Chapter 8
SUTTON
The email subject line on my phone screen reads
IMPORTANT: Rent Adjustment Notice.
Like that’s ever a good thing.
I stare at it for a full ten seconds before opening it, like maybe if I wait long enough it will disappear on its own.
It doesn’t because of course it doesn’t, so I begrudgingly tap the screen and open the email.
The words blur together at first—legal language, polite phrasing, carefully neutral tone—but the number at the bottom hits like a punch.
Additional three hundred dollars.
Starting next month.
Maintenance costs for the building.
I blink and read it again. And then again, like maybe math works differently if you read something multiple times.
Spoiler alert…it doesn’t.
“Cool,” I mutter to my empty kitchen. “Cool, cool, cool.”
I set my phone down carefully, which is the universal sign that I am not panicking.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
Everything is fine.
I am definitely not panicking.
I pour coffee into my cracked mug and lean against the counter, staring at the chipped tile backsplash I already pay nine hundred and fifty dollars a month for like it personally betrayed me, because I think it did. In the amount of three hundred additional dollars.
Twelve hundred and fifty dollars a month total next month? I do the math automatically, numbers popping through my head at random. Tips have been decent lately, but not consistent enough to count on. The extra shifts I pick up help from time to time, but not enough.
I grab a pen and flip open the notebook that lives permanently on my counter and throw myself into budget mode because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my adult life, it’s that feelings don’t solve problems. Numbers do.
Rent.
Utilities.
Phone.
Insurance.
Food.
My pen digs into the paper as I scratch out numbers that refuse to cooperate and the calculator app on my phone mocks me with its cold precision.
No matter how I shuffle the columns, I’m still short and no matter how hard I work or how many shifts I take at the bar, it’s never going to be enough.
My jaw tightens until something cracks and a tear threatens but I blink it back viciously.
“Get a grip Sutton. People deal with worse,” I mutter, leaning my head back and releasing a frustrated sigh. “I’m not broke and I’m not homeless…yet.”
This is fine.
It has to be.
I’ll figure something out.
I don’t have much of a choice and in the grand scheme of my life, I suppose I’ve dealt with worse. I run my thumb along the rim of the chipped mug, pressing hard enough to hurt, the pain anchoring me to now, not then.
I open my laptop and pull up job listings, my reflection in the screen looking noticeably hollower than yesterday.
Bartender: already doing that, already exhausted.
Server: same money, different stress, same feeling of invisibility.
Retail: less tips, more hours, more pretending I’m okay.
I hover over “Administrative Assistant,” picturing myself in clothes I can’t afford, at a desk where I don’t belong.
Sure, I might be a college graduate who can certainly handle a job like the one listed, but the minute anyone glances through my work experience, suddenly I’m just not the vibe they’re looking for.
Bar trash.
I guess that’s what I am now.
“Just a waitress…”
“…won’t amount to anything…”
I scroll anyway, my heart racing with each rejection before I even apply.
After an hour, my eyes are burning and my chest feels tight.
Nothing has changed except the growing certainty that I’ve failed at something fundamental that everyone else seems to understand.
I slam the laptop closed and then check to make sure I didn’t break it because God knows I can’t afford a new one.
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice cracking on the second syllable.
“Time for work.” I grab my denim jacket, my hands shaking, and then spot Shepherd’s sweatshirt that he leant me a few nights ago.
I don’t want to wear it to work because I’ll never hear the end of it from Cal, but I lift it to my face and inhale his scent.
It smells faintly of whiskey and oranges and I have to remind myself not to sniff it too much or I’ll sniff away the only scent in this shithole of an apartment that I actually enjoy.
I lay the sweatshirt over the kitchenette chair I found it on and then slip on my jacket ready to go about the rest of my day.
Work will help.
Work always helps.
Movement to outrun the fear.
Noise to drown out the doubt.
Focus on anything but the two questions that continuously defeat me.
What if this is as good as it gets?
What if this is all I deserve?
Before leaving, I check for my keys, wallet, and phone, the three tangible pieces of my life that make me feel like a grown-ass adult. The cracked teacup from Mari’s shop catches my eye on the counter as I’m walking toward the door. I lift it carefully, running my finger along its fault line.
Broken but usable.
Still standing.
Even if just barely.
“Same,” I tell it, my voice too small for the empty room. I give the teacup a tap as if it’s a pet cat I’m saying goodbye to and then head outside and down the street.
The walk to the Alley Tap feels longer today.
Every storefront window reflecting someone who looks composed but slightly too rough around the edges.
I roll my shoulders back, lift my chin, and try my hardest to think about anything other than the raising of my rent or my fears of how I’m going to make life work for me.
By the time I push open the bar door, my face is already set into its usual expression. Professional. Unbothered by life.
My emotions untouchable.
Cal looks up as I silently tie my apron around my waist. “You good?” he asks.
“Fantastic,” I say, with zero emotion which is how he knows I’m absolutely not good. But he doesn’t press, thank God.
The first couple of hours pass in a blur of poured drinks and forced smiles.
I’m on autopilot, which is probably why I don’t notice them right away.
Three guys at the corner of the bar, business casual types with loosened ties and too-loud laughs.
I usually see these types on a Friday night, but they must be in town for some sort of professional conference this weekend.
They’ve been here maybe thirty minutes, but I can already tell they’re the kind who think their tips buy more than just drinks.
“Another round for my boys,” the one in the middle calls out, snapping his fingers in my direction.
I feel something cold slither down my spine but paste on my professional smile. “Coming right up.”
As I pour their drinks, I can feel their eyes on me. Not the usual appreciative glance that comes with the territory, but something heavier. More entitled. The kind of stare that makes you want to check if your shirt is buttoned all the way up or if you’re actually wearing pants.
“So, what time do you get off?” Middle Guy asks when I bring their drinks over.
“Late,” I answer, keeping it vague as I set down their glasses.
“We can wait,” says the one on the left, leaning forward. His cologne is expensive but he’s wearing too much of it, like he’s trying to mask something else. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t walk home alone.”
My face freezes. “I don’t walk, but thanks.”
That’s a lie but they don’t know that.
“No, really,” Middle Guy insists. “We’d be happy to make sure you get home safe. Or maybe we could take you somewhere else.” His grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “Somewhere more…fun.”
The other two snicker like this is the height of comedy.
I’ve been in this industry long enough to recognize the warning signs; the way they’re positioning themselves to block my exit path, how they’re watching me instead of each other, the calculated way they’re getting drunk enough to justify bad behavior.
“Thanks, but I’ve got plans.” I start to move away, but one of the guys catches my wrist.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he says, his grip tight enough to make a point. “We’re just being friendly.”
I twist my arm free, keeping my expression neutral even as my heart hammers against my ribs. “I need to check on my other customers.”
As I walk away, one of them mutters something about me being a “stuck-up bitch.” The words slide off my back like water. I’ve been called worse by better. Shepherd probably thought the same thing the night he met me.
Shepherd Haynes.
The thought of him has me biting back a smile as I recall the way we met. And that smile turns into an outright laugh when I think about how Shepherd would’ve dealt with the three douche canoes at the back table had he been here to witness their behavior.
My knight in fancy football pants.
I can’t believe I’m actually missing him a little bit tonight. The idea of missing anyone is a hard pill to swallow. I like my independence. I don’t answer to anyone but myself and that’s the way I’ve liked it ever since…
Well, ever since I walked away from what I know I didn’t deserve.
Cal catches my eye from across the bar, his eyebrows raised in silent question. I give a small shake of my head to let him know I don’t need rescuing, especially not from those shit-iots.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I shouldn’t check it during my shift, but I do anyway, needing the distraction.
Shepherd
How’s your night going?
Something warm flutters in my chest. I shouldn’t feel this way about a text—especially not from him—but I do.
I stare at the screen for a moment too long thinking about our food truck tour a few nights ago.
How he was nothing but a gentleman and actually took me by surprise on several occasions.
But instead of replying, I slide my phone back into my pocket.
The night’s too busy and those jerks are watching me.
Besides, what would I even say? My day’s shit because while you’re off earning millions playing tag, I can’t afford rent and there are creepy guys at the bar?
No thanks.