Read Online Closer Than They Appear by Jess Riley - Free Book Online

stained glass, hanging globe lights that had been resurrected from old churches, and twenty-seven beers on tap—where you could play pool, share a round of Irish Car Bombs with a stranger, and debut an expensive pair of sandals or dry clean only shirt you found via My Habit without feeling overdressed. The air was infused with the scents of popcorn and perfume and stale cigarette smoke and yeasty beer, but beneath all that, decades of stories and laughter and shameful hook-ups wafted from the woodwork. You could smell Prohibition, and bell bottom blues, and glitter and confetti and cheerful resolutions from New Year’s Eve, 1984.
    Natalie and Harper were waiting to order a drink in a throng of people pressed against the bar. Someone had ordered a complicated cocktail, which the bartender frantically mixed and poured and measured while the queue bottlenecked behind him. “You want to try one of the back bars?” Natalie shouted.
    “Yeah, I’m getting claustrophobic!”
    They wove their way through the mass of people, past the second bar next to the shuffleboard table to the cozy, well-lit bar near the back patio. It was a mild night, and the garage door was up to provide access to the patio. People milled about under the portable propane heat towers, smoking and telling animated stories and checking their phones. “I was starting to feel like the kid brother in A Christmas Story when he was all bundled up in the snowsuit,” Natalie said, breathing a sigh of relief when they snagged a vacant stool at the bar.
    “I can’t put my arms down!”
    “ You can put your arms down when you get to school! Want to sit?” Natalie gestured to the lone bar stool.
    “No, you sit,” Harper said.
    “Maybe we should go to The Algoma Club. Is there a band playing tonight?”
    “I’ll go if it’s the Dead Horses. Just sit, seriously. I need to stand because I sat all day.”
    “Here,” someone said from behind them, “Sit on this.” A second stool was shoved their way.
    They turned together to thank their mystery seat benefactor and Harper’s smile faded—it was He Who Shan’t Be Named, looking distressingly good. It felt as if someone had suddenly poured a bucket of seltzer and Pop Rocks in her chest. Natalie scowled. “Sit on this? Nice.”
    “Sorry, it was the first thing I could think of.”
    “You generally shouldn’t say the first thing you think of.”
    He paused for a moment, staring into the distance behind Harper’s shoulder. “Sorry, the second and third things I thought of sucked, too. Anyway, what are you guys up to tonight? Can I get you a drink?”
    “No, thanks,” Harper quickly said, “We weren’t going to stay long.”
    Natalie didn’t say anything, perhaps because she was too broke to decline a free drink, even one from her best friend’s sketchy ex-boyfriend.
    “Come on, at least stay for one drink. Let me get you something. They’ve got Hometown Blonde on tap, and Serendipity.”
    “Serendipity?”
    The bartender, who’d been waiting on their order, jumped in to help close the sale. “It’s a seasonal sour brown ale made from cranberries, apples, and cherries. It’s pretty fucking good. New Glarus wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
    “How’s the lemon berry shandy?” Harper asked, nodding at one of the tappers.
    The bartender made a face around the toothpick he’d been chewing. “Not one of my favorites. Too watery. I wouldn’t even call it a beer, really. It’s more like a shitty Zima.”
    Natalie caught Harper’s eye and shrugged. “It’s up to you. I know you’re not going to do anything stupid.”
    The bartender began to fill a pint glass, angled at the tap, with frothy, brown Guinness for another customer. “Or I could make you a Peanut Butter Cup.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Half chocolate stout, half peanut butter porter.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sniffed. People were piling up at the end of the bar, waving ten dollar bills and shooting them