Chapter 3 #2
I make her another glass of water and bring it along with a less sugary cocktail. She takes a sip of the new drink and nods approvingly. “Thank you, Mr. Bartender.”
“His name is Cal,” one of them calls out, snickering. “And he’s the hottest guy in Coconut Beach. He’s single I heard.”
I resist rolling my eyes. Flirting is part of the job here, and I’m used to most nonsense.
And yeah, I am single. By choice. I have enough on my plate, and I’m too busy for a relationship.
If they knew me on a deeper level, they’d know I don’t want to be with someone who considers me a hot bartender.
Nothing surface level. I want a real relationship, and I can’t seem to find that here in Coconut Beach.
We have tourists who come and go. Catching feelings for someone who isn’t permanent is just plain stupid.
And yeah, I’ve had my fair share of stupidity in that department, hence why I turn on the charm for tips, but don’t ever let it expand past that.
Even for pretty, sad runaway brides. Eventually, she’ll go back to her castle in the city. And I know I’ll never leave here.
I just wink and say, “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Marina brings a tray of shots to the ladies, and they all say, “To finding the right one!”
I watch Silvie, and her eyes are sad when she takes her drink.
She just lost who she thought was the right one.
It’s written all over her filthy wedding dress and tearstained cheeks.
Unfortunately, love isn’t for everyone. I, too, learned that lesson the hard way.
Things changed for me about five years ago when I moved back to Coconut Beach.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that this is my life now. Simple, easy, pain-free.
I can’t help but listen to their conversation, but my ears perk up when I hear Silvie say that she’s in town to see Birdie. I pick up her empty glasses and tilt my head in question. “You know Birdie?”
“Yeah, you know her, too?”
I smile at the question. “Everyone knows Birdie.”
“That’s what the rideshare driver told me, too,” she says, wrinkling her brow in confusion.
I glance at the clock. “They’re still doing bingo, though.”
She smiles. “I know. That’s why I came here to wait. I didn’t want to interrupt her.”
Interesting. I wonder if this is the woman Birdie used to nanny for. I can’t remember her saying what her name was, but there was a woman she looked after for years, and she is like family to her. In the past, this woman has come to visit, but I’ve never met her.
Until now.
The bachelorette party pulls Silvie up a few minutes later for dancing.
Which she does, because she’s had at least three drinks in her at this point.
She’s barefoot, having lost her shoes since she got here, that ridiculous dress swishing, and she’s laughing.
Something tells me that she wouldn’t have had this much fun at her wedding.
At least she doesn’t look like she’s about to cry at any second.
I don’t look away as she sways to the music. When she spins a little too hard and stumbles, I’m already moving closer, just in case. She steadies herself and throws me a thumbs’-up as if she knows I’m watching.
I chuckle because she’s certainly keeping me entertained. I move behind the bar, pull out my phone, and step away to make a call.
Birdie answers on the third ring, and I can hear bingo going on in the background. “Cal?”
“It’s me, Birdie. I just wanted you to know that Silvie’s here and I’ll get her home...when she’s done.”
There’s a pause, and a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I was worried when she didn’t call.”
I look back at the dance floor at the way she’s dancing and laughing with strangers. “Yeah, she’s okay.”
Hours pass. Silvie drinks slower than when she first arrived. Laughs at the right moments, though I still sense underlying pain. She never flirts or dances with any guys which is to be expected. Just listens and participates in conversation with the bridal party.
It’s last call, and the bachelorette party is long gone. Silvie is alone at the bar, opening and closing her umbrella that was in her drink as if she’s pondering all of her life’s choices.
“Cal.”
I set down the glasses and look over. “Yes, Silvie?”
Her lips twitch when I say her name, like she enjoys hearing it from me. Honestly, I like saying it.
“I don’t know how to get home,” she admits, overwhelm chasing away her buzz as reality sinks in. Her eyebrows are pinched with worry.
“I already called Birdie,” I assure her. “She knows I’ll bring you home.”
She sighs with relief. “Thank you. I needed this.”
“Needed what?”
She gives me a sad, half-smile. “Someone to be nice to me.”
A flash of irritation burns through me. Not at her. No, I’m lowkey pissed at the guy who did this to her. I’m not looking to swoop in and be her knight in shining armor, but it’s hard not to want to save this damsel in distress. Even I’m not immune and that’s saying something.
We finish up closing, and I walk Marina to her car. She glances back at the bar where Silvie is waiting for me. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with that one?”
I shake my head. “She’s Birdie’s. Just getting her home safe.”
She snorts. “Birdie would kill you if anything happened to her. The Bees would all help her bury your body somewhere.”
“No doubt,” I say as I wave.
I make my way back to Silvie, who’s barely keeping herself upright on her barstool. “Are you ready?”
She looks at me with an absolutely gut-wrenching face.
Fat tears well in her eyes and her features begin to crumple.
She’s had too much to drink. No matter how many waters I supplied her with or how many plates of fries, nachos, and snacks I brought her, she still took shots with the bachelorette party, and she’s about to either lose her shit or her cookies. Neither will be pretty.
Her breaths come out sharp and uneven as her eyes frantically dart all around her. A whine of pure desperation claws its way out of her. I’m momentarily paralyzed because she’s unravelling quickly and I don’t know what to do.
“I need to get out of this dress,” she says, breath hitching. One of the tears race down her cheek. “Before I lose my mind.”
She rubs at the center of her chest as if that’ll help her inhale more air. Her skin is paler than it was just a while ago when she was dancing. As she slides off the stool onto her feet, her entire body shudders. I recognize an impeding panic attack and it’s coming on fast.
“You want me to help you to the bathroom?” I ask, voice low and gentle, hoping to calm her.
She swallows and shakes her head. “I don’t think I can get it off alone.”
“It’ll be okay.”
We make it outside of the bar, and as if being possessed by a demon, she starts clawing at the buttons down her back.
“I’m stuck,” she cries out, panic threading her voice. “I’m actually stuck. I need it off of me. I don’t want it touching me anymore.”
“Hey,” I say gently. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
She murmurs, her lip trembling. “Please help me.”
I take in the dress, the lace, the way her whole body is braced like she’s on the verge of a full-on panic attack.
“Do you care about this dress?” I ask.
She looks at me dead seriously. “I hope I never see this dress ever again.”
“Got it.”
I yank it off in one swoop. Buttons pop loose and scatter like confetti. The dress loosens and slides down, pooling at her feet.
She exhales like she’s been underwater and finally came up for air. Her skin bears marks from the dress’s tight fit. Jesus. This was, in fact, an honest-to-God torture device.
I hand her a beach towel and turn away while she wraps it around herself. As much as the glimpse of lingerie entices the lonely male parts of me, I don’t act on it. Silvie doesn’t even know me and is giving me her trust. Trust isn’t something I take lightly.
“Thank you,” she says, voice full of relief.
“You really are going to be okay,” I assure her.
She smiles at that. Soft. Real. Then her knees buckle, and I’m already moving, lifting her without asking. She doesn’t protest. She just relaxes in my arms as if she trusts I won’t drop her. I won’t. Especially since we left thirty pounds of dead wedding dress weight behind us.
I carry her to my truck and set her down on the seat. I don’t wait for her to struggle with the seatbelt while trying to hold her towel on and just go ahead and buckle her in. I go back for her purse and bag and toss them into the back seat.
I pull my phone out and call Birdie.
She answers on the first ring. “Cal?”
“I’ve got your girl,” I say. “We’re on our way.”
There’s a pause. “Is she okay?”
“She will be,” I tell her.
“I should have cancelled bingo,” Birdie murmurs, guilt in her tone. “She needed me and—”
“She needed tonight,” I interrupt. “I looked after her and now you can take over from here.”
Birdie’s voice softens. “Thank you.”
I look down at the woman who’s now asleep in the seat next to me, hair spilling down her shoulders, face relaxed and finally at peace.
“No problem.”