Chapter 3
Dexter
I hear the bell give a sharp jingle that cuts through the quiet.
I turn.
Lexy.
Hoodie pulled up, eyes heavy with exhaustion, her arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s holding something in place that might come apart if she lets go. For a second, something in my chest tightens before I can stop it, and I shove it down just as fast.
“Too early,” I mutter, crossing my arms, irritation settling in before I can question it. I nod toward the big clock on the wall. “Shift doesn’t start for another thirty minutes.”
She lifts her chin anyway, stubborn despite the way she looks like she hasn’t slept. “I just… wanted to get here, get settled before ten.”
Of course she did.
Already trying too hard, already pushing herself past where she should be.
I grit my teeth, exhaling through my nose before I jerk my head toward the back. “Fine. Follow me. I’ll show you the ropes.”
I drag a hand over my jaw as I turn away. “Since you’re here, might as well make yourself useful.”
If she thinks showing up early is going to impress me, she’s wrong.
Still, I don’t send her back out into the cold.
I start with the coffee machine, keeping my voice controlled, steady. “This is the espresso. Shots go here. Milk steams there. Don’t touch the dials unless you ask, or we’ll have everything taste like burnt rubber.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the way she leans forward, small hands wrapped around a notebook she must’ve grabbed just for this. They’re still a little red, a little stiff, like she hasn’t fully warmed up yet.
She’s petite. Too thin. Her skin is pale enough it almost catches the light, and her hair, so blonde it looks white under the fluorescent glow, brushes her shoulders as she tilts her head, listening like every word matters.
Her eyes lift to me every few seconds, dark blue and sharp, taking everything in like she can’t afford to miss anything.
She looks like she doesn’t belong here.
Like something too soft for a place like this.
I shove that thought away and move on to the taps. “Kegs rotate weekly. Pull straight, not sideways. Tilt the glass. Foam’s fine, just don’t drown it.”
Then the register, the kitchen, the flow of the place, my voice falling into something automatic, something safe. It’s easier to talk than to think about the way she’s watching me.
I grab an apron and toss it toward her. “Wear it. Pockets in front. Don’t lose it.”
“You’ll get your T-shirts with the bar logo when you pass this trial run.”
Her eyes shoot up at that. I ignore it and go on explaining everything.
She nods through all of it, quiet, focused, like she’s committing everything to memory. I catch myself watching her for a second longer than I should before I turn away.
She’d better pick this up fast.
This place doesn’t wait for anyone.
By noon, Stephen shows up, grinning like he owns the place. Two years behind the bar and just cocky enough to think that means something.
I let him take over the lunch rush while I step back, but my attention drifts anyway.
Right back to her.
Lexy moves through the tables with a tray in her hands, careful, too careful, like she’s thinking through every step before she takes it.
Her hands are shaking.
I watch her for a second too long.
She’s going to drop that.
I almost say something, almost tell her to slow down, to take a breath, but I don’t get the chance.
The tray tips.
Pints hit the floor, foam and glass exploding across the tiles loud enough to turn every head in the room.
Stephen lets out a low chuckle. “That’s coming out of your tips.”
My jaw tightens hard enough it aches.
She’s already moving, dropping to her knees, cleaning it up without a word, like she expects it, like she’s used to paying for mistakes before anyone even asks her to. Her fingers tremble as she scrubs at the mess, moving too fast, like speed will make it disappear.
She swallows, glancing up at me. “I… I can do this.”
There’s something in her voice that catches, thin but stubborn, and it hits harder than it should.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair as I grab a towel and toss it down beside her without a word before stepping back again.
Damn it.
She’s not giving up.
And that makes it worse.
I shake my head and turn away. The last thing I need is a problem I can’t fix.
By the time I look back again, the mess is gone.
No broken glass. No spilled beer.
Just her.
Back on her feet, moving between tables like nothing happened, like she didn’t just hit the floor ten minutes ago. Slower now. Careful in a different way. Controlled.
Pushing through it.
“She’s not off to a great start, boss,” Stephen says beside me, his voice low, amused. “But she’s cute. Customers will love her.”
I follow his line of sight before I can stop myself.
Lexy’s at a table, leaning forward slightly as she wipes it down, completely unaware of the way Stephen’s looking at her.
Something sharp twists low in my chest.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice flat. “No dating or sleeping with staff. You know the rules.”
Stephen huffs out a laugh. “Pity.”
He doesn’t stop looking at her. “Guess I’ll wait until you fire her. Won’t take long anyway.”
My hand curls against the bar, fingers pressing into the wood.
Control your emotions, Dex.
Lenny’s voice. Always there.
I spent years sitting across from him after too many fights, too many mistakes, listening to him explain my own brain like it was something that could be mapped out.
Understood. Controlled. He always said I wasn’t broken, just wired differently, that noticing more, feeling more, wasn’t a weakness unless I let it be.
I never bought into that part.
To feel too much is a weakness.
All it ever did was drag me into things I didn’t ask for, make me care when it would’ve been easier not to.
So I learned to shut it down.
To keep it contained.
I only let myself care for family and friends. That’s it.
Everyone else stays on the outside.
Which means I shouldn’t be feeling anything at all when I look back at Lexy.
Shouldn’t be noticing the way her hands are still shaking.
Shouldn’t be registering the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she moves like she’s running on something close to empty.
And I definitely shouldn’t feel it pulling at me, slipping past every wall I’ve put up like it was never there to begin with.
It settles deep in my chest, tight and unwelcome, something I don’t have control over.
And I hate it.
I hate that she makes me notice.
I hate that she makes me feel .
? ? ?
Alexis
My head spins every few minutes. A dull, pounding ache settles just above my eyes, spreading down the bridge of my nose.
My throat burned this morning, but now it feels raw, scraped, every swallow a reminder that something is wrong.
My nose will not stop running. My skin feels too hot, then too cold.
I know I have a fever. I do not need a thermometer to tell me that.
But I need this job. And I do not have money for Tylenol yet.
I just spilled my pathetic tips on the floor, coins scattering like they are mocking me, the sharp clatter still echoing in my head, and Dex’s annoyed stare drills into my back.
I suck it up anyway, forcing my shoulders straight, pasting on my best smile for the customers and keeping myself moving before anything has a chance to show.
I am not a terrible waitress. I have been doing this since I was sixteen.
But this stupid fever is what is making me weak, foggy, turning simple movements into calculations and making me second-guess myself, every small mistake stacking on top of the last until it feels like I am slipping further with every step.
I refuse to let it win.
“Excuse me, miss? Can we have two more beers?”
I turn toward the table and muster a smile. “Of course. Two beers coming right up.”
I move toward the bar, repeating the order in my head like a mantra so I do not forget, two beers, two beers, gripping the edge of the counter when another wave of dizziness hits, breathing through it slowly until the room settles back into place and the floor stops shifting beneath my feet.
I reach for the glasses, my fingers fumbling just barely, just enough to make my heart kick harder against my ribs.
Get it together, Lexy.
I pull the tap and watch the amber liquid fill the glass, foam rising too fast because my hand is not steady enough to regulate the pressure, and I correct it quickly, jaw clenched, heat prickling behind my eyes, not from tears but from sheer stubborn refusal to break in the middle of a shift.
I can feel Dex without looking.
His attention finds me anyway, settling somewhere between my shoulders, heavy enough that I cannot quite ignore it.
He is behind the bar, hands moving with practiced ease, every motion controlled and confident, everything mine is not right now.
I carry the beers back to the table, careful, so careful, every step measured and my breath shallow like that alone might keep everything steady. When I set them down, the man smiles, oblivious to the war raging inside my body.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You’re welcome.” My voice comes out hoarse, rough around the edges, and I clear my throat quickly, hoping he does not notice.
By the time I turn away, sweat dampens my spine despite the cool air in the bar, my legs heavy, my joints aching like I have run miles instead of carried drinks back and forth.
I pass Dex on my way back to the bar. His eyes flick to my face, then to my hands, lingering just long enough for me to notice, for something tight and uncomfortable to coil low in my stomach.
I straighten my shoulders.
I will not ask for help.
I will not complain.
I will not give him another reason to think I do not belong here.
I just need to make it through the shift.
Just a few more hours.
Just enough tips for food and medicine.
Just enough to survive one more night.
And then, maybe, tomorrow will be better.
Dex comes to stand beside me as I start washing glasses.
“You sure you’ve waitressed before?” he asks.
I look up. His green eyes are sharp, irritated. Watching.
“I have,” I say, swallowing against the burn in my throat, forcing the words out anyway because honesty feels like the only thing I have left. “I’m just… not feeling very well today. But I promise I’m not this bad.”
He studies me so intensely I have to look away.
“You’re sick,” he says, the annoyance still there, but thinner now.
“I think so,” I whisper, defeated.
“Then stop. You should go home.”
Panic floods me instantly, sharp and suffocating, because working all day on aching feet is still better than going back to my car, better than another night curled up in the cold with nothing but thin blankets that never quite hold the heat.
“Please,” I say quietly. “Don’t send me home.”
He exhales slowly, a long breath through his nose, then turns and disappears into his office.
I keep washing glasses, hands trembling, focusing on the motion, on something simple and repetitive, when I feel him behind me again. A glass of water appears beside the sink. Then Tylenol.
I look up to thank him, but he is already walking away.
The Tylenol dulls the worst of the pain, taking the sharpest edge off the pounding in my head, and I manage to push through the rest of the shift, one table at a time, one order at a time, making enough tips to pay for the spilled beer and afford something warm to eat tonight.
That is enough, I tell myself, even if it does not feel like it.
I can survive another night in the car. Just one more.
It is six in the evening when Dex walks out of his office and calls my name.
I turn. His expression is stern.
This is not good.
He nods toward his office. “We need to talk.”
His voice is firm. Final.
I follow him inside. He takes his place behind the desk while I remain standing, the air in the room suddenly heavier, dread pooling deep in my chest.
“I watched you work all day, Lexy,” he says. “And while I’ll admit I admire your will to keep going when you clearly shouldn’t…”
My heart drops, a hollow, sinking feeling opening up inside my chest like the floor has given way beneath me.
“I don’t think this is the right job for you.”
I fight the tears, the exhaustion, the ache in my bones, forcing myself to stay upright, to hold myself together long enough to get the words out.
“I know I sucked today,” I say, swallowing through the burn in my throat. “But I really need this job. And you really need a waitress.”
I meet his eyes and see the resolve there. Solid. Unmovable.
“I’m sorry, Lexy. This isn’t working out. Come by tomorrow morning and I’ll have your day’s pay ready for you.”
He stands.
That is it.
I nod, forcing my eyes to stay dry, forcing my body to move even though everything in me feels heavy and slow, and walk to my locker to grab my coat and purse.
I’ll find another job, I tell myself.
But the words feel empty, slipping through me without landing, like there is nothing left inside me for them to hold on to.