“Sir, for the last time we don’t serve alcohol at this bar.”
“What kind of fucking bar doesn’t serve alcohol?”
“One that’s run by seventeen-year-olds. Now, watch your language and go away.” Charlie sighed and turned away from the older man. Seven customers had visited the bar all day. Two of them ordered something. The rest had more or less the same reaction as whoever this guy was.
“So what do you serve here?” the man asked.
“Juice, milk, water, anything soft, and a couple of snacks.” Charlie shrugged. “That’s it. Now, do you want something or are you just here to bother me?”
The man scoffed. “Waste of a goddamn building, that’s for sure,” he said before he turned and left.
“Thanks for your time!” Charlie shouted after him as the front door slammed closed.
“Was that a customer?” Max asked, emerging from the staff room.
“Customer is a stretch,” Charlie replied, slumping down to the floor. He flexed his fingers over his knees and took a deep breath. Max and Charlie had decided to open a bar together when they were fourteen. After jumping through a lot of loopholes and lawyers, they’d somehow managed to make it work. They were just two kids; how much damage could they do? The bar made no money, and work was often slow, besides a few regulars who stopped by for the occasional soft drink. They didn’t really mind; it was less about making money and more about having each other. They always had each other.
Well, until today.
“What time’s your train?” Charlie asked Max without looking at him, far more interested in the dirt under his nails.
“Two-fifteen.” Max slid down next to him on the floor. Max and Charlie met when they were four. Charlie had told Max he had the most boring name in the world. Max told Charlie his name wasn’t a hell of a lot better. They’d been inseparable ever since.
“I can’t believe you’re moving away from this place.”
“I think you actually want to say, ‘I can’t believe you’re moving away from me.’” Max nudged his shoulder, and Charlie grunted in response.
“Yeah, you wish,” Charlie grumbled as he dragged his knees up to his chest. The two boys sat in silence, neither of them sure what to say to each other. What was there to say? Charlie had been a mess of emotions ever since Max had told him he was leaving. He was upset, he was angry, he was happy. He didn’t know what he was. Max was more or less the same. He loved Charlie, but he had to get out of the town they were stuck in. One of them had to, and deep down, they both knew it would never be Charlie to make the first move.
“Will you be okay running the bar alone?” Max looked around at the space the two of them built together.
“How hard is it for a seventeen-year-old to run a bar? I mean, I’ve done pretty good so far, haven’t I?”
Max nodded his head in agreement,
“Yeah, better than any adult I know, that’s for sure.”
Charlie rolled his shoulders.
“Adults? Who needs them anyway?” Charlie rose to his feet and swiped two glasses from underneath the bar, slamming them onto the countertop. Max followed suit and pulled open the bar’s mini fridge.
“Do you want milk or juice?”
Charlie grimaced. “When have you ever seen me drink milk?”
Max shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought you might since it’s a special occasion. Isn’t that what grown-ups do with champagne?” He snatched the glasses off the counter and started to fill them both up with juice. He slid one across to Charlie, who caught it with ease.
“Well.” Max tipped his glass in Charlie’s direction. “To new beginnings!” he said before shooting the juice and swallowing it in one go. Charlie said nothing, opting to take small, slow sips. Silence passed between the two of them for one, two, three minutes too long. They never ran out of things to talk about. What was happening to the two of them?
What was gonna happen to the two of them?
Max chuckled to himself as he set his glass down on the countertop.
“Hey, do you remember the time when—”
“Don’t do that,” Charlie cut him off abruptly. Max tilted his head, a look of confusion on his face.
“Do what?” he questioned.
Charlie put his glass down and walked past him, vaulting over the bar top and standing by the window, busying himself with whatever was going on outside.
“Reminisce, get sentimental, all that shit. Don’t do it. Not with me.”
Max huffed and crossed his arms. “Why not?”
“Because—” Charlie looked over at Max. “It means you’re not coming back.” Max didn’t say anything. Neither of them did. What was there to say?
Max placed his empty glass in the sink and sulked off into the staff room. In all their years of being friends, it had never been so awkward, so uncomfortable. But, they were boys; emotions didn’t exactly fit their narratives.
Charlie lost track of how much time he wasted by the window, but nothing could be done about it now. The next time Max left the staff room, it was with a bag in his hand. He came and stood by Charlie, who still hadn’t looked at him.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Mhm.”
“Are you mad at me?”
Charlie said nothing for a moment. “I think so, but I don’t know why.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“Charlie?”
He turned to look at Max.
“I promise I’m gonna make something of myself, and then when I turn eighteen, I’m gonna come back home to get you so we can make something for each other.” Charlie didn’t reply, just turned and looked back out the window. Max strode toward the door; he wasn’t expecting a reply anyway.
“Max.”
Max stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He turned to look at Charlie.
“Whatever happens—” Charlie took a deep breath—“don’t come back. I don’t want you to come back, even if you hate it and you miss home. Never come back, not for anyone or anything, okay?”
Max tightened his grip on his bag, casting his gaze to the floor. Charlie had never been good with words. He was awkward with them, tripped over them too often, and always managed to say the wrong thing. He was young, stupid, and impulsive, but somewhere along the course of their friendship, Charlie had grown up and left Max behind. He’d never really noticed it, until this moment, with one foot out the door.
All Max did was nod before he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.
Madelin Gonzalez Franco has been an avid writer since she was able to pick up a pen. A recent graduate from University with a degree in Creative Writing and Screenwriting, she spends her time drumming up ideas for her next script, excited for what the future holds.
Featured image by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash.
