Chapter 3 #2
It’s as if it never happened when the customer turns back to me with a smile on his face.
Joviality returns to the room, now that they have vented any frustrations towards the screens, and even Joey is returning to the conversation that had been interrupted.
It’s all a little jarring as the customer repeats his order at me, and I’m forced to continue as normal—and it is the acceptance of normalcy that chills my spine.
The counter serves as a comfortable barrier while I converse, and the men are much friendlier than expected.
The tide is turning as customers roll through, and I whip between fresh faces, trying to internalise names and drink orders, working like I’ve got something to prove.
Not to anyone in particular, and Joey is unaware I’ve begun a competition against him, not wanting to be thought less of just because I’m a woman.
I feel it this time, like the static of a storm building—a shift in atmosphere as the clock strikes five.
It all happens in real time now—the unanimous turn of bodies like aliens being called to the mothership.
Another glance at Joey to find him leaning against the counter, his grip turning white against the stone surface.
I had hoped he was different, but he hates like all of them.
There are more customers this time, hissing and shouting, with either the number of them or the alcohol loosening any restraint.
My face points forward and my eyes close as I urge myself to block him out.
Unlike the others, it’s not the international leaders paraded as enemies that make me angry.
It’s President Beckett. There’s a strain on my nervous system as I encourage it to ignore everything about his voice, which urges rage.
I can appreciate that my temper is often unruly, but for him to provoke it feels like a defeat.
Deep in my chest, it bubbles, like a simmering pot.
With each word, the temperature rises, but I breathe in through my nose and exhale through pursed lips, just like my father taught me.
The cheers confirm that it’s over, and with those few passing seconds, I’m drained from the exertion.
But there’s no time to recover when a surge of customers arrives at 5:35—the end of the working day for most of the city—and Joey continues to sweep around me, cooly handling the rush while I fumble to keep up.
But as polite as everyone is being, I can’t help but grow frustrated with myself.
Every time I spin toward the liquor wall, my vision blurs over the multitude of bottles.
Why on earth are there so many? They all look the same, and I swear to God, if someone orders another old-fashioned, I will launch it across the bar.
The influx of bodies has rammed the temperature up by what feels like thirty degrees.
My curls stick around my moistening hairline, and a train of sweat travels down the back of my neck before I tie them into a bundle above my head.
The green flannel shirt I wear over a vest top is doing me no favours, but the potentially greedy eyes of men encourage it to stay on, even with the moisture pooling at my lower back.
Despite feeling flustered, I believe I appear calm and composed on the outside—that is, until Joey leans over, startling me out of focus.
“Don’t worry. Another ten minutes, and the storm will be over,” he whispers.
I look at him, and he dives back into another order, smoothly chatting while preparing a drink.
His hair isn’t even sticking to his face!
With a deep breath, I force a grin and ride out the next few minutes—but he’s right.
The room becomes full of seated patrons, and our counter area is clear with a heaving tip jar, which Joey takes from the counter.
“That was wild,” I say, planting my hands on my hips, my brain panting as if it has run a race in the information invasion.
He’s pulled the dollars out, smiling as he sorts them into a stack between his fingers. “Pfft. You did great.”
He flicks through and splits them in two, handing me one pile. I haven’t counted them, but visually, it’s more tips than I got at the diner in a week.
“Are you sure?” I say, reluctantly accepting them from him.
He folds his stack in half, tucking it into his back jeans pocket. “Absolutely. I would’ve been dealing with that for another hour without you.”
I thank him, taking the cash and slipping it beneath my top into the safety of my bra, at which Joey smothers a questioning brow. He pulls his dishtowel from his shoulder, tucking it into the belt of his jeans before leaning against the back of the bar, patting the spot beside him.
“Chill time, Lee. It’s all downhill from here.”
I stand beside him, and from his pocket, he pulls a red tube of sweets, gesturing for my hand, and he pops a pink cubed candy into my palm.
I taste the flavour before it even hits my tongue.
The strong, sweet, artificial strawberry blooms, melting along my taste-buds, but my brow presses as I chew it, and I chew it, yet it doesn’t go anywhere…
“Joey… What is this?”
“It’s bubblegum. You chew it, and—” He blows a huge pink bubble, holds it steady before it pops, and pokes it back into his mouth. He’s as perplexed at the notion of me not knowing about bubblegum as I am at the idea of its existence.
We sit quietly, leaning against the bar. He spoke freely to everyone else, but doesn’t barrage me with questions, while I don’t want to begin interrogations into his life either, leaving a comfort to our silence.
The eight o’clock Unity Siren happens, and even though it’s the last one of the day, I’m horrified at the thought of having to resist the anger every day from here on in.
My eyes open, and I can feel in my periphery Joey watching me.
He breaks his stare as soon as I spot him, and I wonder if he noticed my eyes were closed.
There’s no proof, but I don’t need the pressure of being reported.
It wouldn’t take much for a loyalist to drip-feed reports of rebellious behaviour to a ranger.
You could lie on every report, but enough demerits against your name is a surefire way to get yourself beaten and taken.
I wouldn’t be confident in assuming what happens to women.
No matter how rare we are, we’re not untouchable when it comes to rebellious activity.
As the night progresses, I put myself forward to serve people, to practise, but Joey seems to find it hard to sit back and let me work, reaching for and passing me the required liquor.
After serving another customer, I return to my spot, but he is looking at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes and arms crossed.
“I think I’ve figured you out,” he says. “I know your secret.”
My face blanches with my mouth parting in shock. What the hell does he mean? Which secret?! My hate for Beckett? My life before here? There’s no way…
He points at me and whispers, “You’re from the Wilds, aren’t you?”
The panic escapes with my exhale. That’s a secret I can handle, and I nod with a smirk while a smile lifts his cheeks. He leans in, whispering excitedly, “Me too!”
“Don’t lie!” I whisper back. “Where?!”
“West Coast. But then we moved the farm farther inland when things got more difficult. Some of my brothers are still out there.”
“Farm girl right here,” I say with a raised hand. “West Coast, though? Did you have fruit orchards?”
He claps, a habit he’s attained in a self-celebratory way. “Yup! Peaches, apples, pears … and all the berries! We caught a serious sweet tooth out there. What about you guys?”
Ahhhh, crap. A gateway question into my life, sending me squirming at the thought of talking about my family, so I keep it vague. “Barley. We were big on barley. So, some of your brothers are still out there, huh?”
“Yeah, they are. I miss the space, honestly—it’s all so close here. What about you? What do you miss about farm life?”
A flood of memories glows warm in my chest, but they rush, overstepping and barging into one another like a stampede of bodies.
It’s enough to sway me, as if the internal riot affects my balance.
I purposefully close my eyes tight, but it does nothing to calm the hustle, so I snap them open with my mind jolting caution to myself.
Thinking about the past won’t help me. Nostalgia leads to heartache, but out of the madness, there is one thing that rises above it all, offering itself to my attention.
“The camaraderie,” I say with a smirk. “Everyone pitching in, working together… It was hard work, but it was never boring, right?” I look at him for confirmation, and he’s nodding with a distant gaze.
“So true. I think anything after farm work feels easy! But surely we’re comrades now, right?” he says, offering a fist bump, and I return a gentle tap. He leans in conspiratorially. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
My brows crumple, and I whisper back, “About the Wilds?”
He shakes his head lightly, his smile finally straightening out, whispering, “That you can’t bear to watch the Unity Siren.”
My inhale shudders at the fact that he even acknowledged it, but it was how he worded it that gets me. Not a lack of loyalism, not an act of defiance, but that he recognizes that it pains me. I’m trying to formulate a reply, a defence, but his smile returns.
“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t need to justify it. I’ll not tell.”
“Don’t,” I gulp before saying, “I can’t afford to get in trouble.”
His smile seems pained. “You don’t trust me?”
“I just met you.”
He laughs and shrugs his shoulders. “Fair point… Okay.” He leans in, whispering, “My TV in the apartment is disconnected from the intranet. I don’t listen to the Siren unless I have to. I don’t like how it makes me feel.”
I can’t help but smile at his confession. “How does it make you feel?”
He’s hesitant, and I nudge with my elbow. “What? You don’t trust me?”