Chapter Text
The crunch of tires against crumbling asphalt is a rare sound in a single stoplight town like King’s Ditch. Rarer still is the way it echoes down Main Street not long after sunrise on a quiet Sunday morning, early enough that most folks in town are still rising and readying for their weekly sermon. But Billy Stebbins has never been most folks, has he? No, he’s up and moving about each morning long before the warm fingers of dawn even begin to crest the peaks of the mountain range to hoist the day upon the horizon; by the time he’s packed up his truck to head into town, the cow has already been milked, the chickens and goats all fed, his garden watered. The sunbleached trousers he put on that morning for church service—his Sunday best, though you’d never guess as much to look at the garments—are already soil-stained at the knees and the canvas button up he’s got tucked and belted into them ain’t faring a whole lot better. Stebbins never took a whole lot of stock in the idea of church clothes anyhow, not when the good book they gather to study is constantly preaching humility. Don’t make sense.
Stebbins is stood outside of Parker’s hardware store when the moving truck pulls up against the curb across the street, a paper bag in one hand as the other absently brushes bits of gravel and dew-soaked grass from damp khakis like it might make a difference. It doesn’t. He straightens up almost immediately at the sound, a sharp cornflower gaze narrowing on the unexpected arrival. A brief glance is spared over his shoulder and back through the window of the shop where Collie still lingers behind the counter—his place doesn’t open for another few hours still, but he’ll unlock his doors early on the weekend sometimes if Stebbins has something worthwhile to trade for the favor—as if to wordlessly ask, are you seeing this too?
The shopkeeper’s head falls into an almost imperceptible tilt, so subtle it doesn’t even jostle the braid over his shoulder, and keeps his own gaze locked on the truck as if waiting for the answer to a question that has suddenly captured them both.
Did somebody buy the old bar?
The building’s been empty for years. Stebbins still remembers when the old place went under—the previous owners filed for bankruptcy something like seven or eight years back and it only took a couple of weeks from there for the bank to come shut them down and liquidate their assets. The town swarmed to the remains like carrion to a struck doe rotting on the streetside, cannibalizing the carcass for anything from pitchers to pipes to whole steel sink basins. It was worse when they started auctioning off the apartment, too. Whatever they could salvage. His mama’s still got chairs sitting around her dining table that she bought at the auction for pennies on the dollar when the place closed up, same ones that used to be crowded around the low tops every night. Good chairs, too. Nothing she ever would have been able to afford otherwise. Billy was sixteen when he helped her load ‘em all up into the bed of their truck and haul them home. Sixteen, he was, and that bartop has been collecting dust ever since. He wasn’t sure it would ever quit being more than just a tomb for memory if he’s being honest, still hollowed out like a specter built of brick and mortar even long after he’s returned to the soil himself. Takes a fool to try and lay down roots in a dying mountain town, after all.
Maybe, Stebbins thinks. Maybe these men are fools.
It’s hard to tell from just looking at them from across the way, but Stebbins watches anyway to see if he can work it out. His shoulder finds a support beam beneath the overhang above like he’s settling in—he is—and he tracks the movement inside the cab of the truck. The chime of a bell somewhere overhead tells him Parker’s come to join him. Wordlessly, Stebbins fishes in the breast pocket of his shirt for a half-crushed softpack of smokes and holds it out in an offer he doesn’t even glance toward. The truck door suddenly swings open. It isn’t a face that greets him first, nor is it a silhouette. No, it’s a deep, rumbling peal of laughter that spills out of the cab like thunder rolling down from the hills and floods the streets like stormwater. It’s a warm sound on an already balmy morning. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stebbins thinks it might remind him of the way sunlight sometimes peeks through dark clouds in thin golden columns high up on the mountain when it storms. He doesn’t linger on that thought for long, though, and not only because he knows better than to start thinking about anything in poetry.
No, it’s because the owner of that rich laughter swings out of the truck and hops down into the street.
Stebbins can hear the smack of his boots against the asphalt all the way from where he stands. Behind him, Parker makes a noise in the back of his throat like he’s sizing this newcomer up. He should be. Stebbins is doing the same thing. Unabashedly so, at that—the stranger hasn’t noticed either of them yet, but he makes no effort to hide the way he sizes him up. Why should he? To say that they didn’t get a whole lot of new folks in town is an understatement. It does them good to be wary of new blood, especially when it shows up so swift and so sudden. He wonders if anybody else caught wind of the property being sold or if the news will come just as much a shock to the rest of them when they finally start trickling into town this morning. This man is smiling, half-draped against the open door of the cab and saying something in a slow, lilting drawl to whoever sits behind the wheel. Stebbins can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but it sounds almost teasing—if teasing could be slow and sweet as honey off a spoon. He’s not sure he’s ever heard it offered in such a way.
Keys rattle and the door around the other side of the truck swings open and slams shut and Stebbins is still openly staring as another man comes into view brandishing a bucket hat and a tired smile. Did they drive through the night to get here? It’s none of Stebbins’ business, but it seems foolish. Everything about them seems foolish. When did he become so standoffish? “Business partners?” Parker’s voice suddenly appears in his ear. Stebbins blinks, squints toward the two of them as they each come around to meet in front of the truck. And then, as he stares, the pair tangles together in what looks to be the easiest of embraces before sharing a kiss right there in the middle of the street, right in front of God and Collie and everybody. He blinks again, watches as foreheads bump together when they pull away just enough to breathe and more laughter is exchanged. The other man, his amusement sounds higher and softer as it weaves into the laugh he heard first. Thunder and birdsong in an intimate two-part harmony.
Stebbins suddenly averts his gaze for the first time since the truck pulled up. His fingers twitch around the pack of cigarettes before stuffing it back in his pocket. “Don’t think so,” he mutters as if that’s not abundantly clear to the both of them already. Parker only snorts. Stebbins draws in a deep inhale through his nose, the kind of breath that’s loud enough to wordlessly announce his departure before he takes it, and pushes himself up from the post. He won’t have the time to take these parts home and still get back to town in time for service, but surely he can find something better to do with his time than stand here with Collie Parker and gawk at two shamelessly affectionate strangers in the street.
( Even if that something better is sitting alone in his truck in the churchhouse parking lot, staring at nothing and trying not to think about the strange tight, fluttery feeling stuck up in his chest that won’t quit even now that he’s looked away. It’s fine—just allergies or something. He’ll drink some tea about it later. )
But Stebbins isn’t allowed his subtle exit, not even as he’s got a hand hooked around the keys in his pocket and his shoulders turned toward his truck. Across the street, the strangers have now broken apart and turned to face them. In his peripheral, he can see that Parker—the bastard—has given them a nod, a universal prompt to engage. It’s no surprise, then, when they start to approach. Stebbins scowls. Or maybe he was already scowling. The driver—the one with the hat and the flannel and the smile that says he hasn’t slept since yesterday—he’s already waving as Parker pitches his cigarette to the sidewalk and stamps it out beneath his shoe. Introductions are being offered before they even reach the curb and Stebbins wonders why his reflexes would choose this, of all mornings, to fail him. He should’ve moved faster to leave. His mama would scold him for being so nosy, say it serves him right—just before asking him what good gossip he got. He won’t be telling her about this after service this morning, she can find out on her own.
“Raymond Garraty,” says the driver, extending a hand. When Stebbins stares at it but does not take it, Parker steps up to be polite. At least, Stebbins guesses it’s to be polite. He keeps his hands in his pockets. “But you can call me Ray. Pete and I—”
Beside him, the first man to get out of the truck interjects with his own hand lifted in greeting. “Peter McVries,” he offers. “You can call me McVries.”
“—we just bought the building across the street. The bar? We’re moving in above it, but we, uh, we plan to renovate the whole thing and, well, hopefully reopen by fall.” There’s something so earnest about the way Ray simply offers up all of this information unprompted that almost has the corners of Stebbins’ lips twitching upward. Almost. “Drove all the way down here from Freeport this weekend—Maine, I don’t know if you guys have another one that’s closer. Probably a common city name.” As he talks, Stebbins’ gaze flickers downward. McVries has a hand on Ray’s hip, thumb hooked in the belt loop of his jeans, and the rest of his fingers tap a silent rhythm out against a denim-clad thigh. For a moment, Stebbins thinks his heart stutters in time with it. That’s harder to explain away as allergies. Shit. Parker starts to offer an introduction from somewhere beside him, but Stebbins does what he should have done several minutes ago. He leaves.
Abruptly and without preamble.
Later, Stebbins will learn that this was more of a mistake than simply staying and introducing himself. To his credit, if he would have known that Parker would take the liberty of doing so for him anyway, he might have stuck around long enough to verify any information offered about him. ( No, he wouldn’t, but nothing is stopping him from grumbling that just maybe— ) Not only does he give them his name but his occupation—and, with it, a recommendation that they should just give him a call if they need a hand with any of the renovations they plan on doing to the old bar—and good lord, does Stebbins want to be angry with Parker for it. The problem is, it wasn’t but twenty minutes before he said so that Stebbins was standing in front of his counter bitching about the cost of animal feed and what stunts he’s gonna have to pull this winter. He needs the work more than he’d care to admit. He needs the money more than anything.
Goddamn Collie Parker. It takes three days for Stebbins to find out what he’s done. Three days of tending to his land and to his animals and drinking enough lavender tea to calm a whole damn herd of horses—but not enough, apparently, to calm his stupid pulse every time his mind gets to wandering—and trying to act like nothing’s changed. Because it hasn’t. Those boys are in over their heads—that bar’s falling apart worse than the town it calls home, and Stebbins would venture a guess that, come winter, they’ll be packing that truck right back up and heading home out to Freeport. That bar isn’t opening back up. This mountain eats people. It eats their dreams. Stebbins might know that better than anyone, maybe, not that he’d ever say so.
It’s near six o’clock that Wednesday when Stebbins’ phone rings. The sound is shrill enough that it startles Dory from her perch on the kitchen windowsill, and the way she scrambles down in a flurry of claws on oak is enough to tug a smile to his lips even as he pushes his chair away from the dining table. Who would be calling him at this hour? Who would be calling him at all? The only reason he even had the line installed was so his mama wouldn’t fret so much. He crosses the small cabin in a few short steps and picks up the phone, crouching down once he does to try and coax his cat out from beneath the table with a few firm taps of his free hand against the hardwood—a steady rhythm she’ll be able to feel through the floorboards.
“Hello?”
The line crackles with static for approximately half a second before a now-familiar voice cuts through the receiver. Stebbins stiffens.
“Hey—Billy Stebbins? This is Ray, Ray Garraty. We met briefly down at the hardware store—you left pretty quick, Collie said something about church—anyway, he gave us your number, said you were something of a carpenter.” Goddamn Collie Parker. Stebbins takes half a second to collect his thoughts. He could use a little longer, but he’s half-certain that if he tried to take it, Ray might start talking again. Instead, he lifts his hand to pinch the spot on the bridge of his nose just between his eyes and takes a breath.
“It’s not good manners to call during supper time.” It’s not an answer, not really. Stebbins still hasn’t decided if he wants to give him one or not. And then, before he can stop his traitorous mouth, “Why? You need something?” He sinks down further until his ass hits hardwood and folds his legs beneath him on the floor, still trying to coax Dory out from her hiding spot. Why’d he ask that? It’s not his business if they need something. It’s not his problem, either. He waits for an answer anyway.
“Yeah, actually,” Ray says, and there’s a certain lilt to his tone that almost makes him sound surprised. Stebbins wonders if it’s because he didn’t expect to find himself in over his head with the bar so soon or because Stebbins actually offered to help. He didn’t offer to help, he asked a question. “Listen, Pete and I, we’re kind of like fish out of water here. We’ve never owned a bar before and we definitely don’t know how to fix one. Pete keeps talking about getting it up to code, but I’ll be honest, I don’t even know what kind of code he’s talking about.” Somewhere in the background, Stebbins can hear the staticky bark of a laugh.
“Structural codes. Fire codes. Health codes.” Stebbins cites them as if he were reading from a written list. “Right now I doubt you’d meet any of them.”
“Right. That’s why we called you. Collie said you’re the best for the job—kind of a jack of all trades.”
“Did he now?” As much as he tries to keep it in, his eyeroll is audible in the remark. And then he reminds himself that he shouldn’t be complaining about work. The days are long now, but they won’t be forever and as it stands, Stebbins is looking at a hard winter ahead. It isn’t anything he isn’t used to by now, but that familiarity means he knows exactly how stupid it is to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if that gift horse shows up on his doorstep in a rented moving truck with a soft voice and a stupid smile. A few feet away, Dory begins to creep out from beneath the table and Stebbins clicks his tongue to call her closer before he realizes that Ray can still hear him on the other end of the line. He clears his throat and continues. “I charge six dollars an hour—that includes consultation. You’re paying for my time, not just my work.”
“Okay—”
But Stebbins isn’t done. “You can fix things the cheap way or the right way. I’ll tell you how to do both and let you decide, but I think you’ll know what the right choice is. You can’t take out the original counters. They were put in there when that bar was being built, and there’s not a person in town who’ll come get a drink from you if you change them.” Dory climbs into his lap with a soft chirrup and he balances the phone between his ear and his shoulder to pet her with both hands while he speaks. “If you change the name, it better be to something good or folks are gonna rag you so hard for it, they’ll drive you out of town for that alone.”
“I feel like I should be taking notes,” Ray chuckles. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Yeah,” Stebbins says. “I don’t work on Sundays.”
Ray must deem that a fair enough stipulation because come that very Friday, Stebbins’ truck is pulling up outside of the bar at ten o’ clock in the morning. He’s got a tool belt secured around his hips as he approaches the door. He doesn’t plan on doing much work today, though. He’s only here to look. Make a plan, maybe, if they decide they want to hire him on. If he decides he wants to be hired on. Stebbins doesn’t have the time to debate whether or not he’s supposed to knock on the door before it’s being pushed open. It’s McVries that lets him in, greeting him with a nod and a grin warm enough to feel like an embrace from an old friend even if it’s only accompanied by a companionable slap on the shoulder that makes Stebbins startle slightly on his way through the threshold.
“You must be Billy—”
“Stebbins,” he interjects. McVries only smiles like they’re sharing a secret that Stebbins isn’t entirely sure he’s in on himself.
“Right. Stebbins,” McVries finishes. “Okay.” He nods for Stebbins to enter before pulling the door shut behind them both. Stebbins can hear the wood scrape the asphalt as the door’s tugged shut. They’ve had a rainy few years. It’s been great for the harvest but awful for the infrastructure.
“Door’s warped,” Stebbins says as he walks inside. “You’ll need to sand it down or get a new one.”
“Straight to work,” Pete observes, and there’s that laugh again—softer now, but just as warm as the first time Stebbins heard it. He averts his gaze to the ceiling in an attempt to hide the heat he can feel creeping toward his collar. Why is he embarrassed? Of course he’s getting straight to work. That’s what he’s here for. “Start making a list. We got roughly twenty-five thousand to use, give or take, and that includes what we got to pay you. Be real nice if we didn’t have to use it all, but I’m not lookin’ to cut corners. We’re trying to build something nice here, Stebbins. Something real.”
There’s a solid weight to the words that Stebbins can feel even from across the room; they hang in the air alongside dust motes that swirl in broken columns of sunlight when Stebbins turns to face him. It’s unexpected, the confession. Nobody’s ever come here looking to make something nice, not unless that nice is a couple of coins in their pocket. But McVries sounds sincere. And Stebbins? Well, Stebbins doesn’t often trust strangers who come waltzing into town without so much as a single word of warning. “Why’d you pick this place, huh?” He asks the question before he even realizes what he’s doing. If it comes out a little sharper than intended, he’ll blame it on the fact that he doesn’t talk to folks too often. He tries to reel it in when he continues, “Why this bar? Why here?”
Pete only grins that easy grin of his as he shoots back, “Why not? I ain’t ever lived ‘round the mountains before.”
Stebbins gets back to work before his mouth has the opportunity to betray him any further.
It turns out the bar is in better shape than it appears—what it needs more than anything is a good, on your hands and knees with a scrub brush and a bucket of hot water deep cleaning—but there’s enough work to be done that Stebbins could find a decent job here for a month or two if he wants it. The plumbing and the wiring are in decent enough condition but they could use an update, and Stebbins could build bench seats and tables better than anything they’ll find in their budget, which in turn will save them more money to put toward replacing the appliances that were all scavenged in the auction. The bones of the place, though, they’re still good. He tells all of this to Ray and McVries over a beer at the counter he’d always been too young to sit at before the place closed the first time. It feels strange to be sitting here now, but he swallows down the feeling around a swig from his bottle.
He slides a sheet of paper across the bartop. It’s a list of supplies and materials Stebbins suspects he’ll need, an estimate of not only their costs but the cost of his labor as well. the hours he thinks he’ll need to get it all done. He doesn’t draw up any sort of contract. Stebbins believes a man should be good on his word and a handshake. This is only a courtesy so that they might know what to expect if they choose to hire him. When they excuse themselves to discuss in private for a moment before agreeing to anything and leave him sitting alone at the bar, Stebbins thinks they must be trying to figure out a way to tell him they’re not interested. That they appreciate his knowledge and his information—and they might even still use it—but they don’t need him. He should be happy, shouldn’t he? He’s still getting paid for the time he was here, and he’s spent the past two days cursing Collie Parker and telling himself he doesn’t want this job anyway. But it’s going to be a hard winter. He’s already running low on feed for the goats, and he still hasn’t recovered from losing six chickens to sickness back in the spring.
Stebbins is already mapping out in his head what sort of odd jobs he can pick up over the next couple of months to supplement his savings—it ain’t just himself he’s supporting either or maybe he wouldn’t be so worried, but he doesn’t intend to let his mama struggle if he can help it—when Ray and McVries return from the back room behind the bar. They’re all tangled up in each other again, Stebbins notices. Ray has an arm slung around McVries’ shoulder and McVries has his own wrapped around Ray’s waist and his fingers are doing that drumming thing again and this time, Stebbins doesn’t realize he’s staring until Ray clears his throat. His gaze darts upward, and as it does, it finds a smile that stretches all the way from Ray’s lips to the faint creases in the corners of his eyes. It’s a detail Stebbins didn’t need to notice. Fortunately, Ray starts speaking and he has somewhere to redirect his attention.
“If you’re interested, yeah, we’d love to hire you. Think we’d be foolish not to, honestly.” Stebbins huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh by his standards, barely audible. Foolish. He doesn’t miss the irony of the word choice. Maybe he was wrong about them. This time, when Ray holds out his hand, Stebbins takes it. It’s softer than his own—don’t think about that—but his palm is warm and his handshake is firm and, when Stebbins walks out of the bar that afternoon, he’s got a job. He’s also got that damn fluttering in his chest again and he suspects that no amount of tea will be enough to drown it into submission.
He calls his mama that night, not long after he’s finished a simple supper and put the clean dishes out on the counter to dry, because he can’t wait until Sunday morning to share the good news with her. He doesn’t think she realizes it’s not the compliment she means it to be when she tells him her father would be proud. She talks about it like he’s not alive somewhere, more than capable of saying so himself if he actually wants to. Stebbins doesn’t tell her this. He knows her heart’s in the right place, even if he wishes she’d never say shit like that. Instead, he lets her ask all the questions her gossip heart desires about the two young men who bought that bar and tries not to stammer over any of his answers. He ends the call after about an hour of this with the promise that he loves her and yes, he’s eating enough and he’ll see her on Sunday. He’s supposed to be happy, he thinks as he lays down in bed that night with Dory curled against his chest. The truth is, he isn’t entirely sure how he feels—about anything anymore, actually.
And Christ, isn’t that just like him?
Stebbins shows up to church on Sunday and, on Monday, he shows up to the bar. This time, it’s not tools he’s brought with him, but cleaning supplies. Ray and McVries work alongside him, probably to save a couple of dollars where they can. But they work hard, scrubbing countertops and walls and floorboards until their hands are red and raw. They work in silence for the first few days, too. Well, Stebbins does. But Ray and McVries fill that silence with their own comfortable conversation—everything from playful banter to serious ruminations over the future of the bar. They haven’t given it a new name yet. To Stebbins’ understanding, they want to. If they’ve decided on one, they haven’t told him yet. So for now, it’s just the bar. And, slowly but surely, the bar begins to take shape. It turns out there’s something decent hidden beneath layers of dirt and grime, and Ray and McVries discover it together over laughter that sounds like everything Stebbins has ever loved about nature—about home.
That’s a disconcerting thought, however. Stebbins tries to force it away by scrubbing at the baseboards with enough vigor that he doesn’t even notice the boots approaching his field of vision at all. At least, not until there’s someone kneeling down next to him and a hand covering his own, instantly halting the motion. Still warm, but rougher. More callused. More like his own hands. When Stebbins looks up, McVries just chuckles and shakes his head. “It ain’t a race, Stebbins.” The way that accent curls around his name, thick and sweet as molasses, it has Stebbins’ hand twitching against the brush it’s gripping tight. He ducks his head to hide the color in his cheeks. “Slow down before you give yourself a splinter. Aren’t we payin’ you by the hour?”
They are, in fact. When Stebbins begins to scrub again, his hands slow down. His heart rate, however, that’s an entirely different story.
The days pass easy after that, easier than they have for a while. Stebbins falls into a steady routine. He shows up at the bar each morning six days out of the week after he’s done choring out on his own property and sets to work for a solid eight hours before packing in and heading home. After the first week, Ray and McVries aren’t much help to him anymore. Anybody can take a toothbrush and some baking soda to the grout in bathroom tile, but there are certain things that are better left to trained hands. Plumbing and electrical work, in Stebbins’ professional opinion, are two of those things. And though Ray and McVries agree with that, they still opt to keep him company while he works more often than not. And it’s not just each other they talk to anymore, but Stebbins, too.
McVries tells him about meeting Ray when he’d only just meant to be passing through Freeport. He asks Stebbins if he believes in soulmates while he’s elbow-deep in the ceiling, and when Stebbins freezes stock still on the ladder, he only laughs that easy laugh of his and keeps on describing their meet-cute like he wasn’t really expecting an answer anyway. It’s a sweet story. Romantic, at least in the way McVries tells it. It’s the kind of story that twists Stebbins up in places he didn’t even realize could get knots until his smile looks like it hurts. It was love at first sight. McVries doesn’t ask if he believes in that, too, and Stebbins is grateful that he doesn’t have to stutter out an answer that he’s not entirely sure he knows. When Stebbins takes a few steps down from the ladder and asks McVries to flip the switch on the wall across the room, the light fixture over his head stutters twice before flickering to life. Stebbins smiles—actually smiles, not just the ghost of a smirk he’s prone to—and looks down at McVries. And when he does, McVries just laughs like Stebbins has told him the funniest joke. If he has, he doesn’t understand. His smile lingers for a few seconds before he turns his attention back to his job.
Ray catches him eating a jelly sandwich one day when he’s on a break and when Stebbins, in a strange and unexpected panic, suddenly blurts out that it’s a childhood favorite that his mama used to make him that he still hasn’t lost the taste for, Ray doesn’t laugh or judge him. Instead, he takes a seat on an upturned crate and tells him all about his own mom—Ginnie, her name is—and how, to this day, he’s never had a better cookie than her oatmeal chocolate chip. He has the recipe too, he tells Stebbins like they’re sharing some sort of special secret, and even though he can’t make them quite as good as his mom can, the next time he makes a batch he’ll be sure to save him a few to try. Oh, Stebbins thinks. Maybe it is special. This promise, simple as it is, hits him like a punch to the chest for reasons he can’t explain, completely knocking the wind out of him. For a moment, it’s all he can do to smile and nod like a fool. By the time he’s gathered himself, all he can think to offer is, “This recipe’s pretty simple. Two ingredients, unless you’ve got to make the bread yourself. Then it’s six.”
What he really means is that he’d very much like to try Mrs. Garraty’s oatmeal cookies. The way Ray grins at him, that stupid grin that reaches all the way to his eyes, Stebbins thinks that maybe he doesn’t actually have to say that part out loud. He’s glad. He doesn’t know how he would.
There’s a tupperware container with a dozen oatmeal chocolate chip cookies waiting for him on the bartop when he shows up to work the following Monday. Stebbins tries one that day on his lunch break after he’s finished his jelly sandwich, when he’s sitting alone at one of the recently finished bench seats lining the far wall. He’s three bites into his second one before he realizes he’s crying and he quickly lifts an arm to brush away tear tracks and crumbs from his cheeks before anyone else can walk in and find him in such a state. Stebbins stares down at the half-eaten cookie like it’s offended him personally before returning it to the tupperware with the realization that he’ll have to take the rest of them back to the cabin. And he certainly can’t pack any in his lunch. Stebbins leans back until his head hits the wall with a soft thud and sighs.
Summer is ending soon. This job is ending soon. Ray and McVries still don’t have a name for the bar picked out yet, but if Stebbins keeps working like he has, they’ll be on track to open their doors come fall just like they wanted. If he feels sick, Stebbins tells himself it’s just from all the sugar.
Maybe he should lay off the cookies.