Chapter 18
Ada
Iwalk the whole way back to Afterglow. Two hours across the crumbling spine of Auckland, my calves screaming with every incline, but I don’t care.
I need to be alone more than I need to be inside someone else’s car with Jake’s jersey.
I hold it close, and though I want to toss it into every bin I pass, smarter parts of me know I’d regret it.
“Mice,” she says.
I go still. “What?”
“A customer saw three of them running around the bathroom and called the council.” She takes a long drag on her cigarette. “Actually, the idiot called the cops, who told them to call the fuckin’ council, because that’s the kind of world we’re living in.”
“Holy shit. The bar—”
“Shut down. A bloke from the health board came and saw a mouse with his own fuckin’ eyes. Instant closure. Say we’ve gotta call in an exterminator ASAP. We’re shut for two weeks regardless. Probably more.”
“Fucking hell.”
I’m no businesswoman, but even I know a vermin-based health shutdown spells death for a bar. Reputations don’t survive stuff like this. Not in Auckland. Not with social media.
“Mice?” I say to Aggie. “Since when has Stabbies had mice?”
“Never. Not in my kitchen.”
My stomach churns. Jenny Wallis. She did this. Those mice were a delivery.
It’s too nuts for any health inspector to believe, but she was here, and she used the bathroom, and I know better than anyone that she has a history of unsanitary personal attacks.
“Cece?” I say, looking around. “How’s Cece? Where is she?”
Aggie points her cigarette over her shoulder. “Still inside talking to Davis.”
“Okay.” I hold out two fingers, and she passes the smoke over without a word. I take a drag and hand it back.
“Bad week,” Aggie exhales.
“Bad year.” I shove Jake’s jersey into my tote as I stare into Cece’s battered bar.
The place she hoped to build her empire.
I push open the front door and find everything’s dark.
Silent in a way it’s never felt before. Like it knows it’s been betrayed.
Cece and Davis are standing by the back booths.
They’re inches apart, but that’s not a good thing. They’re clearly mid-argument.
“You need a proper operations manager, Cee,” Davis snarls. “You can’t run everything on the fly depending on how you feel that day. That’s not a system.”
“I don’t need a manager,” Cece snaps. “I need a priest to break this fucking curse.”
I want to jump in. Hug her or tell Davis to turn down his condescending tone, but Cece’s hair’s pulled into one of those overtight buns that screams ‘meltdown mode,’ and I’ve never seen Davis so pissed.
Me getting involved might make everything worse.
I step back into the shadows, praying Cece can set this straight on her own.
“You’re not listening to me,” Davis says. “Getting worked up about all of this isn’t going to fix anything. You need to—”
“I need a fucking break.”
Her voice is shredded, fraying at every edge. I bite the inside of my cheek. Cece hardly ever talks to people like this, but she’s been softened and polished into sympathetic politeness for too long, and now she’s about to blow.
Davis doesn’t see the warning signs. He can’t, or he wouldn’t still be talking.
“You can’t afford to be emotional about this,” he tells Cece. “If the inspectors come back and it’s still a mess, they could fine you. Or close you for good. Or both.”
I cover my mouth to stop myself from telling him to back off. Despite the shit I give him, I’ve always liked Davis. I’ve been rooting for him and Cece. But right now I can’t believe what a patronising dick he’s being.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Cece shouts.
“I’m just trying to help—”
“No, you’re trying to take control. Like I’m falling apart, and I need a man to step in and make the big decisions for me.”
“That’s not what this is!”
“Isn’t it? Because you keep talking like I don’t know my own bar.
Like, I haven’t been carrying this place for the last year, breathing and sweating and not-sleeping for it.
I hired you, Davis. No, you kind of made me hire you.
And now you run the door and stand around looking pissed off, and giving me advice, and sometimes that’s sweet, but at the moment it’s just condescending. ”
“I care about this place, Cee. You know that.”
“I do know that, but—”
“And not just because I work here. I care about you.”
I push my hand even harder to my mouth, but this time it’s to keep from groaning. Of all the moments to declare his feelings, Davis just picked the worst one.
Cece lets out a breath that’s almost a sob. “Yeah, and that’s the problem. You care about me, and I care about you, but I’m your boss, Davis. I’m not your girlfriend. It’s really confusing when you treat me like I’m one and not the other.”
Silence. A full beat where I pray he’s going to apologise. Maybe even tear up.
Instead, he lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t worry. You made it real clear where I stand, Cee. You ever think maybe the reason you’re not my girlfriend is because you don’t actually want a boyfriend? Just someone to clean up your messes?”
Cece flinches, and my anger blazes in my chest. Still, I force myself to stay put. It’s Cece’s moment to burn, and I keep my rage in check as I silently watch her land the final blow.
“Actually, Davis,” she says in a quivering voice. “You’re not my boyfriend because when I decide I want one, I’ll be looking for a partner who doesn’t treat me like a project.”
Her words land like a mortar shell. Davis looks at her for a second, then turns on his heel and stalks to the kitchen. I hear him leave through the back door, slamming it behind him like punctuation.
I allow a tiny moan to escape. He had a real shot with her, but he overplayed it. Tried to do too much, too soon. And with Will Sharpe hanging around, that door might’ve just slammed shut as hard as the kitchen one.
Cece folds herself into a booth and cries, her shoulders shaking with every sob. I exhale and head toward her, approaching slowly.
“Hey,” I call. “Shitshow, all ’round?”
She raises her head and flashes me a watery smile. “Pretty much.”
“Fuck,” I say for what feels like the millionth time. I should sew the word into a fifty-foot banner and fly it above my head.
“It’s not just Davis. It’s everything. The bar. Jenny showing up. The fucking audacity of men.” She laughs, a low, weary sound. “Why do they all think we’re going to break without them?”
“No idea,” I say, sliding into the seat across from hers. “But if you do break, it won’t be because of some rodent drop-off from Jenny.”
“You think it was her, too?”
“I know it was.”
We’re quiet for a moment, Cece pulls her hoodie tighter around her neck. “You know what? Let’s go to Pukekohe.”
“You’re sure? Aren’t there things you need to sort?”
“Nope. The bar’s shut and I’ve sent everyone home. Aggie’s already offered to have Des come around and sort the mice and… I don’t know. I kind of just want to leave it with her. I can’t think about this anymore, and I don’t want to be here another second. Let’s just leave.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. If I stay, I’m gonna burn the place down.”
“Then let’s go. You packed?”
“Yup.”
“Me too. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We head upstairs and collect our luggage, leaving the bar dark behind us.
A wave of loneliness sweeps over me until I look at my ivy tattoo. A permanent reminder that I’m not alone.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say to Cece.
“I’m glad you’re here, too,” she says, more tears welling in her eyes. “Whatever’s waiting for us at home can’t be worse than this.”
Pukekohe isn’t my home, but the closest I have is with her.
I don’t say that, though. I don’t say anything as we walk around Stabbies to where Cece’s blue Toyota Yaris is parked.
When I first got here, I spraypainted ‘The Boss’ in front of her space in hot pink.
The sight of the letters, faded on the asphalt, makes me want to cry.
Cece is the boss. She deserves to be treated like the boss.
I hate that all of this is happening to her, and it’s all my fault.
If I hadn’t risen to Jenny’s Instagram bait, she never would have come here…
Cece gets into the driver’s seat, and I take shotgun. ‘Sleep To Dream’ blares to life as she cranks the engine. I close my eyes, and we might be fucked up failures with a million questions and no answers, but we’re together, and in this moment, it’s enough to get moving.
Besides, Cece’s right. Things can’t possibly get worse.