9. Neavh

"You look nervous."

I shriek and jump about a foot in the air when a voice speaks from directly over my shoulder.

I whip my head around from where I've been staring out the bar's window and find a woman taking a step back while she chuckles at me.

"Sorry, kid," she says. "Couldn't resist."

I vaguely recognize her, but then again, I vaguely recognize a lot of people in River's Bend. The town's permanent population is less than a hundred, and there are plenty of seasonal workers who come back year after year.

"Lonnie, are you freaking my cousin out?"

David looks over from where he's been doing paperwork on one of the tables for the past couple hours. I'm working yet another mid-afternoon shift, and besides a group of old local dudes I served hot dogs to an hour ago, I haven't had any customers.

One of the basic boy alternative rock playlists I'm always giving David shit for is playing on the sound system. Every now and then, I can hear Connor singing along from where he's doing kitchen prep work in the back. I set down the roll of paper towels and bottle of Windex I'm holding. I was just about to start the grueling task of cleaning smudges and globs of who-knows-what off the windows.

"She did look nervous," the woman answers David before turning back to me. "You waiting for someone?"

I may or may not have been staring through the window so intently my nose was adding a smudge of its own to the glass. There was a brunette walking up the road who looked like Clover from the back, but a few seconds of creepy staring confirmed it wasn't her.

"Um, no," I answer.

The woman shrugs and then grins at me. "I'm Lonnie, by the way. I remember you."

Her name rings a bell. She looks like she's a few years older than David, somewhere in her mid-thirties. She's got jet black hair, dark eyes, and a smile that can only be described as mischievous. Her long earrings made of turquoise beads swish as she walks over to the bar.

"What's a girl got to do to get a drink around here?" she asks.

I'm about to run behind the bar to take her order when David gets up from his chair.

"I've got it," he says. "That paperwork is killing me. I could use a break."

It only takes three seconds for me to realize his eagerness has nothing to do with escaping the paperwork.

Lonnie rests her elbows on the bar as she chats with him, and he puts way more flourish than he needs to into pouring her beer and flipping a coaster down in front of her.

I pretend to be working on the windows, but I angle myself so I can sneak glances at them while I attack some ketchup splatters with Windex. David failed to mention having anyone else in the picture when he told me he was no longer involved in an epic romantic saga with Trish Rivers.

I draw out the window cleaning process long enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. David invites her over to his table so they can chat while he ‘works,' but he doesn't glance at his papers once the whole time she's finishing her drink. She's in here early enough to have me convinced the meet-up is no accident.

By the time she leaves—after David has literally walked her to the door—my smirk is so wide I don't even bother trying to hide it.

"Did you have a nice chat with Lonnie?" I drawl.

David rolls his eyes. "Shut up. She's just a friend."

I cross my arms. "Oh, don't even try that one. You are into that girl, mon cousin."

He gives my shoulder a flick as he passes me on the way back to his table.

"She's ten years older than me," he says as he sits down. "Pretty sure she thinks I'm as much of a kid as you are."

I hold up a finger. "Okay, one: I am not a kid. I'm twenty-two. Two: she is clearly into you."

He glowers at me. "She's a friend."

I walk over and start cleaning the table next to his even though the top is already spotless.

"Any reason you haven't mentioned your friend before now?"

He taps his pen against the edge of his laptop. "I wasn't aware I needed to keep you up to date on my social life."

I shrug. "I'm just making conversation, cousin. Tell me about her. She looked familiar."

He sighs but stretches his arms above his head and leans back in his chair instead of turning his laptop's screen back on. I try not to grin too hard at him basically admitting defeat already.

"I'm sure you met her a few times that summer. Everyone knows Lonnie. She manages the Indigenous Arts Center."

I pause my feigned cleaning attempt and rest the Windex on my hip.

"Oh right! I do remember her."

One of the few businesses in River's Bend besides the bar is an Indigenous-owned art gallery that features native artists from all over the country. Clover and I spent a couple rainy afternoons looking at the exhibits there.

"So when did you two start getting all flirty?"

David groans. "We are not flirty, Neavh."

I wave a piece of paper towel around like a white flag of surrender.

"Ben là.If that's the story you want to stick with…"

"Don't you have something else to go clean?" he demands.

I lean against the table and glance around the room. "Actually, no. Over the past week, I think I've cleaned literally everything in this bar that can get dirty."

He lets out a heavy sigh, and I know what's coming.

"I'll go punch out," I say, doing my best to hide the disappointment in my voice.

"I'm sorry, Neavh," he says. "I'd keep you on the clock if I could afford it, and you know I wish I could give you better shifts. The summer rush will hit by the end of the month, and then even the daytime shifts will be packed. I promise."

"It's okay," I say, plastering on a smile. "Really. I totally get it. I was the last person to get hired, and nepotism would not go down well with the staff."

I head for the back room and feed my time card into the machine. The bar is still analogue enough that we use actual physical cards. I glance over the shifts already marked on my card and wince. I haven't even made enough to catch a ferry, never mind a flight to whatever country I'm going to backpack next.

David might be right about the crowds picking up in a couple weeks, but I'm still going to be working the shittiest shifts. I'll need some miraculously generous tippers if I want to set myself up for a few months of travel.

I'm so caught up in mental calculations I forget to mask my distress when I walk back into the front room. David apologizes again when he sees the look on my face, and I do my best to act like it's no big deal. He's already doing so much for me, and the last thing I want is him feeling guilty.

"Seriously, it's fine. I totally get it," I say.

"I don't mind if you pick up a second job," he says. "If you find something good, we can schedule your work at the bar around it."

I nod and thank him, but we both know it's a futile offer. Any business in any of the towns around here will be facing the exact same situation: waiting for the tourists to show up. Everyone will have done their seasonal hiring already, just like David has.

"There are always locals who've got random odd jobs that need doing," he says. "Take a look at the message board if you want. Maybe you could find a few things to tide you over."

He gestures over at the ancient bulletin board near the front door. The cork is warped, and most of the pushpins are rusty, but there's always a never-ending parade of town announcements being tacked up on the wall. They range from professionally printed flyers for travelling productions coming to the River's Bend open air theatre this summer to handwritten notes on stained napkins asking if anyone has found a set of keys in the parking lot.

There are a few advertisements seeking professional services like tree removal or driveway paving. I scan through the pages, lifting the corners of some of the ones that overlap, but I don't find anything I'm qualified for.

"I'm pretty sure you need at least a chainsaw to be useful to any of the locals of River's Bend," I say.

"You could learn to use a chainsaw."

"Ha ha," I drawl.

David gets up from his chair and comes over to join me.

"I'm serious," he says as he looks through the announcements himself. "A lot of this stuff is easy enough to learn. I mean, I moved from downtown Vancouver, and I've survived out here, right? Like here, look at this."

He removes a pushpin and hands me a sheet of lined paper someone has written on in blue pen.

"Fence repair? Voyons. You think I can repair a fence?"

He rustles the page. "It says assistance with fence repair. You'd just be helping. Jake Bentley put this up. He comes in to play darts all the time. I'm sure he wouldn't mind teaching you if you're willing to learn."

I blink at him a few times before snatching the paper out of his hand and pinning it back on the board.

"I just don't know if I want to have one of the old darts dudes mansplain fence repair to me all summer long," I say, "but I'll keep him in mind if necessary."

David isn't deterred by my lack of enthusiasm. He keeps rifling through the advertisements for a few seconds before he unpins another one.

"This must be new," he says as he holds it out to me. "I haven't seen it before. It's just a one-off job, but I bet you could do it."

The ad description has been printed out in plain black letters with a phone number underneath.

"Someone needs help picking up a…yurt kit? What the hell is a yurt kit?"

David shrugs. "A kit that a yurt comes in? Someone must be building a yurt."

"What am I going to do?" I ask him. "Roll up in my Spongebob golf cart and load up their yurt?"

He gives in and laughs at that.

"Did you even read it?" he asks. "They just need help picking it up and unloading it. You don't need your own vehicle. It even says you don't need previous experience."

I raise my eyebrows. "Do people around here typically have previous yurt kit transportation experience?"

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Look, Neavh, I'm just trying to score you some extra dollars. You don't have to take my advice."

I let my sarcasm drop. "I know. Thank you. It's just that I think all these people are looking for some burly dude. Not saying I couldn't carry a bunch of heavy stuff around all day, but you seriously think someone transporting a yurt is going to want to hire me?"

He turns and pins the page back up.

"If they're at the point of advertising in the bar, that means they've already asked half the town and haven't found anyone. I think these people would take whatever help they can get."

I still don't believe I'm yurt mover material, but he does have a point. Plus, the state of my bank account isn't giving me room to be picky.

"Okay," I say as I pull my phone out. "I'll text the yurt guy and see what he says."