Chapter 19
Lauren
Saturday night I got to the bar early and wrote table numbers down my left arm with a Sharpie because paper vanished, my phone was useless in the apron, and I was fresh out of room to fuck up.
Not cute, but whatever. It still beat eating shit in front of everybody again.
Week one, I’d been a walking disaster. Dropped trays, mixed up orders, basically handed everyone a front-row seat to my incompetence. Week two was better, though Haley still had to cover my mistakes. Tonight was make-or-break, and I wasn’t about to break.
The bar got busy fast. Way busier than a Tuesday in small-town nowhere usually is, but fine. Great. Love that for me. I kept my head down and tried not to think about everyone probably watching for the next stupid thing I did.
The system was simple. Table three ordered three beers, I made three little marks next to the 3 on my arm. Delivered the beers, wiped the marks off with my thumb. By then I had black ink smeared all over my forearm, but at least I wasn’t forgetting who ordered what.
Around nine, this drunk guy at the bar started getting loud. He’d been crowding the woman beside him for ten minutes, talking over her and bumping her stool every time he leaned in. By the time he snapped for another drink, I was already done with him.
He saw me walk past. “Hey, sweetheart, bring me another.”
Oh hell no.
I stopped and looked at him.
“You’re done. Here’s water.”
I set the glass down.
“I didn’t ask for water.”
“Yeah, well, I’m cutting you off. Drink it or leave.”
He stared at me. I stared back, acting like my pulse wasn’t trying to climb out of my body.
Jackson stayed behind the bar, ready if it went bad. He watched me do it, and that made my hands shake harder.
Knowing he was watching made my skin heat up, which was fucking annoying at the worst possible time.
The guy grabbed the water, muttered something I chose not to hear, and drank it.
When I turned away, my hands were shaking badly enough that I had to grab the service station before I trusted myself with another glass.
For the next few tables, my throat stayed tight. Every time a man raised his voice, it came back, hot and close, like I was standing at that bar again.
Across the room, Haley was watching. Approval crossed her face, quick, then shut down before she turned away.
Cool. Good to know she was physically capable of approving.
Table four wanted three lagers and extra ranch, table two changed their burger order twice, and I got all of it out without Haley fixing a damn thing behind me.
Somebody kept yelling for more ice, the fryer screamed in back, and the floor kept trying to take my ankle out from under me.
After hours of nonstop moving, with my feet killing me and my ankle rubbing against Kevin’s brace all night, reminding me of his hands and his voice and the way he’d put me back together like it was nothing, I still didn’t fuck up once.
Not one tray down or one wrong order. Every table got what they asked for because I had a whole tracking system written on my arm.
Twice I caught Jackson looking at the brace before he dragged his eyes back up.
By ten, customers were asking me for things without looking past me for Haley.
The tips were good too. Better than LA, which was rude.
By closing, my forearm was smeared black, and Jackson looked at it a second too long before he said anything.
He was cleaning the bar when I finished up.
He stayed on his side. I stayed on mine. Good thing too, because that little strip of wood was doing plenty.
“You were solid tonight. Needed that.”
He shifted half a step, looked at my arm, then grabbed the rag beside him instead.
“So I’m not fired?” I tried to make it a joke. It came out thinner than I wanted.
He looked tired, wound tight, and a little too careful with me.
Getting it right didn’t make me less of a problem for Jackson. It made him watch me more.
Haley walked right between us with her keys in hand and killed the moment without saying anything.
I watched her go. One clean shift wasn’t enough, and we both knew it.