Chapter 2
NYX
I dream of wildflowers and wild horses beneath a pink sky.
Distant, rumbling thunder draws my eye to the horizon, and I wonder if it’s my storm following me across the void between dreams. Movement along the distant ridge reveals a herd of horses flowing like water over the grassy plains, conquering the wild earth underfoot.
Their unbridled, feral beauty mesmerizes me, and my heart races.
Every fiber of my being longs to join them, leaving my worries to dissipate in the swirling dust that follows.
In the last heartbeat before daylight pierces the heavy veil between fantasy and reality, I dream of freedom.
Scattered, golden sunbeams filter through my broken blinds, warming my tangled nest of self-indulgence until I can no longer ignore the discomfort of my full bladder.
Afterward, I start a pot of shitty coffee while I check my online classes—I’m at least three weeks ahead in English and my next Calculus test isn’t until Tuesday, so with shitty coffee in hand, I sit on my tattered couch and revel in the lazy morning.
I’ve only recently been able to afford the two online college classes—so far, I’m majoring in “not being poor” with a minor in “getting the fuck out of here”.
It’s effortless to sink into the latest novel from one of my favorite romance series, daydreaming of rugged cowboys, gruff ranchers, and sinfully sweet bull riders.
Hours later, when I dig through my bare fridge for some leftovers, I make a mental note of what groceries I can afford and decide to treat myself to a little cupcake—you only turn twenty years old once, after all.
As suspect as the leftovers are, I still clean my plate, having gone without a full stomach enough times to know that you never waste a meal if you can help it.
Yet another example of how Daly’s has saved me in more ways than one—not only do we get one free meal per shift, but Carlos loves to test out his more adventurous dishes on us and I regularly end up with a fridge full of his creations.
The only downside is that my taste buds die a little every time he goes heavy on the spices.
When I can no longer ignore my responsibilities, I quickly get ready for work and walk the twenty minutes it takes to get to the bar.
The familiar pulse of life serves as background music as I wind through cracked, pothole-ridden streets: the sharp scent of metal and gasoline from Andy’s Auto, the ping of the convenience store doors, and the squealing brakes of rusted out cars stopping at the only traffic light.
When I arrive, Carlos grunts out his typical greeting, Chloe gives me a quick hug, and I mentally prepare for the long Friday shift.
Eileen is nowhere to be found, which means she’s probably smoking a joint in the cellar, so we prep the bar while Carlos warms up the kitchen and shares the first basket of fries with us.
It’s not long after a very mellow and ravenous Eileen makes her way from the back bar when the tables begin to fill with the happy hour crowd, and muscle memory takes over.
Pour.
One one-thousand.
Two-one thousand.
Shake.
Stir.
Walk.
Pocket tips.
Wipe table.
Smile.
Smile.
Smile.
The steady thrum of conversation ebbs and flows throughout the evening until I know entirely too much about things like Candice’s niece's boyfriend’s peculiar-shaped rash.
Luckily for us—and him—the town’s only doctor is as well-stocked as this bar.
My mind drifts to this weekend—even though I work tonight and tomorrow, I have Sunday off for the first time in two weeks.
Misty Meadows, Lynden’s resident free spirit hippie (and Eileen’s drug dealer), usually gets in a new batch of discarded romance novels from the public library in the next county over, so I’ll bum off the free Wi-Fi at her diner and see what new books she got.
During a lull between happy hour and the dinner rush, Chloe helps me restock the bar.
“How’s Cora been?” She lights up with pride when I ask about her five-year-old daughter.
“She’s good Nyx, real good. You know she’s the best reader in her kindergarten class so far? All those nights of babysitting with you really made a difference. I can’t thank you enough, you know,” she says, knocking my elbow with hers.
I shrug, struggling to accept her praise.
“She’s an amazing kid; I was glad to do it.
” It’s the truth, too—I vividly recall nights snuggled on their squeaky couch, wearing dollar face masks and reading to each other while our nail polish dried.
Given my reputation as one of the town’s more notorious outcasts, I actually look forward to spending time with Cora, even if she is thirteen years my junior.
Maddie walks in and we both greet her when she joins us a few moments later.
“Are y’all still coming to Cora’s birthday party next weekend?” Chloe asks.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Of course! Can’t believe she’s turning six already. What’s she into these days?” Maddie asks.
“Everything from unicorns to monster trucks,” Chloe says. It’s difficult listening to her describe all the ways she’s making her daughter’s birthday party magical, and on the eve of leaving my own childhood behind, I mourn it more keenly now than ever.
“Nyx?” Chloe asks, and I realize she’s been trying to get my attention.
“Sorry—what’s up?”
“Cora’s decided that she’s old enough for her first ear piercings, and asked me if you’re still up for it?
” I grin at the memory of the last time Cora tried convincing me that surprising her mom with new piercings “wasn’t that big of a deal”.
Between bouts of barely-contained laughter, I promised I’d do it if her mom agreed.
“Miss Pouty Pants hasn’t let that go, huh? God knows I’ve had enough practice,” I say, gesturing to the multitude of self-pierced studs and rings in my ears.
Maddie shivers and shakes her head. “I still don’t know how you manage to do it to yourself.”
when Maddie leaves to get changed before her shift starts, I ask Chloe, “You think she’ll want to get her ears pierced too? I doubt she’ll want to be upstaged by a six-year-old.”
“Better bring more, just in case,” she says, winking and following Maddie to change. After that, the night unfolds in the same familiar rhythm that I’m used to.
Pour.
One one-thousand.
Maureen guesses correctly at Wheel of Fortune and knocks back her free shot to scattered applause.
Pour.
Two one-thousand.
Carlos calls out my table’s order.
Pour.
Three one-thousand for Montrell because he re-wired the freezer this week.
Smile.
Smile.
Smile.
When Eileen sidles up to me with a shit-eating grin hours later, I’m immediately suspicious—she’s not yelling at anybody, she’s not smoking a cigarette—she must be planning something.
I narrow my eyes at her and search for back up, or at least an eyewitness.
Montrell quirks his head, and I face my boss now that I have reinforcements.
“Did you need something, Eileen?” With a mirthful grin, she grabs the busted karaoke microphone behind the bar and turns off the music. Everyone’s attention turns to her and I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter.
“Listen up you shits! Tonight’s a special night here at Daly’s,” she shouts, making several people wince at the feedback.
I shake my head, fighting a smile as she commands the room.
“Our Nyxie here is having herself a birthday, so y’all are gonna pretend for two minutes that you’re not a worthless bunch of lobotomized raccoons who can’t find their way out of a trash can and sing our girl happy birthday—capisce?
” She threatens, addressing everyone like a herd of drunken toddlers, and soon murmurs of “yes ma’am” fill the silence.
“Get on over here, baby girl,” she demands, motioning for me to join her side.
She pours three shots of whiskey, hands me one, and picks up the microphone once more to lead an off-sync, off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday”.
My eyes burn with unshed tears, but I manage to hold my shit together as Tammy and Maureen try outdoing one another on the last verse.
I throw back my shot and Eileen pulls me into a tight hug against her tits—no wonder she won second place.
“You’re suffocating me!” I shout, struggling to pull away.
“Most people have to pay for that, you know,” she teases when she finally releases me, only for Maddie and Chloe to pull me into a group hug.
Carlos lifts the three of us and spins until we screech for him to let us go, and he only grins when I give him a dirty look, but then we both devolve into laughter.
“Misty came by earlier with a special order from Jefecita herself. You’ll thank me later,” he says with a wink, handing me a freshly wrapped brownie before turning back to the kitchen.
Eileen waggles her eyebrows and tells me to take my break, and I head to the back alley behind the building.
Despite the scent of garbage, I inhale the cool, late September air deeply, and exhale what could be mistaken for a quiet laugh.
Spending my life as a town pariah, it’s a foreign concept that people might actually care about me.
I’ve been mired in my solitude for so long that having friends is actually discomfiting.
The irony isn’t lost on me—how pathetic to be so desperately starved for affection yet incapable of reaching for it when offered.
Annoyed with myself, I unwrap the pot brownie and take a small bite, only to discover that Carlos has added chili powder to the mix after my mouth begins to tingle.
A metallic clang breaks my brief moment of calm, and I chuckle when two glowing eyes peer at me from behind the fallen trash can lid—"lobotomized raccoons” may not have been entirely inaccurate.
I toss a chunk of the brownie behind the dumpster and wish my new friend a good night before heading back inside.