting." I laughed. I couldn't help it. He said it so seriously, like a judge handing down a sentence. And that was when it happened. His mouth twitched. Then the corner went up, and then the whole thing broke open into a grin. A real one, crooked and quick, gone almost before I saw it. But I saw it. Left front tooth. A tiny chip at the corner, a hairline notch, like someone had taken a bite out of a saltine. My hands stopped moving. I knew that tooth. I'd looked at it in an X-ray, three years ago, in a charting room that smelled like mint paste. Patient file, name on the folder. Male, early thirties. Fractured incisor from a rowing accident. Handsome. Sad about it. He'd made a joke about it and I'd laughed, and I'd never once forgotten that smile. "Tam?" "You're Julian Thornton-Wells." I said it out loud. I heard it leave my mouth. I heard how clear it was. Then I heard nothing at all, because the whole bar went dead quiet. The jukebox was still going, something low and twangy. Under it, eleven chairs scraped back. "Oh," I said. "Oh no." Rook didn't move. The rag in his hand didn't move either. "Say that again," he said softly. "No. No, I think once was plenty." "Tam." "I didn't mean it. I mean, I did, but I didn't mean to say it. It just came out. It does that. I get scared and the true thing falls out of my mouth like a dropped tray." I was babbling. I knew I was babbling. I hummed one bar of something and cut myself off. "Please don't make me hum." Behind me, a chair hit the floor. "Bear," Rook said. He didn't raise his voice. Bear came out of the kitchen with flour on his forearms and an oven mitt still on one hand. He was six and a half feet of gentle, and right now he looked like a man who'd walked into the wrong funeral. "Sign," Rook said. "You sure?" "Sign." Bear crossed the room. He flipped the little wooden sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED. The rain kept going. Somebody at table six whispered a curse. Nobody laughed. Rook came around the end of the bar. I stepped back and my hip hit the register. He went past me, close enough that I smelled bourbon and cedar, and walked to the front door. The deadbolt turned. It was a heavy sound. "Okay," I said. My voice came out small. "That's a lot of locking." "Sit down." "I'm fine standing." "You're shaking." "I'm shaking standing up. It's an efficient shake." I gripped the bar behind me. "Look, I can go home. I'll go home right now. I'll forget this whole night. I'm very good at forgetting. I once forgot my own birthday." "You don't forget faces." I stopped. He was watching me. Not angry. That was the worst part. He looked like a man doing math. "Bear," he said, not turning. "Take everyone to the back." "Rook..." "Now." The room emptied slowly. Boots on old floorboards. A door at the back swung shut. Bear was the last to go. He paused beside me, and one huge hand touched my elbow, light as a bird. Then he was gone. Just me and Rook and the rain. "You were a dental assistant," Rook said. My stomach dropped. "How do you know that?" "I read things." "That's not an answer either." "It's the one you're getting." He walked toward me, slow. Not stalking. Worse. Careful. "Where?" "Where what?" "Where did you see me?" I swallowed. "Dr. Abernathy's. On Forbes. You came in for a cracked tooth, and you brought your own pen to sign the forms. I thought that was funny. Who brings their own pen?" "Someone who doesn't like leaving handwriting on strangers' desks." "That's a weirdly specific answer." "It's a weirdly specific habit." "Is that why you're..." I waved at the bar, the locks, the whole dimly lit room. "Dead?" His jaw moved. It was the smallest thing, but I caught it. "I want to be clear," I said, because I couldn't stop. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I came here for a job. I pour drinks. I don't even like the news. I have no idea what happened to you, and I am not the type to..." "Tam." "...go to the police, or a reporter, or even my mother, and she'd love a story, believe me..." "Tam." "What?" "Breathe." I breathed. It came out shaky and embarrassing. He waited until I did it twice. Then he stepped closer, and the air changed. He was so tall I had to tip my head back. Up close, I could see the rook tattoo peeking over his collar, black ink on tanned skin. And the scar through his left eyebrow. And the tiny chip in his tooth when he parted his lips to speak. My pulse did something stupid. "I'm going to ask you something," he said. "And I need you to think before you answer." "Okay." "I mean it." "I said okay. I'm thinking. Look at me thinking." He didn't smile this time. "Is there any chance I'm wrong?" "About what?" "That you only just recognized me. Tonight." I stared at him. "Wait. You think I knew? You think I took this job on purpose?" "I think a lot of things." "Rook, I've been mopping your floors for six weeks! I put a lemon wedge on your water every morning because you won't ask for one!" Something flickered across his face. Gone before I could name it. "I know," he said quietly. "Then why are you..." "Answer the question." His hand came up, and for a second I thought he'd touch me. It stopped an inch from my arm. Hovered. Then fell. "Is there any chance I'm wrong?" "No. No chance. I had a bad feeling the second I saw your smile, and then it just..." I pressed my palm flat against my chest. My heart hammered against it. "It's a good smile. That's the problem. It's too good to forget." For a long moment he said nothing. The rain hit the glass. A pipe knocked somewhere upstairs. I heard my own breath, ragged and loud. Then he said it, low and steady, the way you'd ask for the time. "Who else have you told?" Not what are you talking about. Not you've got the wrong man. He didn't deny it. My knees went soft. I locked them. "Nobody," I whispered. "I swear. Nobody. Not a soul." His gray eyes held mine, and I watched something close behind them like a door. "Good," Rook said. "Then you're the only one who knows I'm alive."