3. Chapter Three #2
I hold back an eyeroll. We both know he’s been here before, and we’ve had this same exchange at least half a dozen times.
“All of those are pretty hoppy. Lagunitas tends to be a bit too bitter for my taste. I’d probably go with Founders,” I say confidently, despite never having tried any of the beers myself.
My relationship with beer has always been more theoretical than personal, built on memorized ingredients and the recommendations of my coworkers.
“Perfect. Four of those,” he decides, and his companions nod in agreement.
After checking their IDs—because if they’re going to pretend not to know the beer list, I’m going to pretend not to know they’re of age—I ask if they need anything else. Three of the guys shake their heads, but the one closest to me, his smile full of intent, asks for my number.
Suppressing the discomfort prickling at the back of my neck, I reply without looking directly at him, “I don’t have a phone.” I continue tapping on my tablet, feigning deep concentration as I finalize their beer order.
“You don’t have a phone?” he asks as I lean forward to collect their menus.
“No, I’m one of those weirdos who hates technology.” I try to catch my coworker’s gaze, hoping for an excuse to leave.
“But how will I reach you?” The guy’s hand brushes against my lower back before settling there.
Startled, I straighten up and glance over at him, meeting his grin with a wary expression.
I shift my weight to my other leg, and he retracts his hand.
“You could try sending a carrier pigeon, but my cat has a knack for intercepting them before they land.” I turn off the tablet. “I’ll get those beers for you.”
As I walk away, I catch snippets of, “That’s a shame,” and “Dude!” behind me. My steps falter as I struggle to regain my composure.
“I hate frat boys. Do you want to switch?” Yara, my closest friend at the bar, asks as she pours beer into the mugs for her table.
“No, I think I can handle them. They’re like toddlers. Just need to make sure I set strict boundaries with clear consequences for unwanted behavior.”
Once Yara is done, I step in front of the beer tap.
“Don’t let them hear you talk like that. It might play into some teacher fantasy of theirs.” Yara chuckles.
“Good point.” I finish with one of the mugs, filling it up to the brim, and place it on the large black tray. “Oh, I forgot to ask,” I add, turning back to her, “how’s your sister doing?”
“She’s managing. Her surgery finally got scheduled for the end of October, so I’m going to drive up and help with the kids while she recovers,” Yara tells me excitedly.
“I can’t wait… Oh, hold on.” She glances back, spotting the group at her table waving.
“Talk later!” she calls, rushing over to them.
When I bring the beers to the table, the IPA douchebags have already turned their attention to the TV, which is broadcasting a football game between the Raiders and the Cardinals.
It’s disheartening that while I’m left with a sense of unease and violation, the person responsible has already moved on with his day as if nothing happened.
I try to push through the remainder of my shift, reminding myself that this unfortunately comes with the territory of the job.
As I’m about to clock out, I notice a young woman leaning against the wall in the hallway leading to the back door and the restrooms.
Why is she just standing there?
I approach her and gently tap on her shoulder. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fi—” She turns around slowly and abruptly stops talking.
What must be a full day’s worth of her stomach contents shoots out of her mouth and all over me.
The front of my shirt becomes completely soaked.
Warm bile mixed with chunks seeps beneath my shirt, between my breasts, and inside my bra. I shiver at the sensation.
This can’t be happening.
I shut my eyes tight, trying to block out the rancid smell. I need to step away, in case she’s on the verge of another round, but my legs refuse to move, as if they’ve been cemented to the sticky floor.
I can handle almost anything—urine, feces, dirt, blood—but vomit?
That’s a different story. Despite working with kids, I’ve never gotten used to it, especially not the smell.
Whenever someone vomits, the stench triggers a visceral reaction in me.
As if on cue, my throat tightens, my own stomach contents rising.
My legs finally move on their own accord, a desperate, instinctual response to the overwhelming stench. I barely make it to the toilet before my stomach revolts, expelling its contents in a forceful, involuntary reaction.
This can’t be my life.
This isn’t what studying four years in college and three years in graduate school equates to—dealing with unwanted advances and vomit down my shirt.
I can’t keep going like this.
Tears fill my eyes, blatantly defying my attempt to stay composed.
I squeeze them shut, causing salty drops to run down my cheeks.
Helplessness overpowers me as I slide to the floor, leaning against the bathroom wall with my arm braced on the toilet for support.
The distant sound of another toilet flushing echoes through the room, its noise so detached it might as well be from another world.
Right now, everything is desolate—my life, my friends, my family.
Me. It’s as if I’m the one spiraling down the toilet, watching my life swirl away with each flush.
I’ll never escape this cycle of debt. My payments will pile up, and eventually, I won’t be able to cover my student loans. Diana and Jonah, despite their kindness, might be too considerate to evict me, but what if they can’t afford to keep me around? Where will I go? What will I do?
I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I almost wipe my tears away with the inside of my shirt, but then I catch a whiff of what’s on it and quickly use my palm instead.
My attention is drawn to the chipped paint on the wall behind the toilet.
It’s peeled in several places, exposing layers of different, older shades of green beneath.
The sight sends chills through my body, because what if I turn out just like it—slowly weathering from inside, plastering a smile only to mask the deterioration within.
I can’t keep going like this, pushing myself to a breaking point.
I won’t be like that wall. Taking a shaky breath, I pull out my phone, click on Layla’s text message thread, and find the picture of the business card.
With a deep breath, I dial the number. Each ring hits my chest like a CPR compression, until slowly, my breathing evens out.
I open my eyes wide, ready for a change.