The Bucket List

2.1 The Dive

The lukewarm coffee is doing very little to wake me up, but I sip it anyway, absently humming along to a shitty cover of some eighties rock anthem. Not my preference, but it's the only station the speaker will pick up.

On top of that speaker, Nicholai's manilla envelope stares at me in an accusatory sort of way. I ignore it.

"Amara." My manager—and best friend since the third grade—gives me a hard look from the other side of the bar. "You know this is a terrible idea."

He's talking about the envelope. Or more accurately, what's inside that envelope. As if this is the source of all my problems.

"Don't sound so surprised." I grab another wad of bills from the busted register down at well three. We need to replace it, but I have a soft spot for the old piece of shit and TJ doesn't have the money for new equipment, anyway. "I make bad decisions all the time. We're right on schedule for this year's disaster."

"Amara," he repeats, exasperated. "You know my dad would help out with the car—"

I wave a hand, cutting his pep talk short. "I don't think so, Tyler Jackson Junior."

"We're using full names today?" Gabby calls from the restroom. She's the reason this place reeks of cleaning supplies. "Amara Marie—"

"Would you both shut the fuck up?" I snap, losing my place in the count. I sigh and throw the wad of bills on the counter. "You know I suck at math."

TJ wanders over and picks up the cash, rifling through it with a practiced hand. "We're just trying to watch out for you, Mara."

I lean against the open mouth of the register and try not to sulk. "I know. And that's what sucks. You've been watching out for me. For years. Literal years, TJ." I step out of the way as he carefully places the cash back in the register. "I have a job and a place to live because of your family. Which is really starting to make the relationship feel a bit one-sided, by the way."

He shakes his head, but we both know it's true. This job isn't much. But it's a job. And in this economy, that's all anyone can ask for.

I dump the remaining coffee down the sink and check the clock above the front door. We open in less than forty minutes. Shit.

"I'm not in the mood for the drunk assholes," I say. Anything to change the subject. I don't like feeling sorry for myself. It's just hard not to sometimes, especially when everything that can go wrong, does.

"The drunk assholes pay your rent," TJ reminds me with a grin, striding gracefully across the bar. He could easily be a runway model. He has the height. And the jawline. Not that he'll ever get the balls to actually attend one of the many casting calls he's been invited to over the last year. Jackass.

The Dive's too important, he always says by way of explanation. And maybe that's true, to an extent. Pete's Seaside Dive isn't much bigger than a McDonald's—a very dirty, very outdated McDonald's. But it's been our home for years now. First as teenagers, sneaking in with the world's shittiest fake IDs. And then as undergraduates, returning night, after night...after night. And now TJ has the keys to the place.

I grab a spare rag and toss it over my shoulder. "Hey, Gabby—"

The front door opens with an abhorrent squeal. I whirl around, the words we're closed, asshole kissing my lips.

"Hey, Mara," Matthew greets me, that perpetual grin of his like a laser beam.

Too bright. Too cheerful. Blech.

"Hey," I say dully, losing interest almost immediately. I raise my voice. "Gabby!"

"What," she calls from the restroom. The sound of a mop clattering against the floor makes me snicker. "Why are you always shouting—"

She pops out of the bathroom and immediately freezes at the sight of our visitor. It's uncanny, how alike she and her brother are. With her short brown curls and aquiline nose, she's the mirror image of her twin.

A beat of awkward silence passes before she remembers, too late, to plaster a smile into place. "Matty," she says weakly.

"Hey, baby." Matthew sweeps her up in an embrace. After a moment's hesitation, she returns his enthusiasm.

Curious, I brace my forearms against the bartop. "TJ?"

He shuts the drawer at well two and twists around, eyebrows raised. "My queen beckons?"

"Gabrielle," I whisper. "What's up with her and Matty-Boo?"

"Never," he raises a tattooed hand, "use that forsaken name again."

I rip the rag from my shoulder and fling it at his face.

"Alright, alright!" He catches it with ease and leans forward, until our faces are only inches apart. I can smell the cigarettes on his breath. The lying bastard promised to quit. "I think they're on the rocks."

"You think? I need better intel than that."

He just shrugs. "That's all I got. I mean, you know how they are. Matty is..."

Words fail him. We both watch as the two lovebirds cozy up in the far corner. Gabby's earlier reluctance has evaporated. She runs a finger down his chest, batting her big doe eyes.

TJ and I share a look. "Gross," we say at the same time.

But then he blows out a long breath. "They seem happy enough to me."

"I guess."

"Seriously, Mara." He offers me a silver strainer. I accept, refusing to meet his gaze. "Stop trying to change the subject. We're here for you. If you change your mind, if you don't want to go through with this..."

This reckless plan? This idiotic bid to worm my way out of debt?

"I know," I say softly, bracing my forehead against his chest. The twins have always been tall, with their modelesque physiques and easy grace. Some people have all the luck. "Thanks, TJ."

"Brat." He says it with a playful smile.

"Bastard," I fire back.

We both grin, and when the door opens a second time, he gives me a look that says show time before backpedaling to his station. I do the same, and watch, bemused, as Gabby takes up her post nearest the front door, Matthew following her like the loyal golden retriever he is.

"Smile," TJ says under his breath.

I do as he says for the newcomers: three men dressed in casual gym wear, complaining loudly of work and women. Matthew's presence steers them further into the bar, their eyes roving across the eclectic decor. While they're distracted, TJ turns to me and mouths, I call dibs on the big one.

My eyes narrow. Of course he wants the big one, with the tattoos and the black shirt with DADDY printed across the chest. TJ definitely has a type. And unfortunately, so do I.

I'll flip you for it, I mouth back.

He considers my offer, but then they're pulling up a row of stools in front of his station, making themselves at home, and TJ is doing what TJ does best. He braces his ink-covered forearms against the bartop, inserting himself into their conversation with an ease I've always envied.

Well, fuck.

TJ, one. Amara...zero.