9. Johnny
JOHNNY
Ithought about calling in sick. Especially since I still don’t know if he feels the same. But I always show up. I refuse to hide who I am to make those around me feel better. So here I am—dealing with a broody bar owner and a giant elephant in the room.
I should have called in sick.
Wiping the bar top, I suck in a sharp breath. It’s been awkward as hell today. Almost like he’s avoiding me. My stomach clenches at the thought of having to work like this every day. Him giving quick, short responses. Me trying to joke around like everything is the same.
He’s different today. I told him, only hinted to him, about my real self, and now he’s acting weird.
I stare into the grains of wood running the length of the bar. Each of them moves in a different direction. No rhyme. No reason. No clear indication of where they begin or end. Sort of like the owner of this bar.
Maybe I misread all this.
“Last call!” I jump at Walt’s yell across the bar as we near closing time on another hectic Saturday.
Most of the folks here came last night too.
The highs today have been amazing. My tip jar is overflowing, and I’ve been making drinks non-stop.
Barely had time to take a quick piss a couple hours ago.
But the lows, specifically the way my gut churns at the thought of everyone else leaving me and Walt to ourselves after they file out, have me ready to retch in the trash can.
Once the final guest leaves, Walt starts his usual routine by locking the door and grabbing the broom as I clean up behind the bar. I keep my head down, focusing on tidying up while Walt makes his way across the room. We work in complete quiet, the weight of silence hanging heavy in the air.
Is this how it’s going to be now? I shake my head at yet another thing I’ve fucked up in my life.
I can’t keep a job, can’t keep a relationship, can’t keep my eyes off men I shouldn’t want.
Men I can’t have. I take a quick stock of the liquor, noticing there’s a bottle of vodka that’s near empty.
I groan. Probably not even a full ounce in there.
After the shift I’ve had, and the silent treatment I’ve dealt with all day…
fuck it. I take it into the backroom and swallow it in one gulp, slamming it down and grabbing a new bottle to restock the bar.
As I turn to head back out, I’m met with a wall of flannel and a face redder than the threads running through it.
“You back here drinking my inventory?” he growls.
“No.” I look at him, my body stiff, my palms instantly sweaty. “I mean, yes, there was only a tiny bit left and…and it’s been a long-ass day. I was getting out a new one, so I—”
“So you thought you’d come back here and finish it off?”
“I…yes. But it wasn’t even an ounce.” I look at him, this anger seemingly coming out of nowhere. The amount of vodka in that bottle wouldn’t have even gotten me one shot. It’s the equivalent of taking a Post-it from the office back at the factory.
Long gone is the man who offered me a free beer every night after work. The one I chatted with who seemed to understand how I felt. The one I thought maybe felt the same way.
The one I thought was the same way.
In his place is the grumpy asshole that snapped at me that first day. “I swear I would never steal from ya.”
“I’ll be restocking the liquor from now on.” His voice is harsh. Mean. Rude.
I take a shaky step back. “Did I do something wrong?” I ask. “I thought we were gettin’ along great, but you’ve barely said two words to me all day. If I said something—”
“It’s fine,” he snaps. “I’ll finish up. Just go home.”
“Listen—”
“I said go!”
“Am I…am I fired?” Spots dance along my vision as I force myself to take a breath. “Hey, if this is because of what I told you last night, I would never—”
“Go! And don’t come back tomorrow.” This time his voice ricochets off the filing cabinets and storage containers like a bullet, hitting me straight in the chest.
“Okay, okay.” I raise my hands. “I’m leaving.”
I quickly move past him and make my way out onto the street, stomping down the sidewalk. Pissed at myself. Pissed at him. Pissed at this damn world that things have to be like this. Pissed that I lost my goddamn job.
Something pulls tight and low inside me because I fucking know he feels something.
I can sense it in my bones. I can feel it through every fiber of me.
But, like most of us, he’s fucking scared.
I know so many people like him, lashing out in anger over something they can’t control.
Something they want to give into but feel like they can’t.
The cold air bites at my skin as if a thousand needles stab me all at once. But it’s not only the emotion that has me freezing in place.
Shit. I forgot my damn coat.