You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Six months. Six whole months I’ve managed to avoid him. I developed some killer leg muscles from taking the long way everywhere so I wouldn’t cross paths with him. I avoided my usual routines because they were his routines too. I stopped seeing my friends because they’re his friends too.
All that useless, wasted effort, just for him to casually stroll into my new place of work.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
The universe is messing with me again. We’re not anywhere near any of the usual campus bars or his place or the baseball stadium. There’s no reason for him to be here. There’s not even a reason for me to be here; my shift ended half an hour ago. But an unexpected rush hour hit and I couldn’t just leave.
If I wasn’t in the middle of pouring a pint, I’d duck and crawl my way out of here. Instead, all I can do is angle myself accordingly and pray the big guy waiting for his beer hides me from view.
It doesn’t work.
It’s like Jackson walks in the door and his gaze immediately gravitates towards me. That shouldn’t be such a surprise; it always used to be that way. I don’t know why I thought that, despite everything, that would ever change.
He stops in his tracks, the person behind him bumping into his back. Ben, I realize. Oh God, all four of them are here, the whole fucking gang. And by the looks on their face, they’re as shocked to see me as I am to see them. Cass leans forwards to whisper something in Jackson’s ear, probably an offer to leave, but he’s not listening.
He’s looking right at me. Surprise flickers across his face, quickly followed by confusion. Then those dark eyes I got so used to seeing every day rake over me, long and slow, hot and oh-so-fucking familiar. Something flares in them as his jaw locks, his hands fisting at his sides so hard the veins in his arms pop.
I’m half convinced he’s going to stalk over and… I don’t know, do something.
But he doesn’t. After the longest moment, his expression clears and he looks away like I’m not even here.
Despite myself, my shoulders slump. I deserve that, I guess. No, I don’t guess; I know. I was a bitch to him. To everyone, really. To be honest, it’s a miracle the girls even still attempt to be friends after the summer from hell.
The guys, I’m not so sure about. Ben, I talk to all the time because once you’ve got that kid in your orbit, you’re never getting rid of him. But Cass and Nick… I haven’t talked to, not since it all went to shit, through no fault of theirs. I was the one to pull away. I was the one who needed the space, so I took it.
And I have no idea how they feel about that.
Lucky for me, though, I have a feeling I’m about to find out.
I’m so focused on Nick’s surly approach, I don’t see the girls lurking behind him until they’re right in front of me.
“What the hell?” A tiny, ineffectual fist meets my bicep as Amelia leans across the counter and socks me. “Since when do you work here?”
I shrug, using the guy still waiting for his beer as an excuse not to answer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amelia deflate. I see the big, bronzed hands that curl around her shoulders and squeeze, and I see the bug-eyed look she shoots Kate. Your turn.
The other best friend I’ve gotten exceptionally adept at neglecting sighs. “I texted you.”
“My phone is off.” As it tends to be these days. Don’t have much use for it. “What can I get you?”
“Seriously?” Kate shakes her head and scoffs. “You can’t even talk to us for two seconds?”
“I’m working.”
“You can take a break,” Amelia coaxes gently, hiding her annoyance better than Kate does.
“Do you want something or not?”
Disappointment. Sadness. Anger. All palpable emotions leaking from my friends doing their very best to crack the cold front I’m trying so hard to maintain.
The latter is mostly Nick, pouring off the man in waves, all of it directed at me. Squeezing his girlfriend again, he gently pushes her towards the table the others have occupied. She doesn’t protest, and that’s what gets me.
I spent a long, long time willing Amelia to start using that flimsy backbone of hers.
And I hate that she doesn’t use it on me.
The moment her and Kate are out of earshot, Nick is leaning in. “You don’t talk to them like that.”
Silently, I brandish a middle finger.
Nick laughs, a cold, empty sound. Arms folded on the counter, he bends down, looking genuinely curious in a way that’s kind of terrifying. “When’re you gonna stop, hm? When they all hate you? Will that be enough?”
It takes half a dozen swallows before the pesky lump in my throat lessens enough for me to spit, “Fuck off.”
“Breaking Jackson’s heart wasn’t enough, you gotta wreck Amelia’s too?”
“Fuck off, Nicolas.”
“You think she deserves that?” Nick cocks his head, all challenge and no sympathy. “You think any of us deserve that?”
No. Of fucking course I don’t.
But I don’t know how to do anything else.
“Aw, Nicky.” I fake a pout, pressing a hand to my withered little heart. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”
I don’t, I wait for him to say. That’s the answer I expect, the one I deserve, the one I want because it’s the only thing I can handle.
I can’t take the sad, pitying frown I get instead. It’s gone quick, replaced with that typical Silva pissed-off-ness, but the effect of it lingers like a fucking splinter in my chest. Nick slaps his palms against the counter once, not aggressive, just final. “Don’t come near our table unless it’s to apologize,” he says before stalking off.
I have half a mind to leap over the counter and initiate something very similar to a schoolyard brawl; partly because I hate him telling me what to do, mostly because I hate the fucking truth bomb I didn’t need. Luckily for Nick and his disturbingly pretty face, I’m distracted by someone grabbing my elbow.
Quickly forgetting Nick–or, at the very least, shoving him to the back of my mind–I focus on the short brunette peering up at me, hazel eyes rife with stress. Gideon’s not a regular bartender here, she just has the great misfortune of living upstairs with her son and helps out when we’re in a pinch. Judging by the look on her face, I suspect tonight wasn’t meant to be one of those nights.
Which is why when she asks me to stay an extra hour, just until the rush dies down, I can’t bring myself to say no. Especially with those fucking doe eyes gazing pleadingly up to me; it would be like saying no to Bambi.
“Blake with his dad?” I ask, referring to her four-year-old son.
Gideon pulls a face. “No. He bailed again.” Frustration has my co-worker slamming a glass down on the counter with a bit more force than necessary. “I had to get a sitter.”
Her tone makes me wince. It’s not the first time I’ve heard of Blake’s dad being a deadbeat. He’s come in here a couple of times, and the guy reeks of bad news. Every time I see him and his greasy hair and sneering face, I wonder how the hell he managed to seduce someone as sweet as Gideon, who is quite possibly the reincarnation of Tinkerbell. She reminds me of Ms Honey from Matilda, which is fitting because, by night, she might be a bartender, but by day she teaches second graders. I just know there’s a whole horde of seven-year-olds out there completely in love with this woman.
“If you ever need help,” I start, leaning around her to snag a bottle of rum off the shelf. “I’m a pretty good babysitter.” A lie but I suspect it’s seriously bad karma not to offer a Disney princess disguised as a single mom help if she needs it. I’ve never babysat in my life and I have a feeling Gideon knows that so I tack on, “and I’m cheap.”
Shooting me a grateful smile, Gideon bumps my hip as she squeezes past me, calling over her shoulder on her way to the opposite end of the bar. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Time goes quick when you’re up to your eyeballs in shots and beers and intricate cocktails that make me want to slap my past self in the face for ever ordering.
It’s a blessing in disguise, really. Being busy is better than being at home contemplating my shitty existence. Being busy is fun when I’m working with Gideon; watching this tiny, sweet little woman shooting down men left right and center and handing them their drunk asses is a fucking sight to see.
Being busy makes avoiding people who are very hard to avoid a little easier.
I did as Nick asked. I haven’t gone to their table. I haven’t served them at all; I don’t know if Gideon has a sixth sense or something but anytime one of them approaches the bar, she suddenly appears and attends to their alcoholic needs.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t had one eye on them all night. It doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed Jackson is practically glued to the table, as are his eyes. Or that every time a new round is needed, the girls are the ones to come up and order.
It doesn’t mean I’ve managed to ignore just how much a hot commodity my ex-boyfriend and his friends are.
Whatever. None of my business.
I’m pulling what is probably my hundredth pint of the hour when a hand squeezes my shoulder and Gideon’s brunette head knocks against mine. Smooth as anything, she takes the half-full pint from my grip and nudges me aside, seamlessly transferring control of the tap to herself. “There’s a guy over there asking for you.”
Breath catching, I falter for the briefest second before following her line of sight. A weird mixture of relief and disappointment floods me when I find my favorite baby-faced blond beckoning me over with two fingers.
“Luna,” Ben coos when I’m close enough, dragging me halfway across the bar to plant a kiss on my cheek, the alcohol on his breath making me scrunch my nose. There’s a hint of an apologetic edge to his smile when he pulls back and reminds me that, “We didn’t know you worked here.”
If we did, we wouldn’t have come, I hear him say silently.
I wave him off. “You need something?”
Ben rattles off another round of the usual, and I wince at the addition of shots. Sambuca, to be specific. So it’s one of those nights.
As I shuffle around the bar making their drinks, I indulge Ben in the conversation he’s trying desperately not to make awkward but it just is, to some extent. It’s hard for it not to be when there’s definitely two pairs of eyes watching us. Maybe three. I can’t quite bring myself to check.
“What happened to Greenies?”
“I got fired.” Apparently, not turning up to three shifts in a row is frowned upon. Who knew? “Months ago.”
Weirdly, surprise lights up Ben’s face. I assumed someone–namely the girls–would’ve told him, or he would’ve figured it out on his own. At my questioning glance, Ben shrugs. “We haven’t been there in a while. Since…”
Since I screwed up our perfectly nice friend group by stomping all over his best friend’s heart.
Yeah. I got it.
It looks like on top of everything else I messed up, I also cost Greenies some of their best business.
It’s probably bad, how much that little tidbit of information thrills me.
“Are-”
I interrupt what’s sure to be another question with an answer neither of us actually care about. “Do you guys have, like, a roster or something? Can I expect Cass to come over next and have a crack at me?”
Ben has never been one to take my shit, and he certainly doesn’t now. “I came to order drinks, Luna. And not with a side of bitch.”
I squint at him. “Call me a bitch again and I’ll spit in your beer.”
Ben squints right back. “Help me carry these over and I’ll take it back.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Luna Evans,” Ben gasps dramatically, eyes wide and a hand flattened over his heart. “Are you scared?”
“Fuck off.”
“That shit doesn’t work on me, Blondie.” Ben’s gaze flicks to my hair before he corrects himself. “Or Brownie, I guess. Cute, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I set the last drink of his mammoth order down on the counter with a definite thump. “Are we done now?”
“Nope.” Picking up the bare minimum of two measly drinks, Ben takes off at the speed of fucking light, shouting over his shoulder, “Thanks for the help!”
Panic claws its way up my throat, no matter how hard I try to fight it. Every curse under the sun leaves my mouth as I fill a tray with the remaining drinks, frantically glancing around for Gideon or the other useless dipshit who works here but of course, they’re nowhere in sight.
‘Fuck,” I mutter as I hoist the heavy tray up, my near-to-snapping wrist the least of my problems. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I can do this. I can march over there, drop off these goddamn drinks with a goddamn smile on my face. I can wait until after my job is done before shoving my head in the nearest toilet and spewing the knot of anxiety in my stomach.
My attempt at confidence, valiant as it was, dies the moment I approach the table and the rapid conversation quietens. When my shaking hands cause the glasses to clink together as I set them down, I internally curse myself.
Come on, Lu. Get it together.
Cass, bless his little soul, is the first to greet me. An awkward side hug, a kiss to the top of my head, and a mumbled ‘hello’ but a greeting all the same. It’s better than the daggers I get from Nick; intimidation tactics don’t usually work on me but Jesus Christ, when it comes to protecting Amelia, the guy is terrifying.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the redhead keeping her green-eyed gaze firmly on the rum and coke I slide her way. I repeat the sentiment as I set a glass of wine in front of Kate. “I’m really, really sorry.”
Grasping the stem of her glass, Kate chugs half the liquid in five seconds flat. “Gonna have to be a bit more specific, Luna.”
“I can’t.” I can’t do so many things. Talk about it, think about it, look at them, be around anyone without fucking resenting them for their carefree happiness. So, so many things.
I don’t have to see it to feel their disappointment. It clings to me like a shitty, unwanted second skin, like a thin layer of dirt impossible to shower off.
And it only worsens when I risk an upward glance and find the biggest reason for my shaky hands already looking right at me.
It pleases me, just a little, that Jackson’s smile is as dodgy and pained as mine. “Hi.”
God, I missed his voice.
I missed his face.
If I thought seeing a random photo online of him hurt, seeing him in person, up close, has nothing on that. It’s aching, how fucking beautiful he is. His hair is still long, thank God. When I dyed mine, this weird intrusive thought popped into my head out of nowhere, so concerned that Jackson did a similar breakup makeover and chopped off all his hair. I’m glad to see I didn’t fuck him up that badly.
By some miracle, I keep my composure as I dole out Sambuca. “Want me to leave this here?” I joke with Ben, laughing when he nods greedily, making grabby hands at the bottle. “I’ll start a tab.”
Handing over the goods, I start to walk away when a hand on my arm stops me. I swear to fucking God, I know it’s him before I even turn around. Some things, some touches, you just never forget.
A flush creeps up my neck as I step away so his hand falls, treating it like a hot poker; painful to stay in contact with for too long. “Everything okay?”
Jackson holds up his other hand, showing me the card slotted between his fingers. “For the tab.”
I take it carefully, a shiver creeping up my arm when his fingers brush mine. A small smile pulls at my lips when I spot flecks of paint on his fingers, an expression that’s replaced by a concerned frown for the gnarly looking cut marring his palm. It takes a physical effort to resist the urge to ask him about it. “Thanks.”
Jackson just nods. As if he can’t help himself, his eyes linger on me, and I stand there silently, unprotesting, as they roam, his gaze covering every inch of me and leaving warmth wherever they land. It could be a moment, a minute, or even an hour before he clears his throat again and turns around rapidly without another word, snatching his drink off the table and taking a long slug.
Well. That went better than expected.
After dithering for an embarrassingly long second, I slope back to the bar where rapping knuckles catch my attention. Gesturing to the barstool across from her, Gideon shakes her head. “Sit. You’re done for the night.”
I hesitate, even as my tired feet and even tired mind scream their thanks. “You sure?”
“We can handle it.” Gideon jerks her head towards the third bartender working tonight, some guy named Rick that is so useless, I honestly forgot he was even here. It appears that in every bar you work at, at least one staff member has to be good-for-nothing. Hence why I don’t really want to leave Gideon working on her own.
But in the end, the weak woman in me prevails. My reluctance dissipates when Gideon slides a blessedly overfilled glass of red wine toward me. “You look like you need it.”
I sigh as I slip onto the barstool, grabbing the glass with as much eagerness as Ben grabbed that Sambuca bottle, knocking back at least half of it in a millisecond.
“So,” Gideon rests her elbows on the bar, voice just above a whisper, “who is he?”
I avoid eye contact. “Who is who?”
“Seth Clearwater over there.”
I snort. “Did you just make a Twilight reference?”
A dishtowel whips me on the arm, accompanied by a pair of narrowed, accusatory eyes. “Don’t avoid the question.”
The humor in the air fades as I squirm in my seat. “Just an ex.”
Gideon hums thoughtfully, her voice low and teasing. “Doesn’t look like just an ex.”
“Gid, please.”
“Fine.” She holds her hands up in surrender. “I’ll stop. But I’m just saying, if he was, like, fifteen years older, I would be all over that.”
I blink at her. “You’re only four years older than me, Gid.”
“I like ’em grown.”
“You like old men.”
“Silver foxes, honey,” Gideon corrects in her low, southern drawl. “You want a refill before I get back to work?”
Without hesitating, I shove the glass back to her. “Keep ’em coming.”
