Scooting past her, I dump the stack of saucy plates I bussed from my last table into the bin by the dishwasher. Then, I shove the three measly bills into the pocket of my apron. "And here I am trying to convince my mother thirty's the new twenty."
Tessa scoffs. "It is. Just not when your income depends on the cheap wallets of kids barely legal to drink.”
I point a finger at her as if to say she nailed it, then reach for my diet soda stashed on the back of the metal counter. Taking a long sip, I slurp up what’s left, popping the lid off to fill it once more. "I seriously need to find a new job.”
"You’ve been looking, haven’t you?” She glances around the corner of the doorframe into the dining room to scan her tables. I focus on the hiss of the soda machine in an attempt to calm my sudden unease.
"Yeah," I sigh. "But everything somehow seems even worse than this or boring as hell. And thanks to the lack of letters beside my name, I'm apparently not worth enough per hour to even pay my rent.”
Picking up her tray, she balances the drinks on her hip with one hand and places the other around my forearm. Giving it a squeeze, she smiles sympathetically. "Sorry, babe. Something will come up. I know it.”
That's easy for her to say. Tess is a college grad who studied education. She had her own classroom for a while until she started nannying and homeschooling full time instead. She waits tables every once in a while for her "slush fund," as she calls it—money she can use from her occasional shift to indulge in new shoes or go away on a girls's trip. But it's not her full-time income.
I love Tess, but it's not the same.
I paint a smile as I take another sip of caffeine. "Girl, I hope so.”
With that, Tessa heads back into the madness, and I remember back to when I used to make up stories aboutwhyyoung customers shorted me in the first place. I told myself that they were saving for their first car or spent the rest of their cash on condoms and lube. Those measly dollars were what was left after taking their girl on a date or betting their friends they could shotgun a forty. Now it's not fun or cute, it's annoying. And it's only recently that this mental shift started.
I've had a transformative last couple of months—possibly the nextGreat Awakening. It was a quiet change, a slow progression, a gradual unraveling of the world around me that finally made it click. But I, Brooke Larkin, have decided… it might be time to put down roots.
It began when Alex and Levi started getting more serious. Alex was always my kindred spirit—my twin flame. Neither of us ever did anything conventionally. Al dropped out of college, had her son young, and began her life as a single mom avoiding men that resembled her ex.
I skipped college, more interested in going with the flow than waking up at eight a.m. to torture myself by sitting through lectures. Then, bounced from bar to restaurant to bar-restaurant, going out and dating around. Neither of us had it all together, but we were fine that way.
And then she met Coach McHottie.
The two of them pretended to keep things physical for awhile after they met, but soon enough, they were madly in love. Before I knew it, Al had a boyfriend and was taking steps toward her dream job, quitting The Gilded Pub here with me to start writing for Spark the Flame.
Within a few months, the two were engaged, and around that time is when things really started weighing on my mind. I was never anything but happy for her, but it was the first Jenga piece to be shoved out of the tower I called my life. Alex was now doing something that she loved withsomeoneshe loved. And I no longer had my single ride or die with me at home or here at work to laugh about unsolicited dick pics or complain about our aching feet.
Suddenly, my nights were lonelier and my tip pocket lighter. My bed felt emptier even when someone was in it, and my shifts just a little longer. Even the stories people told at the bar started feeling more pointed. Like the hot guy with tattoos who talked about how in love he was with his girlfriend was rubbing it in that he was building a life rather than drinking through his problems.
Shortly after Al and Levi's courthouse wedding, my brother found out his wife was pregnant… again. Here I was, going about my same routine, and Blake and Amy were having another baby—making two full humans before I did, well, really anything significant. The selfish bastards already have my niece, who takes after her aunt and is basically perfect. Still, they justhadto grow another one. Add in my mother's constant nagging about growing up and settling down, and it's no wonder my thinking started to shift.
My entire life, my mother has pressured me into this mold she assumed I should fit. The one that she so willingly fell into, then handcrafted for me to do the same. The one that says I should be more settled by now—career, relationship, house, kids. But I was never quite on board.
The whole situation was only made worse when I turned thirty last year. God forbid a woman in their third decade of life isn't at least one husband and a few kids deep. I swear Mom wore black to my birthday dinner not because it made her look slimmer, but because she was mourning any chance I had at not winding up a cat lady.
Her sister and I laughed about it all through dessert.
My Aunt Ivy is Mom's opposite. Where my mother is structured, living in quiet judgement, Ivy is chaos wrapped in charm. She's fun and free and lives life in the fast lane. She's never been married, and is far from settled down—always hopping on the tour bus of some cover band or spelunking in a crystal cave.
Ivy says there are two types of people in this world—those who follow the map and those who burn it just to see where the smoke goes. Some people are like Mom—they think there's one correct order to the way life unfolds—a blueprint—and anyone who veers off course is likely to be left behind. But others, she insists, are like her. They don't need directions because there's no finish line. The journey is the destination.
I wish I fell intoeithercategory. It would have made things easier. I never considered living in a vintage camper to follow the moon like Ivy has—or taking an impromptu trip to Morocco because my tarot cards told me to—she's just built differently. But I obviously haven't lived life step-by-step like Mom has either.
Lately though, I've felt pulled in my mom's direction. I've realized that pissing her off may have been my favorite part of resisting. That, and avoiding all that comes with it. But watching everyone else deepen their roots has me contemplating putting down some of my own. I'm not saying I'm ready to freeze my eggs or allow Mom to trade me for a brood of chickens, but I'm starting to consider taking some small steps towards building a life as an evolved adult.
The problem is, I'm not exactly sure where to start. It's hard to switch up routine after thirty years of doing thingsmyparticular way. I've kept my eye out for a new job, and I've been looking for a real relationship, but both of those things are difficult to commit to when you've had the same job and sex life for the last ten years.
Difficult in general.
My mind flickers back to Drew Anderson hovering over me—still fully dressed from the waist up—his slicked back hair falling loosely onto his forehead with each pounding thrust. His cerulean eyes were locked onto mine, unwavering, as he asked me over and over to tell him who I was—begged me like his livelihood depended on it.Hewas different, that's for sure. Someone who, in other circumstances, might make rerouting my path a little easier.
But that would never happen.
Hedoesn't even know my name.
