That was a mistake, I think to myself as I hightail it out of Peak & Pine. All I had wanted was to get out of the hotel, get some caffeine in my system after my essentially sleepless night... But when has the universe ever given me a break? Not only had I been gifted a glimpse of Nikolas Hoffman and the glare pasted onto his all-too-familiar face, but I'd had the even greater luck of overhearing what he was talking about: me.

It wasn't even like I was trying to eavesdrop, I remind myself with a huff as I start off down the sidewalk. I just walked in at the wrong time. And with him being so close to the door, and his raised voice... The words had carried far too easily. What was supposed to be a pleasant morning at the coffee shop had turned into my own personal nightmare. While—sure, I'll admit it—I enjoy hearing people talk about me, it was something else to hear someone rip into me like that.

I know there are bound to be people who don't like me. I'd be stupid to think otherwise. But... I shove my hands into the outer pockets of my leather jacket. I just thought that, if people are going to talk behind my back, it would be... I don't know, actually behind my back.

I snort out a bitter laugh. And I wasn't even supposed to hear it. He would have said those things about me whether I was there to hear them or not. If not for my clumsy ass bumping into his chair... I vaguely remember Nikolas' shocked expression when he'd pivoted around to face me. I don't think he would have known I was there.

I run a hand through my hair. Alright, Axel. No more feeling shitty about yourself. Who cares what that guy thinks? It's not like you're friends anymore. I frown. Yeah. It's not as if we are.

I increase my pace down the sidewalk, hoping that the burn of my calves will help to rid my mind of the unpleasant thoughts. First the band, and now him... I shake my head. This is so—

I slow as a peal of laughter floats across the street to reach my ears. I glance over to find a dozen people seated at rusted metal tables, raising glasses of alcohol in celebration as they watch a baseball game on a TV hung from the building's outer wall. The neighboring sign, lit in flickering neon lights, dubs the place The Cub's Den. A smaller sign underneath beckons customers to "have a cup with Cub."

As another chorus of hoots comes up from the baseball watchers, I chuckle and cross the street toward the bar. Seems like fun.

It takes some effort to heave open the heavy door, but when I do, I'm greeted by the smell of beer and old wood. I take a moment to scan the interior. The Cub's Den almost gives the feeling of being in a basement or cellar, with its uneven brick walls decorated with framed photos of who I assume to be celebrities that have come here; creaky wooden floors stained with who-knows what; and low lighting. TVs hang at two out of four of the bar's corners, and the neighboring tables are full of people watching intently, letting out loud whoops at every particularly daring move from the baseball players on the screen. I don't recognize the teams playing, which isn't saying much; while my music knowledge may be limitless, I don't know a whole lot about sports.

I wander toward the bar on the left side. Most of the customers appear to be transfixed by the game on TV, while a few others drink in silence with their faces glued to their phones. The bar itself is empty except for the bartender behind it, his grey hair tucked into a red bandanna. The man is in the process of wiping down a glass when I approach, but he looks up to flash me a smile when he notices my presence.

"Hey, kid, what can I get you?"

I slump onto a stool. "Uh... I don't know, what do you have?"

The man snorts, tapping his fingers on the edge of the water-stained bar. His gnarled hands sport several rings, and I see the edge of a tattoo poking out from under the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "Are you a beer guy? What do you usually drink? Special today is a Moscow Mule."

"Do you have anything with caffeine in it?"

"Seems a little bit counterintuitive, to be lookin' for caffeine with your alcohol, but I'll play along," he replies with a chuckle. "I could mix you up an espresso martini. That sound good?"

"Uh, yeah, of course. How much would that be?"

"It's on the house. After all, you look familiar. Can't have a friend pay for a drink in my bar."

A smile tugs at my lips. "Oh, I guess being a celebrity does have its perks. What's your favorite song—"

"You went to school with my kid, right?" He interrupts, a crooked smile lighting up his features. "Gabriel, was it?"

"Oh." I run a hand through my hair, suddenly embarrassed to have assumed anything. Huh. He didn't recognize me. That's rare. But... I don't think I mind. "No, uh, that's not me. Sorry, sir. I can pay—"

"No, no, don't you worry about that. And I don't want anything to do with that 'sir' word. 'Round here, everyone calls me Cub. Feel welcome to do the same." Laughing softly, the man turns around to begin mixing up my drink. "You do look a hell of a lot like him, though. But, eh, maybe it's the hair. That kid always had it dyed one funky color or another."

At a loss for words, I just chuckle along. 

"Oh, shit, I guess I have to check your ID," he mumbles, turning back around. "Sorry 'bout that. Hardly ever get new customers here, so I've memorized everyone's birthdays at this point. Do you mind?"

"Of course not." I fish my wallet out of the inner pocket of my leather jacket and slip out my driver's license from inside. 

"Axel," Cub reads off as I hand it over, his eyes flitting between me and the ID card. "Guess you aren't Gabriel after all."

"Nope." I agree, shoving the card back into my wallet after he's confirmed that I'm old enough to be ordering alcohol. "I suppose 'Axel' doesn't ring a bell?"

The man just shrugs as he turns back around to continue making my drink. "I don't think so. My memory isn't the best, though, so... Who knows? Maybe I've just forgotten. If I have, I apologize most sincerely."

A few minutes later, Cub slides the finished drink across the counter. My gaze drops down to the martini glass and I can't help but stare in amazement at the thick layer of foam and three delicately placed coffee beans topping the drink. "This looks perfect. The presentation is just... Wow."

"Well, I hope it tastes equally good," he responds with a smirk. "Let me tell you, Axel: I've been running this place for years upon years—I've lost track at this point. Y'know what's kept me in business?"

"Besides the fact that you don't have a lot of competition? At least, I can't imagine you do. This whole town's got, like, five streets total." I lift the glass by its stem, taking a careful sip. The drink is a perfect balance of rich, creamy, and sweet—with a pleasant zing from the vodka and a refreshing nuttiness from the espresso.

Cub barks out a laugh, but when he speaks again, his voice is practically a deadpan. "The reason I don't have a lot of competition is because no one stands a chance against me."

I snort, my eyes going wide at the boldness of his response. "You're pretty confident."

"I take the time to get to know what my customers like," he responds, shrugging. "As much as I love to drink and make drinks, I do it for the people. That's what makes The Cub's Den stand above any of the other places that try and stake their claim here. They don't have the personal connection I try and make with everyone who visits." He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as if to study me. "That's what makes you so interesting. Almost everyone who comes by is a regular; I know their stories. So, kid, what's yours?"

"What's my... Story?"

Cub hums in agreement. He leans closer, resting his elbows on the counter—waiting, clearly, for me to share.

I take a sip of my martini, tracing my pointer finger along the rings of water stains marking the bar's surface. What is my story? 

"I make music. I'm in—"

"Nah, kid, your story. What brings you here?"

"I... Don't know what you mean. I'm a musician—a guitar player. I'm in a band, and we were just on tour—"

The man holds up a hand, laughing softly. "If you've got music out there, then that's anything I could learn with a quick Google search, I'm sure. I want to hear about what I won't find on Google. What's going through your mind these days, kid?  Why are you here, sitting in front of me right now, nursing that drink like it's something stronger?"

I blink. That's oddly personal. "I don't know. I mean..." My eyes lower to my martini. I stare pensively at the glass's contents. What could he possibly want me to... "Actually, do you think you could give me some advice?"

A smile flickers onto his lips; I must have brushed up against whatever Cub is trying to get me to share. He spins a silver ring around his finger. "Sure. What's up, kid?"

"So, there's this guy..." I begin, speaking slowly to allow me to think my way through my words. "He used to be my friend. We were really close, actually. But... Now we're not. I haven't seen him in years, but he's here in West Rye, and I've bumped into him a few times—literally, in one case—and it's really obvious that he... Well, he totally hates me."

I glance up to meet Cub's eye. He's watching me with interest, his eyebrows hitched upwards.

I take a breath and continue. "I don't really know why, is the thing. I don't remember doing anything to him, but he gives me this death glare anytime we cross paths, like he's trying to turn me into stone or something. I just... I don't know what to do. I want to talk to him, but it's super clear that he wants nothing to do with me." I let my chin rest in the palm of my hand, my elbow propped up on the counter.

"Ah. I've been where you are," Cub replies, heaving a sigh as he crosses his arms. "It's tough, seeing someone you used to be friends with and knowing you're not anymore. The truth is, there's not really a whole lot you can do if this ex-friend of yours doesn't want to—"

"I know, I know," I mutter. "I should just forget about it. If Nikolas hates me and doesn't—"

"What I was going to say is that it's still worth it to try. Reach out, spend some time with him. If he's open to it, ask him about why your friendship ended in the first place. For all you know, it might have been nothing but a misunderstanding."

I open my mouth to reply, but Cub continues before I get the chance. "But you can't force anyone to do something they're not interested in, kid. Maybe you two get things sorted out. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. But misunderstandings can still hurt. Sorting things out doesn't mean that the pain they felt was any less real. Healing takes time, and sometimes it never goes back to the way it was."

"Yeah," I whisper, absentmindedly running a finger along the rim of my martini glass. "Thanks, Cub."

"Anytime, kid. And feel free to stick around; I think that baseball game is getting pretty exciting." With a wink, the man saunters off to bus tables, leaving me alone at the bar with nothing but a half-finished espresso martini and my thoughts.