Chapter 14 #2
I can’t flee—I’m working. But I’m working in a bar, which means the other options are wide open, and just like I heard Meatloaf croon a million times when I worked here for Mitch, two out of three ain’t bad.
As I mentally weigh up my poisons, another text from Jake pings through:
I’m so fucking sorry this happened, Cee. Can I please come around? I’m scared for Ada.
“Oh, fuck you,” I mutter. But what am I supposed to say? ‘Don’t be scared?’ He should be scared. But if he comes here and finds Ada all coked up and surrounded by walking child support cheques, all hell will break loose. And hell already feels way too close.
I should never have shown Ada that photo.
No, that’s a lie. She deserved to know the truth.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe. Beneath all my justified anger at Jake and justified terror for Ada, there’s a small, selfish truth: I’m scared she won’t come to the reunion because of this.
“Cece?” Davis calls from somewhere behind me. “You, good?”
I shake my head. I’m a terrible friend. As soon as this slow-motion panic attack is over, I’m binning Will’s flowers. I don’t deserve them.
Another ping from my phone. I glance at it, grateful for the distraction. It’s Jake, because of course it is:
I called Jenny and told her to take the pictures of us down. She gave me an earful and I don’t give a fuck, but do you run Afterglow social media accounts? Bc I think she’s messaged them or flagged them or some bullshit.
Before I can begin to contemplate why she would do that, another message arrives:
Where’s Ada? Tell me, or I’m gonna start looking for her.
My jaw clenches as I hammer out my reply:
She’s here. She’s okay. No thanks to you.
Good. I’m coming to see her.
“No!” I shout, before typing:
Ada’s totally overwhelmed. Nothing good will come from her looking at you tonight.
He responds:
Too bad. I need to explain.
I scramble for something that might make him actually fucking think for once:
She’s drinking with a bunch of guys who’d crawl over broken glass to fuck her. Show up, and she'll probably get mad enough to let them. This is NOT a Thrasher situation. Do NOT roll in with the dramatic He-Man act. If you try a power play, you will lose, and you will lose her. Permanently.
He doesn’t respond, and I know exactly why. I can just see him grabbing his keys as he heads for the door.
“Shiiiit…”
“Cee?” Davis calls from the fryer. “Is Ada in trouble?”
“Not as much as Jake is,” I say, pulling open Instagram. “Sorry, I’m not cooking but—”
“No,” Davis says firmly. “I’ve got this. You do what you need to do.”
Gratitude seeps around my panic, so strong it almost floors me. I swallow the lump in my throat and search for @mrsjennysharpe. Her Jake post is gone, but there’s a new one. Jenny in a skintight blue bodycon dress, looking like Blake Lively swallowed an even younger, hotter Blake Lively.
I rake a sweaty hand through my ever-sweatier hair, and picture Will Sharpe comparing the two of us.
Stop, says the last sane voice in my head. Focus.
I check the Afterglow inbox for messages from Jenny. There’s one right at the top:
Good evening, please find attached photos from the social media accounts of one of your employees. I’m sure you will agree that this behaviour is deeply inappropriate and reflects poorly on your establishment.
She’s sent two screenshots. The first is Ada’s now-infamous revenge selfie, her smirking like a vixen with Jake’s tattooed arm in the background.
I nearly dropped my phone when I first saw it, half-horrified, half-awestruck by how far Ada was willing to go to torch a lover.
The second picture is from the official Afterglow feed, a screengrab of a video Addy posted of her behind the bar, rocking the tiniest branded tee in existence, and practically fellating a maraschino cherry. The caption reads:
Make Afterglow the cherry on your weekend!
It’s bold. It’s sexy. It’s got thirteen thousand likes, and it’s marketing. I scroll back to Jenny’s message, and the words ‘deeply inappropriate’ land like a slap.
Sure, the cherry video is suggestive, but so are beer ads, music videos, and Jenny’s own fucking Instagram, where her tits could qualify for a separate account.
She isn’t offended, she’s just pissed because she lost. Because Jake didn’t chase her.
Because, once again, she took a swing at Ada and found out Ada hits harder.
And now that scheming bitch is trying to fuck up what she thinks is Ada’s employment out of spite. And she’s thick as two planks because, despite ample evidence, she clearly has no idea that I own Afterglow. Blood pounds in my ears as I type a reply to Jenny:
Your concern has been noted and will be given all the consideration it deserves. We are proud of our staff at Afterglow and see no need to police their personal social media accounts or the approved content we choose to post.
I hit send and pray Jenny chokes on her next Lanc?me Juicy Tube, then I return to the fryer. Davis silently shifts aside to let me through. He’s crushed the backlog. We’re down to one lone order of prawn twisters.
“Thank you,” I exhale. “You’re an angel of manly beauty.”
Davis grins, and I’m too strung out to cringe. He is an angel of manly beauty. He even makes a ketchup-stained kitchen apron look good. I sling enough crustaceans to satisfy a beluga whale and set the fryer timer for five minutes.
“What’s the latest?” Davis asks.
I groan. “Ada’s wasted. Jake’s on the warpath. And Jenny, that bitch who posted the photos of Jake, is in my DMs. She wants me to sack Ada for her ‘deeply inappropriate’ posts.”
Davis laughs like that isn’t completely fucking insane. Something about the low timbre and how it rolls over me blunts the frayed edges of my panic. I grasp at it, that abstract feeling of comfort that slides through me, but all too fast, it’s gone.
“You gonna tell her Ada doesn’t work here?” Davis asks.
“I’m not giving her the satisfaction,” I wipe my hands on a tea towel. “She doesn’t even know it’s my bar.”
“Didn’t she go to school with you?”
“Yeah, but she’s a self-deluded cow. Anyway, I told her we’re very open-minded here, and she can go have the day she deserves.”
“Nice.”
I know I sound brave, but when my back pocket buzzes, I flinch. My fingers tremble as I pull it, wondering what fresh shit-storm has rolled in.
Davis takes the colander from my hands, his thumb brushing my wrist. “I’ll do this. I wanna know what that chick said.”
I force a wobbly smile. Sure enough, it’s a new message from Jenny:
I just think it’s your responsibility as a business owner to ensure your staff maintain a certain level of professionalism. I’d hate for your reputation or your online reviews to suffer because of one bad apple…
God, she’s the worst. I open my camera, flip it to selfie mode, and fake the sweetest smile I can. Then I raise my middle finger and take a photo.
Fuck off, Jenny.
I send her the picture, and her reply is swift:
Cecelia?! Why am I talking to you???
Honestly? Great question:
Because I own this bar. Stop trying to get Ada fired just because Jake won’t fuck you again, you mega-Karen.
There’s a pause long enough that I start to wonder if I’ve gone too far, then Jenny’s reply slithers into my inbox:
Um, maybe take a deep breath and remember you run a shitty bar, not a daycare centre for sluts?
Ada’s embarrassing both of you. You clearly know fuck-all about business, but if you ever want decent customers, you need to fire your whore mascot.
And maybe explain to Ada that getting passed around by bored men isn’t cute?
White slices across my vision. I turn sideways, and my gaze lands on the flowers Will Sharpe sent me.
Me. I was sent them. The knowledge brings a charge to my body.
I open my photo library and scroll for the screenshot from Jake’s dumbass golf chat.
The one of him telling all his mates he’s going to marry Ada.
Warning bells ring in the back of my brain, but I ignore them.
Jenny and I aren’t kids anymore. I don’t need to take her sugar-coated aggression.
The sharp, double-talking jabs she perfected in kindergarten and never put down.
She wants to come for Ada? She can come through me first:
Looks like Ada brings in plenty of decent customers already,
I hit send on Jake’s screenshot like I’m firing a bullet. I add another text for good measure:
What’s wrong, Jen? Couldn’t keep your husband, and now your celeb crush doesn’t want you either? Hate to say it, but if anyone’s embarrassing themselves, it’s you.
Jenny’s response is short, fast and to the point:
You’re going to pay for that.
I snort, more thrilled than frightened to find Jenny and I are past the point of no return.
The newness of having an actual argument with a bully burns bright in my chest. I’m done pretending I’m the same mild-mannered Almost Girl I was at school.
I run a bar, and I love my friends, and if someone steps into my ring, I’m going to knock them down.
Jenny might try to screw with me at the reunion, but what can she actually do? Seat me next to the toilets? Slip a sweaty netball pic of me into a photo collage? I’m a grown woman. And if I have my way, I’m going to take her ex-husband home at the end of the reunion.
Fuck you, Jenny, I think. You’re the one who’s going to pay for this.
I shove my phone in my pocket and find Davis has already plated the prawn twisters. They’re sitting on the pass for Cameron or Krissy to collect, and he’s leaning against the counter watching me, a tea towel slung over his shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say for what feels like the millionth time.
“No problem. Everything good?” His gaze is steady on my face.
“In order at least,” I lie.
Frenetic energy is beating under my skin, a call to battle that isn’t going to be satisfied by packing down the kitchen.
Fucking, fleeing, fighting.
I want to flee into safety, and I catch my breath before the adrenaline fades.
“I’m going to have a drink in my office,” I tell Davis.
It’d be easier to get it from the bar, but I want space to recalibrate and watching Ada self-destruct isn’t going to help.
He nods. “Sounds good.”
“Would you like one, too?”
He levers himself off the counter, coming to his full height. The kitchen seems to shrink three sizes as Davis pulls the towel from his shoulder and folds it neatly, placing it next to Will’s flowers. With a jolt, I realise he’s the only person who hasn’t mentioned them yet.
“You got any rum stashed back there?” he asks.
“No, but I can get a bottle from the stock room.” I whip off my apron and practically sprint down the hall.
In the acid swirl of worries pounding through my brain—the shit with Jenny; how far away Jake is; whatever Ada is up to—one thought cuts through them all.
Why hasn’t Davis asked about the flowers?
I get the rum, and I’m hunting in my desk for my emergency bottle of gin when the office door clicks shut.
My stomach twists, as though I don’t know who it is.
I slowly raise my head to find Davis standing before me.
He’s taken off his apron, and he’s wearing black jeans and his Afterglow shirt without sleeves again.
His handsome face is so serious it scares me.
I wonder what he’s seeing. A worried friend?
A frazzled bar owner? A near middle-aged woman who can’t get her life together, having text-fights with bitches from school while she fails at her job?
“Is everything fine?” I ask.
“Cece,” he replies, slowly. “You never got around to telling me what you want?”