3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Aurora
“Is that you, Aurora?” Diana calls out from the living room as I step inside her and Johan’s house, where I’ve been renting a room.
Even though I miss my spacious one-bedroom apartment, it wasn’t really feasible for me to keep it when my student loans kicked in.
This arrangement is much better than the alternative I was facing—renting a room from some old guy on Craigslist who specifically advertised wanting a female roommate in her twenties.
The ad had “ No visitors allowed” bolded and underlined.
As much as I enjoy crime documentaries, I was in no rush to star in one of them.
“Yes,” I say, leaning on the door frame. My body feels like a rag doll that’s been smacked around by a child who has yet to grasp the concept of being gentle.
“Are you hungry? I made some stew,” Diana asks, starting to rise from the couch. The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from an old ’90s-era television set that probably belongs in a museum.
“Oh, please don’t get up. I can get it myself.” I wave her off.
She sits back down, nestling into the curve of Jonah’s shoulder. Even after over forty years of marriage, they act like they’re teenagers falling in love for the first time.
A sudden pang of envy tugs at my heart, especially since the last guy I gave my number to ghosted me.
At some point, I hope to find love like the one Diana and Jonah have.
Someone who will prioritize me when I need them to, maybe even when I don’t.
Someone who will notice the little things—the unspoken truths I sometimes share just to see if they pay attention.
Somebody I can rely on when the world is out to get me.
But also someone I can chase down a hallway on a Saturday morning, cook alongside while sneaking in kisses, or go dancing with even if it’s not their thing, just because they want to see me happy.
Apparently, my subconscious inhaled way too much chlorine this week because the chances of that happening are slimmer than the Zodiac Killer ever being identified.
I tuck my hands into my hoodie’s pockets and head toward the kitchen. “Thanks for dinner!” I call out from the other room.
The rich aroma of stew warming up stirs my hunger. I let the hum of the microwave carry my mind to my abysmal finances when my phone rings, displaying my mom’s smiling face.
Shit.
I take a deep breath and hit the green button.
“Hi sweetie!” she says, way too cheerfully.
“Hey, Mom. How are you?” I ask, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear as I pull the bowl from the microwave with green shamrock oven mitts.
“I’m great! We finally got approval from your grandma’s physical therapist. We should be able to book the plane tickets now. I was thinking the week of—”
I nearly drop the bowl. “Mom,” I interrupt, setting it on the counter and grabbing the phone, “I thought he said it would be at least another month before she’d be well enough to travel.
” My mind races to process the implications of her news.
“After her second fall last month, I figured we’d be back to square one. ”
“That’s what I thought, but then he said she’s getting stronger quicker this time—much faster than he originally projected. So, I was thinking we could—”
“Mom, I don’t think this is the best time for a visit.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend.
“What do you mean?” There’s an edge of hurt creeping into her words.
“I mean, the internship is keeping me busy. I work all week, and my evenings are swamped with writing reports,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek.
The other change in my life is that I’ve started lying to my mother.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I didn’t land a position with a school and risk adding to her worries.
She already had so much on her plate with moving to a different state and taking care of Grandma full time. I couldn’t pile more onto that.
“Okay…” Mom says slowly. I hear some mumbling in the background. “She says she’s too busy to hang out with us,” Mom tells Grandma. “Well, we can come over a weekend, that way—”
“I have swim lessons over the weekend,” I interject.
“Aurora, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you don’t want to see us,” Mom says, her voice thick with sadness, yet still laced with her standard hint of accusation.
“I do want to see you,” I say honestly. “It’s just not the right time.” Will it ever be? “Maybe I could visit for Thanksgiving,” I suggest, though I know it’s unlikely. “Or over Christmas.” Also doubtful.
“Sure.” There’s a long pause. “Your grandma is calling for me.” This time, there’s no background noise as she talks. “I need to go,” my mom adds, and before I can apologize, she hangs up.
Great. Now she’s upset with me. But I can’t let anyone see what a failure I’ve become.
If they see how low I’ve fallen, it will only confirm their worst opinions of me.
It’s like the broken windows theory from my undergrad psych class—when people see broken windows, litter, and graffiti in a neighborhood, it signals neglect and invites more of it.
If they know that I failed, that I wasn’t chosen, that I’m not worthy—how could they possibly see me any differently?
I pick up my spoon and take a bite. The stew is no longer warm. I don’t bother reheating it. Daughters who lie to their mothers don’t get hot meals.
“Are you ignoring me?” I joke, holding my phone close to my face to record an audio message as I step off the bus outside of Dancing Monk.
It’s been a week since Layla and I talked on the phone and nearly a month since we’ve seen each other in person.
Her last message to me, sent yesterday around two in the morning, included a photo of a business card with the text: “ If u r tired of sticky floors and drunken frat boys.” Cryptic—and so very Layla.
Bare-minimum information, no additional explanation.
Between my jobs at the bar and Aqua-Kids, and Layla juggling her own work and the new semester, finding a time that works for both of us has been impossible.
She isn’t the only one—I haven’t connected with Javi or Connor in months either.
It was hard hearing about Javi landing his school psychology internship without getting jealous, and then I felt guilty for feeling that way, so I’ve chosen to keep my distance.
“Anyway… I miss you. I don’t think I can do next week, though… I need to pick up extra hours.” Realizing how depleted I probably sound, I try to lighten my tone. “I miss you. Send me a photo of your pretty face. I forgot how you look.”
I set my phone to Do Not Disturb and walk inside the bar. The familiar blend of stale beer and fried food hits me, but it’s a welcome change from the mixture of sweat and urine that will soon permeate the air.
The place is nothing special, just a standard college bar.
Dimly lit yellow lights hang low over each booth, providing just enough visibility to see one’s food, but not enough to expose the singed burger edges or the wilted lettuce.
TVs line the wall above the bar, each tuned to a different sports channel.
Depending on the season and the day, one can find an assortment of men’s football, basketball, and baseball games.
On rare occasions, and only if specifically requested, one of the TVs might be switched to a women’s sports game.
I’m dressed in a subtle V-shaped black shirt, which does a half-decent job of keeping my chest contained, paired with some faded black jeans.
There’s no official uniform for the staff, but since there’s a positive correlation between the cut of a shirt and tips, most of the girls on shift opt for more revealing attire.
And yes, our staff is made up entirely of young women, since Dave, our manager, can’t grasp the concept of men working as waiters or bartenders. “But you girls are so much nicer to look at,” he usually jokes, licking his sauce-covered fingers one by one like a cinematic villain.
When I started working at Dancing Monk, Layla gave me some survival tips: the best ways to remove grease from clothes, which menu items to avoid at all costs, how to handle drunken customers, and, especially, how to deal with Dave.
Although he doesn’t bother me as much as he did her.
And while I’m relieved I don’t have to fight off his greasy advances, a tiny, nearly microscopic part of me thinks I must not be attractive enough for his lingering gazes.
I thought I had outgrown the days of feeling disheartened when only my girlfriends turned heads on the street, then being elated when it finally happened to me.
Most of the evening passes without any major incidents.
Orders come in for food and drinks, and I push the crispy chicken as Dave instructed.
Each night, there’s an item that’s about to expire that the servers are expected to promote vigorously.
Tonight’s special is the crispy chicken, which is easy enough to sell since it tends to be a popular item.
It’s the nights when we have to push salads—because the lettuce is about to go bad or the cucumbers are overripe—that feel like pulling teeth.
Healthy eating in a college bar is a rebellious act taken up only by the bravest of souls.
I brace myself as I approach a table of rowdy guys, already anticipating how this will go. “Hello and welcome to Dancing Monk. I’m Aurora, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I start you off with some drinks?”
The guy furthest from me asks, “What kinds of IPAs do you have?”
I list them off with a polite smile.
“Which one would you recommend?” he asks.