Thebarnoisehitme like a physical force of glasses clanking and voices overlapping. My shift at Donnelly’s passed in a blur of muscle memory and forced smiles, every sound making my skull feel like it was splitting open.
Pour. Serve. Collect. Wipe down. Don’t throw up. Repeat.
I moved on autopilot while my brain was still back at the apartment, replaying the conversation with Connor on an endless loop.
“I should move my stuff.”
“If that’s what you want.”
If that’s what you want.NotI want you to stay.Notlet’s talk about this.Just… acceptance. Agreement. Like it didn’t matter to him one way or another where I slept.
Every couple that came in holding hands made my chest tight. Every time I wiped down the bar, I thought about Connor standing on the other side gripping the napkin I gave him to blot his tears. Every time someone ordered a Manhattan, I remembered that checklist, ordering a perfect Manhattan by four pm.
You weren’t a part of my plan.
“You okay, kiddo?” Uncle Mike asked during a lull, wiping down glasses beside me.
“Fine,” I said automatically.
“You’ve been staring at that tap for five minutes.”
I blinked, realizing I’d been about to pour a Guinness into thin air. “Sorry. Distracted.”
“Boyfriend trouble?”
I laughed, but it came out hollow. “Is it boyfriend trouble if you’re not actually together?”
Mike gave me a skeptical look. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I grabbed a rag and started scrubbing an already-clean section of bar. Because I didn’t want to get into it, didn’t want to hear Mike’s well-meaning advice about how I needed to put myself out there or stop protecting myself or whatever therapy-speak he’d picked up from his ex-wife. So I just shrugged and went back to work.
“He’s leaving in three weeks. Back to New York. This was just… temporary.”
Mike was quiet for a moment, just wiping down glasses in that methodical way he had. Finally: “Did he say it was temporary?”
“He didn’t have to. He has three weeks to pack his stuff and go back to his real life. I’m just… convenient while he’s here.”
“You really believe that?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was, I didn’t know what I believed anymore. Every time I tried to sort through my feelings, they got tangled up with my fear and my history and the voice in my head that kept saying,Don’t be stupid, Hannah, you know how this ends.
Mike reached across the bar and squeezed my shoulder. “Hannah. You’re one of the smartest people I know. But sometimes you’re so busy protecting yourself that you don’t let yourself have anything worth protecting.”
I looked up at him, throat tight.
“Maybe he’s leaving in three weeks,” Mike said gently. “Maybe this is temporary. But maybe—just maybe—it doesn’t have to be. You won’t know unless you ask.”
“What if I ask and he says no?”
“What if you don’t ask and spend the rest of your life wondering?”
BythetimeIclocked out, the Gatorade and fries I’d scarfed during my break had finally kicked in. The pounding in my head had downgraded to a dull ache. Which meant I couldn’t blame the hangover anymore for the hollow feeling in my chest. I’d almost convinced myself that moving out of Connor’s room had been the right call. Professional. Boundaried. Smart.
Then I got home and saw the pot Connor had left on the stove, covered, with a bowl and spoon set out beside it. I lifted the lid and found chicken soup—not the canned kind but actual homemade soup, with hand-cut vegetables and chunks of real chicken.
My eyes stung, because Connor knew I’d feel like death, and he’d made the one thing that might actually help.
I ladled some into the bowl and slurped it standing at the counter, and it was exactly what my body needed. The warmth settled my still-queasy stomach. Of course it was perfect. Connor didn’t do anything halfway.
