Kim #2
"You think you're too good for me?" His voice was lower now. Not loud enough for the whole bar to hear, but loud enough. "You're a bartender in a shithole bar. You should be grateful I'm even…"
His hand shot out again. He grabbed my hip this time. His fingers pressed into the curve of it.
I froze. My body went rigid, every muscle locking into place. Fight or flight, and I couldn't do either, not without causing a scene, not without risking my job, not without…
"Chuck. Enough."
The quiet one. He was looking up now, finally, his green eyes fixed on Chuck with an expression of absolute boredom. Like this was tedious. Like Chuck was tedious.
Chuck turned, hand still on my hip. "What?"
"She said she's not interested. Leave her alone."
"Since when do you care about…"
"You're drunk. You're being a jerk. Stop."
They stared at each other. Something passed between them, some silent communication I wasn't privy to. Chuck's jaw worked. His fingers twitched against my hip.
Then he dropped his hand.
"Whatever, man." He turned back to his drink, shoulders hunched. "Just having fun."
The quiet one looked at me. His expression softened into something that might have been an apology. "Sorry about him," he said. "He's a nuisance when he's drunk."
I nodded. Didn't say thank you. I didn't need saving, and I didn't owe him gratitude for his friend being a creep. That wasn't how this worked. I walked back to the bar and didn't look at their table again.
They left around two-thirty. The quiet one opened his wallet, grabbed some cash, and left it on the table. I waited until the door swung shut behind them before going to clear the booth. Empty glasses, scattered napkins, a puddle of something sticky I didn't want to identify. Standard aftermath.
And the tip.
I stared at it. I counted it twice, certain I'd made a mistake.
A thousand dollars.
My hands trembled slightly as I gathered the bills. A thousand dollars. That was more than I made in a month at this job. More than I made in six weeks, if I was being honest about the slow nights and the lousy tippers and the reality of bartending in a place like Rosie's.
It was offensive, almost. Like he was trying to buy something. My silence about what Chuck did. My forgiveness. My... what? Admiration? Gratitude?
Rich people. All they knew how to do was throw money at things. Wave enough cash around and the problems disappeared, the awkwardness smoothed over, the consequences erased.
I should leave it. Should tell Hector to put it in the register, donate it, or throw it away. I didn't need charity. I didn't need some wealthy stranger assuaging his guilt by making it rain on the help.
But Zoe needed new shoes. Her sneakers had a hole in the toe that I'd been patching with duct tape, hoping they'd last another month. And the electric bill was due next week, and I was still short from when the car needed new brake pads, and—
I pocketed the money.
Pride was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not anymore.
When I looked up, the quiet one was standing by the door. The others had already filed out, their voices fading into the cold night. He was watching me, and when our eyes met, he smiled.
"Thank you," I said. The words felt like glass in my throat. "For the tip."
His smile widened. "For the trouble. I know we're not an easy bunch." Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and I was alone with a thousand dollars in my pocket.
I finished clearing the booth. Wiped down the table. Carried the glasses back to the bar and started washing them, the hot water stinging my chapped hands.
Through the window, I could see the quiet one climbing into a car parked at the curb.
The driver's seat, I noticed. The car was ridiculous.
Some sleek European thing. I didn't know enough about cars to identify the make, but I knew enough about money to know that thing was worth more than I'd earn in a decade.
That kind of money could change everything.
Could set us up for life, me and Zoe. We wouldn't have to live in a building with a broken elevator and a hallway that always smelled like mildew.
We wouldn't have to choose between groceries and electricity.
I could get a car that didn't make ominous noises every time I turned left.
But no. Give that kind of money to rich people, and they spend it on cars. On watches. On bottle service at clubs.
I watched as the car pulled away from the curb, taillights disappearing around the corner. I wondered who he was, or if I'd ever see him again.
Probably not. Men like that didn't exist in my world. Not anymore. Not after Cole, who had promised me everything and delivered nothing, who had disappeared the moment things got hard and left me to figure out the rest on my own.
I finished my shift. Clocked out at 2:12 AM. My breath came out in white puffs as I walked to my car—a fifteen-year-old Honda Civic with rust spots on the fender and a heater that only worked when it felt like it.
I kept the radio off as I drove. I needed to reset my mind from all the chaos of the day. I parked in my usual spot a few feet from my building and headed straight for Dani’s.
Her apartment was on the third floor, same as mine, just down the hall. I knocked softly, not wanting to wake anyone, and a moment later the door cracked open.
"Hey." Dani was in her pajamas, hair wrapped in a silk scarf, eyes heavy with interrupted sleep. "She's out cold."
"Thank you. Seriously. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'd figure it out." Dani stepped back to let me in. "She's on the couch. I didn't want to move her and risk waking her up."
Zoe was curled into a ball on Dani's sofa, her stuffed elephant tucked under her chin, her dark hair fanned across the pillow someone had slipped under her head. She looked so small. So peaceful.
I scooped her up as gently as I could. She stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, then nestled her face into my neck and went still again.
"She ate all her dinner," Dani whispered. "And she beat Joey at three games of Candy Land. He's convinced she cheated."
I smiled despite my exhaustion. "She probably did. She's ruthless."
"Wonder where she gets that from."
I carried Zoe down the hall to our apartment, fumbling with my keys one-handed, managing to get the door open without waking her. Our place was dark and quiet, the streetlight outside casting long shadows across the living room floor.
I navigated by memory, avoiding the coffee table, the stack of library books we hadn't returned yet, and the tiny shoes Zoe had kicked off by the door.
Her room was barely bigger than a closet, but it was hers. I'd made sure of that when we moved in. She deserved her own space. Her own walls to hang drawings on, her own bed to have bad dreams in, her own door to close when she needed to be alone.
I'd never had that, growing up. I'd had shared rooms and foster siblings and the constant awareness that nothing was really mine, that everything could be taken away at any moment.
Zoe would have something different. Zoe would have better. I'd make sure of it.
I tucked her in, smoothing the blanket over her small body, brushing the hair back from her forehead. She sighed in her sleep, and my heart squeezed the way it always did when I looked at her.
My daughter. My whole world.
I pressed a kiss to her forehead and crept out of the room, leaving the door cracked open the way she liked it, then retreated to my room. I set my alarm, plugged in my phone, and collapsed onto my bed without bothering to change out of my clothes.
I passed out the moment my body hit the bed. And less than three hours later, I was awake. Not because of my alarm, but because a small hand was patting my cheek, and a small voice was whispering, "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."
I opened my eyes. Zoe stood beside my bed, clutching her stuffed elephant, her dark hair a tangled mess around her face.
"Hey, baby." My voice came out rough, thick with sleep. I cleared my throat and tried again. "What's the matter?"
"I had a bad dream."
I lifted the corner of my blanket. She didn't need a second invitation.
She scrambled up onto the bed and burrowed against my side, her small body fitting perfectly into the curve of mine.
She was warm from sleep, and she smelled like the strawberry shampoo we'd bought on sale last week.
Two bottles for five dollars. Small victories.
"What was the dream about?" I asked, stroking her hair.
"There were monsters, mommy. And I couldn't find you. I kept calling and calling, but you weren't there."
I pulled her closer, pressing my lips to the top of her head. "I'm here," I said. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
We stayed like that until my alarm went off. Zoe groaned and pulled the blanket over her head. I sympathized. I wanted to do the same thing. But the day wasn't going to wait for us, no matter how tired we were.
I had a system. I had to, or nothing would get done.
Zoe's outfit was already laid out on her dresser, selected the night before: purple leggings, her favorite t-shirt with the sparkly rocket ship, warm socks because the apartment was always cold in the mornings.
I got her dressed while she was still half-asleep, her arms limp as noodles, as I guided them through the sleeves.
Breakfast was oatmeal. I made it the way she liked, with a swirl of cinnamon and raisins arranged into a smiley face. She giggled when she saw it, the bad dream already fading, and I felt some of the tension in my shoulders ease.
"Mommy, guess what?"
"What?"
"Yesterday, Joey said girls can't be astronauts."
I paused mid-motion, the brush I was using on her hair hovering in the air. "Oh yeah? And what did you tell him?"
Zoe grinned, showing the gap where she'd lost her first tooth last month. "I told him he was dumb and I'm definitely going to be an astronaut."
I bit back a laugh. "Maybe we don't call people dumb. But you're absolutely going to be an astronaut if that's what you want."
"I know."