Chapter 3
WILL
Three weeks. She's been here three weeks, and I've memorized every version of her smile—the fake one for customers, the tired one for Cole, and the real one that slips out when she forgets to be afraid.
That last one is rare. A flash of teeth, a brightness in her eyes that disappears almost as soon as it arrives, like she catches herself enjoying something and has to shut it down.
I've seen it maybe four times. Once when Nash told a terrible joke about a priest and a motorcycle.
Once when she finally untangled Darla's filing system and realized the whole thing had been organized by zodiac sign.
Once when a stray cat wandered into the bar and she spent ten minutes coaxing it close enough to pet.
The fourth time was yesterday, when I brought her coffee without being asked and she looked up at me like I'd handed her something precious.
I'm keeping track. I shouldn't be keeping track.
Friday nights at the Ironside are always busy, but tonight the crowd has an edge to it.
The Mariners lost a game they should have won, and half the bar is drowning their disappointment while the other half argues about what went wrong.
Rain hammers against the windows in sheets, the kind of coastal Oregon downpour that turns the streets into rivers and keeps people inside longer than they planned.
The noise runs somewhere between lively and chaotic, and I move through the room more than usual, checking temperatures, defusing small tensions before they become big ones.
Two guys near the pool table are getting heated over a disputed shot.
I drift close enough to catch their attention, don't say anything, just let them register my presence.
The argument dies down. That's usually all it takes.
Most people don't actually want to fight.
They just need a reason to back off without losing face.
Gemma works behind the bar with Cole, pulling drafts and mixing simple cocktails.
She's gotten better at this over the past few weeks, her movements more confident, her interactions with customers easier.
The tremor in her hands has mostly stopped, though I still catch it sometimes late in the evening when she thinks no one's watching.
I'm always watching. That's the problem.
The man at the end of the bar has been nursing the same whiskey for twenty minutes, which would be fine except he's been staring at Gemma for nineteen of them.
Mid-forties, decent looking in a forgettable way, wearing clothes that cost more than they should for a Friday night at a neighborhood bar.
Tourist, probably. Or someone passing through on business.
Either way, he's got that look I recognize—the one that says he's used to getting what he wants and doesn't hear no very often.
Gemma approaches him to check if he needs anything else, and his hand moves to her forearm before she can step back.
It's casual, proprietary, the kind of touch that could seem friendly if you're not paying attention.
But I'm paying attention, and I see the way her shoulders tighten, the way her smile goes fixed and professional.
"I'm good for now, sweetheart." His voice carries. "But maybe you could keep me company when things slow down? I'm in town until tomorrow. Could use a local to show me around."
Gemma extracts her arm with a smoothness that speaks to practice. "I'm working tonight, but I appreciate the offer. Let me know if you need a refill."
She walks away, and to anyone else it would look like a perfectly handled interaction. A polite rejection, no drama, everyone saves face. Her hand shakes as she reaches for a glass, though, and her breathing comes too deep, too deliberate.
I make my way toward the end of the bar, taking my time, stopping to clear a few empty bottles from a table. By the time I reach the tourist, he's finished his whiskey and is flagging Gemma down for another.
"I've got this one." I step behind the bar, positioning myself between him and Gemma without making it obvious. "What are you drinking?"
His eyes narrow slightly, recalculating. I'm bigger than him by a good four inches and fifty pounds, and I'm not smiling.
"Woodford Reserve. Neat."
I pour the drink and set it in front of him. "Passing through?"
"Business trip." He picks up the glass but doesn't drink, watching me over the rim. "Nice place you've got here. Friendly staff."
"We try." I lean against the back bar, casual, relaxed, taking up space. "Most of our regulars are good people. We look out for each other around here. The staff especially."
The message lands. His jaw tightens. He sets down his drink a little too carefully.
"Just being friendly," he says.
"I'm sure you were." I hold his gaze a beat longer than comfortable. "Enjoy your drink."
I move away before it becomes a confrontation. That's not what I want. I just want him to understand that Gemma isn't alone here, that someone's paying attention, that whatever he thought might happen tonight isn't going to happen.
He finishes his whiskey in two long swallows and leaves a twenty on the bar. Doesn't look at Gemma again on his way out. The door swings shut behind him, letting in a gust of cold, rain-scented air.
Gemma catches my eye from across the bar. She doesn't say anything, doesn't mouth a thank you or acknowledge what just happened. She just looks at me for a long moment, and her expression catches me off guard. Then she turns back to a customer waiting for a refill, and the moment passes.
But I felt it. I'm still feeling it.
The rest of the night passes without incident. The crowd thins around midnight, and by one-thirty we're down to a handful of diehards and the cleanup crew. Cole handles last call while Nash wipes down tables and I start the register count in the back office.
I'm halfway through the receipts when I realize I haven't seen Gemma in twenty minutes.
The stockroom door is closed but not latched. I push it open slowly, giving her time to hear me coming, and find her sitting on an overturned crate with her knees pulled up to her chest.
She's not crying. It's worse than that. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, her hands clenched into fists against her thighs, her eyes fixed on nothing. I've seen this before. Panic attack. The body remembering something the mind is trying to forget.
"Gemma." I keep my voice low, even. "I'm going to come a little closer. That okay?"
Her eyes flick to me, wild and unfocused, and she nods once. I move to the crate across from her and sit down, leaving three feet of space between us. Close enough to be present, far enough that she doesn't feel trapped.
"You're safe," I tell her. "You're at the Ironside. Cole's out front. The doors are locked. Nobody's going to hurt you here."
Her breathing doesn't slow.
"Can you feel your feet on the floor?" I ask. "Press them down. Feel the concrete."
She does, and something in her posture shifts, anchors.
"Good. Now your hands. Open them up. Feel the air on your palms."
Her fingers uncurl slowly, trembling. She stares at them like they belong to someone else.
"You're doing great. Now tell me five things you can see."
The stockroom smells like cardboard and the faint sweetness of spilled beer that never quite comes out of concrete.
Somewhere beyond the door, I can hear Nash laughing at something, the distant clink of glasses being stacked.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds. I focus on keeping my breathing slow and even, hoping she'll mirror it without realizing.
"I..." Her voice comes out cracked. "Boxes. The shelf. Your boots. The light. The door."
"Four things you can hear."
"The music. The ice machine. Your voice. My heartbeat."
"Three things you can feel."
"The crate. My jeans. Cold air."
Her breathing starts to slow. The wild look in her eyes fades, replaced by exhaustion and shame.
"I'm sorry." She wipes her face with the back of her hand, though there are no tears. "I don't know what happened. I was fine, and then I just..."
"You don't have to explain." I stay where I am, hands resting on my knees, every line of my body telegraphing that I'm not going to move without her permission. "That guy was out of line. Anyone would be shaken."
"It wasn't just him." She shakes her head. "It's everything. It's always everything, all the time, and I can't make it stop."
The words hang in the air between us. I want to ask what she means. I want to ask about the husband, about the fear she carries, about everything she's not saying. But this isn't the moment, and I'm not the person she owes those answers to.
"You don't have to make it stop," I say instead. "You just have to get through it. One minute at a time. And you don't have to do it alone."
She looks at me then, really looks. Recognition, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.
"Thank you." Her voice is steadier now. "For talking me through that. For earlier, with the customer. For all of it."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know." A ghost of that real smile flickers across her face. "I'm doing it anyway."
She stands, and I stand with her, and for a moment we're close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to. I don't. I keep my hands at my sides and let her move past me toward the door.
"Will." She stops with her hand on the frame, not looking back. "I'm not ready to talk about it. Any of it. But I want you to know that I see what you're doing. The way you watch out for me. The way you don't push."
"I'm not doing anything special."
"Yes, you are." She glances over her shoulder, and her eyes are clear now, present. "You're being careful with me. And I forgot that people could be like that."
She leaves before I can respond, and I'm left standing in the stockroom with her words echoing in my head and a feeling in my chest that has no business being there.