Chapter 12
Miles
We finish closing, the quiet settling over the bar like a soft exhale.
The neon signs hum low against the glass, and I sink onto one of the stools, watching as Vivian moves behind the counter.
She’s focused, efficient, lining bottles back on the shelf like she’s done it a thousand times. Probably has.
She turns, catching my eye. “Want a drink?”
I smirk, leaning forward on my elbows. “Yeah, sure. Tequila, please.”
She lets out a soft laugh, the kind that makes something in my chest twist. “Tequila seems to be your favorite.”
“Never lets me down, I guess,” I say, watching her reach for the bottle.
She pours the amber liquid into a shot glass, then pauses, grabs another, and pours herself one too.
Her eyes flick up to mine, mischief dancing in them. “What the hell, right?”
Her high ponytail sways as she tips her head back and downs it, her brown curls catching in the light. I follow suit, though I’m watching her more than I’m tasting the shot.
That’s when I notice the little things, the smudged mascara tracing faint, tired lines beneath her eyes, the way she’s barely wearing any makeup at all tonight. The rag tied to the pocket of her worn work shirt, stained and frayed. And somehow, in all that realness, she looks absolutely beautiful.
The moment the tequila hits, I see it all over her face how much she hates it. Her nose scrunches ever so slightly, her lips pressing together like she’s trying to play it cool.
I find it adorable.
She shivers, and we both laugh, the sound echoing through the empty bar with the faint sound of the speakers playing “Worst Way” by Riley Green.
“How do you drink this?” Vivian asks, her nose scrunched and brows drawn together as she grabs our shot glasses and walks them over to the sink.
Her voice is raspy from laughing, a little breathless, and I can’t help the grin tugging at my mouth as I watch her rinse them under warm water, sleeves pushed up, hands steady.
“You get used to it,” I say, shrugging one shoulder like it’s no big deal.
To be honest, tequila and I go way back.
It was my go-to when I needed to numb the world, when the weight of everything became too much to carry.
One shot, then another, and before I knew it, I was too drunk to care.
I’d wake up with a foggy memory of the night before.
Nights when I’d get into random fights, slept with women I couldn’t remember the following day…
but it didn’t matter, because for a little while it chased away the nightmares.
The kind of nightmares that woke me; sweating, heart beating rapid in the middle of the night, suffocating under the weight of what I couldn’t forget.
But somewhere along the way, it all went sideways.
What started as a way to escape became a crutch—something I leaned on more than I should have.
And when I found myself drunk more often than not, when I started losing control, that’s when Greg and his family, my family, stepped in.
They saw it before I did, pulled me back from the edge from a place I didn’t even realize I was heading.
If they hadn’t, I could’ve lost everything. I could’ve ruined myself.
Now, I know my limits. I’ve learned to control it, but I’ll never forget how close I came to losing it all. And I’m damn grateful I didn’t.
She glances over her shoulder at me, like she’s trying to decide if I’m insane or just lacking taste buds. Probably both. There’s still a ghost of a wince on her lips from the tequila burn, and for some reason, I find it ridiculously endearing.
“I don’t think I want to,” she mutters, more to herself than me, scrubbing out the last glass with a shake of her head. “That was brutal.”
“Worth it, though,” I say, leaning my elbows on the bar. “For the look on your face alone.”
She gives me a sideways glare, but her lips twitch at the corners like she’s fighting a smile.
Yeah. Definitely worth it.
I turn around and spot a few tables still littered with empty cups and half-eaten baskets of fries. With a quiet sigh, I slide off the stool and make my way to the closest mess.
“What are you doing?” Vivian asks, her voice gentle but curious.
I gather the beer-stained glasses in my arms and carry them behind the bar, her eyes following my every move.
“Did you think I was just going to sit here and watch you clean?” I shoot back with a raised brow, already pulling open the dishwasher door and stacking the glasses inside.
“You really don’t have to,” she says quickly, almost flustered.
I straighten to full height and catch her eyes as she turns toward me. She has to tilt her chin up just to meet my gaze—she’s so damn petite and she smells so sweet.
Almonds and caramel.
It makes something in my chest ache in the best kind of way.
“I want to,” I say simply. Because I do. Even if Greg helped out earlier, there’s still too much left. And the idea of her doing it alone doesn’t sit right with me.
She blinks up at me, caught a little off guard. “Well…thank you.”
A soft blush creeps into her cheeks before she passes me and heads back to the floor, tray in hand.
“So…” she says over her shoulder, focusing a little too hard on collecting cups. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
She doesn’t meet my eyes, doesn’t stop moving.
Her question still hangs there between us, soft, almost casual but I know better.
I let out a breath, fingers curling around the edge of the bar like I need something solid to hold onto.
“I wanted to apologize,” I say, my voice quieter than it’s been all night. “For earlier. For how I reacted.”
Vivian slows, turning to face me now, brows drawing in. She doesn’t speak right away.
“I’m not proud of it,” I continue, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. “The way I get sometimes. I know it’s a lot. But the truth is…I’ve seen things, Viv. More than I ever should’ve, and I don’t say that looking for pity. I don’t even talk about it. Not with anyone.”
She stays silent, her expression shifting, softening.
There’s a beat of quiet, just the faint hum of the old beer fridge and the soft creak of the barstool beneath me. And then the words come unfiltered, like they’ve been waiting for years to escape.
“My mom was with this man when I was little. I don’t even remember when it started, it’s like the bad parts blurred everything else out. He was a bad drunk.”
I drag a hand over my jaw. “He’d hurt her. Sometimes me. Sometimes both of us. Most nights, I’d lie in bed with a pillow over my ears just so I didn’t have to hear it. The things he said. The way she’d cry. The sounds of slaps and banging.”
Vivian’s eyes are locked on mine now, glossy but steady.
“I tried to protect her. Even when I was just a kid. But I was small, and he was…terrifying. I’d get punched in the gut, kicked, slapped, spat on, and sometimes he’d use a belt to teach me a lesson about getting in the way. This went on for over a year.”
My jaw clenches. “She started using to cope. Pills at first. Then stronger stuff. She said it helped her float above it all. But I could see it—it was eating her alive. I will never understand why she stayed with him, but maybe she was more scared about what would happen if we left.”
My voice shakes, and I don’t bother hiding it.
“I came home one day from school, I must’ve been seven, maybe eight, and I found her on the floor.”
I shut my eyes for a second. The memory still lives there. Vivid. Ugly. Permanent.
“She was barely breathing. Her lips were blue. I thought she was dead.” I clear my throat roughly. “I called 911. Told the dispatcher I didn’t know how to do CPR, but I’d seen it on TV. I tried. Her body was so cold, and I was young to even do anything that could save her.”
Images of my mom’s body, lifeless and cold, flash through my mind. I can still see my small hands, trembling, pressing desperately against her chest, trying to do what I could to save her, even though I knew it was too late. The weight of that moment, the feeling of helplessness, still haunts me.
Vivian’s hand rises to her mouth, her fingers trembling as she tries to stifle the pain in her expression.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat refusing to disappear.
“She didn’t make it…” My voice cracks, rough from the weight of the words I’ve been holding in for years.
“They took me into foster care that night. She didn’t even get a proper funeral.
No family, no one around here to mourn her…
just Greg’s family, really. Greg’s parents…
they took me in eventually. They were friends of hers before everything fell apart.
Good people. The only ones who didn’t stray from us.
I’ll never be able to repay them for what they’ve done for me. ”
I pause, the silence stretching between us, each word heavier than the last. I sit down on the stool behind me, the weight of it all pressing on my shoulders like a second spine.
“I guess that’s why I get the way I do sometimes. Like tonight. When I witness, someone being made to feel small, or powerless, or hurt…I fucking lose it, and it takes me back. Every time.”
I look at her now. Really look. And my voice softens.
“I didn’t mean to scare you earlier, Vivian.
You didn’t deserve that. And I don’t know what it is about you, or why I wanted to tell you this but…
I just—” I shake my head, almost laughing at myself.
“I feel safe telling you this. Like I don’t have to keep pretending I’m fine. ”
Her eyes are wet now, and her hand has dropped from her mouth, resting over her heart.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel ashamed of where I came from.
Because she’s still standing there.
She hasn’t walked away.
She steps closer, those warm eyes glistening but not spilling over. Then before I know it, her head rests gently against my chest. Her arms wrap around me, soft and sure.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” she says softly, voice thick with feeling, but steady. She releases and wipes her tears, her fingers trembling slightly as she wipes at the corner of her eye.
“Thank you,” she says, voice low but steady. “For trusting me with that.”
I nod, words sticking in my throat, because yeah, this was the first time I’d really told someone. Not the usual surface crap, but the stuff that’s buried deep.
“You told me about Trevor,” I say softly. “And I know that wasn’t easy. It made me less afraid to share my own story with someone—with you.”
She looks up, those quiet eyes catching the low light. “I’m glad,” she says, voice barely more than a breath. “Sometimes it’s easier to carry the weight when you don’t have to do it alone.” There’s a pause. “I learned that recently…I would find it hard to open up.”
Her words hang between us. I want to say more but all I can do is let the silence settle around us.
She sets the tray down and starts loading the glasses into the dishwasher. Her movements are slow, deliberate, like she’s savoring the calm after the storm.
For once I don’t feel the urge to run or hide. Just…be here.
We work side by side, no awkwardness. Just two people closing up a bar and closing off the day.
We finish the last of the cleaning, the bar quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards. She’s wiping down the counter, and I watch the way her brow furrows just a little in concentration.
“Thanks for helping out tonight,” she says softly.
I step closer, the space between us shrinking without me even thinking about it. My voice drops low. “I’m glad to be here.”
Her eyes meet mine, steady, unflinching.
I want to do it, but I know I can’t rush her. She needs to be ready.
I don’t want to push.
I want it to be right, so she won’t regret a thing.
So, instead of what I really want to do, I move toward her slowly.
She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she closes her eyes, like she’s waiting, letting herself trust this moment.
I press a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be seeing you around, Bambi,” I whisper.
Then I pull back, the night closing in around me as I climb into my truck. The engine hums to life, and I drive home, the warmth of that quiet moment lingering long after the Rusty Spurs sign fades farther.
Then I smile at the fact that this was the first time she didn’t argue about the fact I called her Bambi.