5. Esperr
ESPERR
The bar is already alive when I step inside.
I’m surrounded by bright lights, loud speakers, and laughter that’s piercing through my skull.
It’s the kind that rattles behind my eyes and makes my skin feel too thin.
Even the smell of cheap beer, sticky sugar, fryer grease, and stale cigarettes clings to the wood that probably hasn’t been cleaned since this place first opened.
My head throbs beneath my temples like it’s trying to escape, which only causes tension in my shoulders and down my back.
I swallow and slip behind the counter, keeping my shoulders back and chin lifted just enough to look normal, like I’m fine, or at least like I’m functional. Even if every part of me wants to curl into a ball and cry.
A woman, a regular, slides a bill across the bar without looking up from her phone. I ring her order in and move behind the bar with mechanical muscle memory; pour, slide, smile, and repeat.
My smile feels like a stretch of plastic, convincing from five feet away but slick and unnatural on the inside.
“Evening, baby girl.”
I already know that voice; I hear it every shift—Dean, mid-thirties, forever wearing a ball cap with a button-up and jeans. He leans forward on his elbows, grinning familiarly in a way that makes it less threatening, like he’s a safe space, but they all look that way at first.
“You always make it sound like you’ve been waiting for me,” I say, rolling my eyes.
His eyebrows lift, surprised that I’m probably even talking to him. “Maybe I have.”
His words almost make me laugh; Dean doesn’t know me. He likes the idea of me, the version built on small talk and poured drinks, plus he’s drunk ninety-five percent of the time.
I turn away to wipe down the bar's counter, letting the clatter of beer bottles and laughter throughout the bar fill the space between us. Right now, noise is safer than silence because silence makes room for thoughts, and mine are never that kind.
Dean leans forward, resting his forearms on the ledge. “You been here all day?”
“Nah, just the evening,” I say, holding a napkin that doesn’t need folding. “I had my other job this morning.”
He lifts a brow like that surprises him. It probably does; he works for himself and makes a stupid amount of money. “Oh, you little workaholic."
I give him a small shrug. “Oh yeah, that’s me, but bills don’t pay themselves.”
He laughs like I’m joking, but I’m not.
“Come on now, you should take a night off. I could take you out—maybe go to the lake? It’s quiet there, a bonfire spot, beers, and stars.”
My throat tightens knowing he means well. Dean’s sweet in the sunlight kind of way, the kind of boy you say yes to in another life, one that is normal—whole.
But he doesn’t know the version of me that doesn’t laugh easily, the one that wakes up shaking. Or the version for me that has bruises and begging for the suffering to end.
Still, I smile anyway, pushing away the pain and say, “Thanks, but no.”
His grin grows like I had said the word yes. Then someone calls his name from across the bar at some table.
He taps the counter twice. “Rain check?”
“Sure,” I say, pretending like I’m disappointed even though I’m not. Not in the slightest.
And as soon as he turns, the moment collapses behind him, and silence wraps around me too tight.
My smile falls the second he’s gone and my hand trembles again. I press my palm to my apron, hoping that it’ll stop.
The music spikes suddenly, laughter erupting from a group of college guys near the pool table, and the nerves snap like a frayed wire. And my breath stutters, noise crashing into me like a wave I don’t have time to brace for.
I swallow and move down the bar, tossing beer bottles into the trash because if I stop to think even for a second, I’ll break.
Orders blur along with time, while my body moves out of habit rather than being aware. I pour amber liquid over ice and slide the glass across the bar toward a man I don’t recognize—tall, in a dark jacket, with this stillness in his posture that begs for attention without having to ask.
Our fingers don’t touch, but I can feel the warmth of them ghost over my skin.
He smiles, slow and easy, as if he just decided I’m something worth looking at.
“You this sweet to everyone, or am I just special?” he asks, tapping the rim of the glass with one finger.
I blink, thrown back for a second, and then I force a small laugh, mostly because I want to stab his eyeball out.
“It’s part of the job,” I say, putting the whiskey bottle back before straightening a napkin that doesn’t need to be fixed. “You’d be surprised how far a smile gets you in this place.”
He watches me like he’s trying to pick apart the pieces I don’t show, and he won’t find anything. I’ve been hiding my entire life, and I’m good at it.
“Maybe,” he says, leaning forward, elbows in the middle of the bar, “but that wasn’t a ‘for the job’ kind of smile. That one looked real.”
I remained emotionless, slowly blinking, because while he thought that was a real smile, it wasn’t.
“It really wasn’t,” I tell him, busying myself by grabbing a second coaster, wiping down a perfectly clean spot on the bar just so I have something to focus on and something for my hands to do—I really can’t stab a customer.
He laughs, confident and harmless. “You come off shy; it’s cute.”
Cute.
No one has ever called me that, and I don’t like it coming from his mouth. I feel something in my chest loosen and then tighten again when the pain in my abdomen throbs sharply suddenly. Pretending like it’s nothing, I keep working, pouring drinks for a group of men who already had too much.
And the guy doesn’t leave, just waits patiently, like the conversation is still happening even though I’m several feet away opening a beer bottle for someone else.
When I return, he hands me his empty glass, and his finger purposely brushes mine.
“You always this busy?” he asks.
“Pretty much,” I shrug, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Easier to keep my mind off things.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret it.
He tilts his head. “Things like what?”
I freeze for half a second, really hating that I put my foot in my mouth. Then I’m clearing my throat. “Life,” I say quickly. “You know, adult things, bills, and work.” I chuckle to try and play it off, hoping it’s enough.
He laughs with me, but I’m sure it’s for an entirely different reason. “Fair enough. But you should take a break sometime, go out, and live life a little. You’re only young once.”
I bite my lip, pretending that the idea is interesting and doesn’t terrify me. “Maybe.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes dropping before traveling back up to my eyes.
“You wanna go out?” he asks suddenly. “Sometime this week? We could get a drink or something, nothing too crazy. Maybe dinner?”
My pulse spikes, and it’s not with excitement—it’s pressure and expectation. It’s the kind where in this moment there’s a right and a wrong one, and I always seem to pick the wrong choice.
“Yeah… no,” I say, shaking my head. If I did date, it definitely wouldn’t be him.
I’d end him—literally kill him. And it wouldn’t be in anger or panic.
I know where the woods are, which stretches don’t get much foot traffic, and how deep you have to dig.
It’s not like I want to kill him, but I would.
When continuing to stand there like I hadn’t just turned him down, I turned to give him my full attention. “I’m not interested.”
His smile drops, and not in a good way—not like he’s just disappointed.
“Figures,” he snarls. “I was just taking pity on the ugly chick.” He walks back to his table, leaving me standing there with trembling hands and a heart that can’t decide if it wants to race or collapse.
Grabbing a rag I start to clean the same five inches of the counter over and over, trying to find a slice of calm that’s nowhere in sight.
My brain picks apart everything I did wrong like it always does.
And somewhere in all the noise, a shadow passes by the far end of the bar—someone is watching, but I’m too overwhelmed to care.
When the last call bell rings, I exhale shakily like I’ve been held prisoner for the past few hours. My skin feels too tight, and my chest buzzes from panic, pain, and exhaustion all mixing together.
Jackson, the name of the guy who asked me out, just left, and I feel like it’s the first time that I could slip into the back hallway.
The lights are dimmer here; the fluorescent buzzes while I nearly trip over my own feet to make it to the bathroom. Shutting the door behind me, I lock it quickly as if someone’s going to rip it open and demand I stay functional.
I barely make it to the toilet before I close the lid and sink down, elbows on my knees.
Deep breath.
And another, then another.
But none of it reaches deep enough.
Pain pulses low, rhythmic, and suffocating.
I press my palms into my thighs, nails digging crescent shapes into my skin through my leggings. It grounds me more than any other coping strategy has ever tried to teach me.
But a sob still catches halfway up my throat, and while I try to swallow it, my chest still pulls tight, shrinking my lungs. It tears out of me with a broken sound that I try to muffle in my sleeve.
Tears burn hot trails down my cheeks; I quickly wipe them away, angry at myself for being so weak.
Stop crying.
There’s nothing to cry about.
It was nothing but a stupid question from a guy that just wants a date.
But my brain latches onto that flash of eye contact like it was proof that I could be worthy of some kind. And then immediately thinking that I’m pathetic.
My thoughts swing violently with no stopping—affection and then abandonment, from being adored to being forgotten, from wanted to disposable.
I hate it.
I hate how lonely I feel in a stall meant for privacy, not stupid little girl melt-downs. And I hate how the connection tastes like sweetness I haven’t earned.
I hate my body for hurting and my mind for spiraling. Mostly I hate myself for wanting anything at all.
But what I truly hate is that it wasn’t him, the one that I feel like I’ve been searching for since he left.
I cover my mouth to quiet the next sob, not wanting anyone to hear me break.