1
Juliette
My life is in pieces.
For so long, I’ve worked hard to get into a good college, graduate with honors, and land my dream job reporting at a big city newspaper. And for a moment, I had it. All my hard work was really starting to pay off, but after the pandemic and the increasing decline in sales for print media— I was let go. It’s always the last ones in the door that are the first ones out when the higher-ups start looking to scale back on staff.
I should be thriving and living my best life, but instead, I have no job, no apartment, and no prospects of finding a way to get myself back on my feet. The only thing going for me is that my older brother offered me his spare room to crash in for a few weeks until I could get my life back on track, but that was a few months ago. And I think that I’m’ starting to overstay my welcome.
“Juliette!” Ben yells my name from down the hall.
I peek one eye open from the warmth of my bed just as the bedroom door opens wide. The sunlight that I’ve carefully blocked out with room-darkening curtains floods in and blinds me. I pull up my blankets to cover my face, but it’s too late. Last night’s bottle of wine that I consumed by myself during a particularly pathetic solo pity party rears its ugly head in the form of a wicked hangover.
“Go away,” I say, but my mouth is so dry that it comes out more like a croak.
“What are you still doing in bed?” Ben asks, tugging at the comforter so he can see me. “It’s nearly eleven o’clock.”
“So?” I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“So, you promised me today that you would get up and help me set up for tonight’s pre-Valentine’s Day speed dating event.” Ben walks over to the window and pulls the curtains wide open.
If I thought it was bright in here before, I’m now positive that we are currently on the surface of the sun.
I pull my comforter back over my head. “The event isn’t until tonight. What’s the big deal?”
Ben yanks the comforter off me and tosses it on the floor. “When I said that you could stay, you promised that you would help out downstairs in the bar.”
“I’m a reporter, Ben, not a bar wench.”
“Right now, Juliette, you’re neither.”
His words sting more than I’m willing to admit, but I don’t tell him that. He’s not wrong in what he’s saying to me. I’m not a reporter anymore, and I haven’t been pulling my share of the weight down at the bar as I promised him when I moved in.
“I’m sorry,” Ben says, as he rubs his hands over his face with frustration. “I’m just stressed out about making this week of events leading up to Valentine’s Day a success.”
I sit up in bed and really look at my brother. He’s only a few years older than me, but the flecks of gray hairs at his temples make our age difference appear that much more.
Since taking over the bar that’s been in our family for nearly five generations, the stress has really started to wear on him. Ben is so worried about letting down the legacy that our parents kept going all our lives that he is willing to work himself into an early grave to keep it going. It doesn’t help that a new bar moved in just across the road and is drawing some of the business away. I’ve tried to tell him that it’s just because the place is new, and once the shine wears off, the customers will start coming back. Capilano’s is an institution, and the people of this city won’t turn their backs on us. An idea sparks in my mind about writing up a human-interest piece about the bar and its history for the Medford City Mirror. Freelance writing is about all I can hope for at the moment, and even that isn’t enough to pay all my bills.
“I’m sorry too,” I tell Ben. “I know how much you’ve been working on getting the word out for the events this week.”
He doesn’t answer me. My brother’s attention is laser-focused on something outside my window. I push off the bed and walk over to see what he’s seeing.
A delivery truck has just pulled up in front of Monaghan’s. The driver hops out and opens the back doors. A shit ton of pink, white, and red balloons bounce in the wind on strings, wishing to fly away to freedom. The door to the bar opens, and a guy walks out holding a sign that says, “Valentine’s Mixer Tonight.”
“Are you kidding me?” Ben growls. “That thief stole my idea.”
“I thought the event you set up was speed dating.”
“Don’t start with me right now, Juliette.” He holds up his hand to stop me from saying anything else. “I’m going to need more decorations.”
Ben turns around and grabs my laptop from off my nightstand where I left it last before passing out in my merlot coma.
“Forget setting up downstairs,” he says, handing me my laptop. “I need you to find me balloons and other decorations to make his place look like decorations for a five-year-old’s birthday party.”
“You know, with Pinterest. A kids’ party decorations today aren’t what we grew up with,” I joke, trying to lighten his mood.
“Does it look like I’m amused?”