Look at You

Chapter 3

3

Baker isn't actually the worst, for a random suburb in South Central Ohio. We have a pretty nice Main Street that runs for about a half mile. It has a handful of restaurants, sandwich shops, salons, and boutiques. There are even a few apartment buildings, rumor has it. The bar game, however, is a complete monopoly and O'Malley's has it.

It's not that there aren't other bars in Baker, there are. But you walk into O'Malley's, and you just instantly feel something, and everyone feels something different. Personally, I enter O'Malley's and suddenly feel like the main character of my own tv show.

There's nothing special about the place, aesthetically speaking. It's your classic Irish sports bar, with pendants and jerseys and trophies lining the walls and the ceiling above the bar. Beer mugs hang down above the bartenders like pots in a kitchen, just like any other local spot with a mug club. But the staff looks like they were just pulled from a casting call for the role of Small Town Tender, and the beer somehow tastes better here than anywhere else. You ask anyone in this town, they'll tell you something different about the place. But they'll tell you - it has that something.

I walk in and can't help but smile. It's a Monday but the place is still buzzing with the regulars standing at the bar, shooting pool in the far corner, and throwing darts by the back door. It's nowhere near as packed as I've seen it, so it's easy to spot Jackson sitting in a booth catacorner from the bar. He waves me down, giving me his goofy gap-toothed smile. The kid's a golden retriever trapped in the body of a frat boy.

He gets up from the booth to give me a very classic bro hug. He slaps my back hard enough for me to feel it in my chest, then sits back down and slides me over a beer. He has taken the liberty of ordering us a pitcher of something cold, and probably domestic, and for that I thank him.

"Dude," he lifts his frosted glass to mine. "How are things? Tell me what's new!"

Yes, Jackson likes to be a leader, he's the very definition of the guy she tells you not to worry about, and you'll only find him wherever the latest girl he's chasing is. But underneath that, he's a Pillsbury dough boy of a man who genuinely just wants the best for everyone. So, I know this comment isn't a dig to make me feel shit about still living at home. It's genuine interest.

"Started at TechNet today actually. I'm an engineer."

Jackson also loves exaggerated facial expressions. His jaw drops. "No shit! Is it remote?"

"No actually," I swig down a sip of the beer – Bud Light. "It's here. They just opened an office in Baker, off in the professional district, you know? By Ted's dad's office."

"No way! That's sick!" I nod. "And engineering? Ever since Freshman year I knew you'd be working for Google or Instagram or some shit. Running illegal coding classes during lunch period. An icon."

I laugh at the memory. We weren't allowed computers or phones during our lunch period (dumb private school rules), so I had to get sneaky with my entrepreneurial efforts. "Yeah, well, you know Lichman. He'd discipline me in front of the teachers, but he'd call me in after class and get me to give him lessons instead of giving me detention."

The principal, Lichman, even wrote one of my college recommendation letters.

Jackson shakes his head at me, smiling. "Damn. You never got in trouble. Everyone loved your dad and just gave you a freakin' hall pass for everything."

"Okay not true!" I hold up a hand as Jackson raises his eyebrows. "Yes, Jay is a beloved Highland Academy professor, but if anything, he was the one throwing me under the bus. Remember that time in calc when he dress coded me? For the color of my tie? He had fucking seen me get ready that morning!"

Jackson and I continue shooting the shit, tossing back the Bud Light, and trading stories of what we're doing lately. He's working in New York – Goldman Sachs. It's a new job he says. And if TechNet doesn't work out, they always need engineers.

"I don't know, man. Not really for me."

He tilts his head (again, dramatically). "You mean making money isn't for you?" This isn't the first time he's mentioned his six-figure salary. I don't know if he thinks it's because this is my first corporate job, or if he thinks just because I live in Baker, I don't make a thing. I refrain from telling him I've made over six figures for the past three years, and I hadn't even had a "real" job.

"I do fine, Jackson. Trust me."

It is this moment of indignation when I let my eyes drift away from him and toward the bar for the first time all evening. A familiar Red Sox hat steals my attention.

He's sitting at the bar, his right hand gripping a cold glass of tap water. He's leaning over toward the bartender, engaged in what looks like a fairly serious conversation. The bartender is leaning back toward him, two hands gripping the bar like he needs it for stability.

He looks more put together today. Jeans and a gray sweatshirt. It has something written on it in the corner, but I'm too far away to see what it says. Jackson is talking to me, telling a story maybe, but all I can focus on is him, getting up now. He says goodbye to the bartender, taps the counter in front of him softly then turns and heads toward the door.

He walks past me in what feels like slow motion. Jackson's voice fades.

He cracks his neck, one side to the next, and rolls his shoulders back. He walks confidently, his lips set in a hard line. He looks like could own this place. The logo in the corner of his sweatshirt is for a body shop. Mango's.

I know the exact moment he feels my eyes on him. Before, he could only see the door. Straight ahead, like his whole night depended on it. But then he feels my stare. His eyes slide toward me. He doesn't stop walking, and I don't stop staring. He holds my gaze, not a single emotion crossing his face this time. But he watches me just as long as I do him. He watches me until he can't anymore.

As soon as he's out of my field of vision I dig my fingers into my thigh to keep myself from turning around. The door slams shut, and I suddenly realize I've been holding my breath.

Time resumes, and Jackson's voice swarms back into my ears. "Simon?"

"Huh?"

"I said, that guy looked familiar, right?"

"Oh," I clear my throat, draining the rest of the beer in my glass. I shake my head. "No. Not really."