I smile, leaving her to her Vikings.
Back at the bar, Lark slides past. “What’s Eleanor reading tonight?”
“Vikings. Chapter twelve is apparently quite something.”
“That woman is my hero,” Lark says. She grabs fresh glasses while I wipe down a sticky spot near the tap. “Seventy-three and still reading smut in public.”
I laugh, pulling a new beer. “Last week she told me about a book where a pirate spent eight chapters ‘interrogating’ his captive duchess.Verythorough questioning, apparently.”
“God,” Lark says, “I hope I’m her when I grow up.”
“Same.”
We work in tandem, the kind of synchronized dance that comes from five years of friendship forged in late nights and difficult customers.
“Mare,” she says, wiping down the bar, “when’s the last time you went on anactualdate? And I don’t mean serving drinks to someone who thinks tipping twenty percent is flirting.”
“I thought men were officially canceled?” I tease.
“Eleanor’s Vikings are making me reconsider.” She grins, then turns serious. “But really, Mare. When?”
“I had coffee with that teacher,” I remind her. “Remember? Craig?”
“Six months ago. Didn’t he spend twenty minutes explaining why his ex-wife was‘literally crazy’for wanting him to remember their anniversary.”
I nod. “Red flag much?” I check the garnish station—we’rerunning low on lime wedges. “Anyway, dating isn’t really a priority right now. I’ve got the bar, Susan needs me more these days, and I’m happy enough.”
“Happyenough.” Lark repeats my phrase like it tastes bad. “Mare, you’re twenty-eight and gorgeous. You’re so busy taking care of everyone else, you forgot thatyou’reallowed to want things, too.”
“I want things,” I say, grabbing fresh limes and my cutting board.
“Like what? Besides trying to write in that notebook you think is well hidden beneath the register?”
“How dare you snoop,” I say, mock-scandalized, starting to slice.
She grabs a cherry from the garnish tray and pops it in her mouth. “Please, you’re not exactly subtle about it. You left it open earlier this week. All those crossed-out lines. What are you trying to write?”
I give her a look. “Maybe it’s poetry about how annoying my coworkers are.”
“Liar.” She steals another cherry. “You’re trying to write about a life and love you never let yourself have.”
I hate when she’s right. “That’s very presumptuous.”
She grins, unrepentant. “And very accurate.”
I roll my eyes as my phone buzzes against my hip. I ignore it at first—I’m mid-slice—but it buzzes again. Then again. I set down the knife, wipe my hands on my apron, and pull it out. The name on the screen stops me cold.
Patricia (Hospice):She’s asking for you
Patricia (Hospice):Vitals dropping
Patricia (Hospice):I don’t know how much time she has
The bar noise continues around me, but something inside goes still and quiet. I take a breath and let it out slowly.
“Mare?” Lark’s voice, concerned. “You okay?”
I’m already untying my apron, folding it neatly despite my shaking hands. “Susan needs me. I have to go.”
