1
Emmy
“Carla,” I coax, ducking beneath the battered wooden bar and nudging her before I place the tray of sticky, empty glasses on the side with the others. “Go and take your break. I can handle this lot for a few minutes.”
She raises one eyebrow at me. We both turn to take in the numbers queuing for a drink, and sigh in unison.
“Go,” I say again, crossing my arms when she glances at me. “You won’t get a chance otherwise. It’s only going to get busier.”
And Carla needs every break she can get. With four kids at home and a husband who works every hour under the sun, they’re barely making ends meet. The circles under her eyes are the darkest I’ve ever seen them.
“Two minutes,” she relents. “Just to grab some food.”
“Go.” I point sternly toward the tiny kitchen area we use for breaks. “And your break is twenty minutes.”
If Adrian, our thick-necked, on-the-sleazy-side boss, bothered to make sure we had enough staff, we wouldn’t have to worry about it.
But it could be worse. Much worse.
“I appreciate you, Emmy Marsters.” She checks my hip as she darts off, her blonde hair damp with sweat where it’s tied up into a bun on top of her head.
Grimacing, I feel a droplet of sweat sneaking down my own neck. Adrian is too much of a tightwad to bother with things like air-con, and the small bar is almost bursting at the edges with sweaty, damp people here to watch the Friday night set.
The guitarist up on stage runs his hand over his instrument before leaning in to bellow into the microphone. “Good evening, Setlisters!”
A cheer rings out. I move to the first guy tapping his fingers impatiently at the start of the queue, who starts reeling off orders quicker than I can keep up. Darting around, I yank out bottles of beer and count it up in my head as I go.
Bartending is easy enough. Easy to lose yourself in, especially on a busy night.
I prefer the busy nights, even if it means Carla and I are rushed off our feet.
I side-eye Carla when she appears next to me a few minutes later, my eyes flickering to the small clock behind us. She purses her lips. “Don’t stress it, honey. I can relax at home.”
When I narrow my eyes, she sighs. “I… I need the tips. Katie’s sick again.”
My heart squeezes at that. Katie, their youngest daughter, is a little ray of sunshine, even through all the treatment. “Shit, Carla. It’s back?”
Carla ducks her head in a nod, but her eyes look shiny. “She’ll be fine, Emmy.”
But the costs of Katie’s leukemia treatment nearly broke them last time. They’re still paying off the debt. Frowning, I turn to her. “Carla—,”
My friend – probably the only one I have – wraps her arm around me briefly, squeezing. “I know. There’s a trial – that’s why John’s been away so much. He’s working extra hours to try and fund it.”
“What about your insurance?”
Carla looks at me helplessly. “It’s in Germany. She qualifies, but our insurance will only cover part of it. We think we’ve got a grant too, but there’s the flights, accommodation, additional tests… it adds up. But we’ll get there. She’s going to be just fine, Emmy.”
My stomach flips at the feigned optimism in her shaking voice. “Of course she will.”
Sometimes, hope is all we have.
I know that, too.
Sniffing, Carla jumps forward to serve. We’re running low on glasses, so I take a breath before braving the crush of the crowd.
The music reverberating around me, the bass beneath my feet, none of it quite covers the sound of the rain hammering down against the roof over our heads. Swallowing, I fend off a handsy-looking drunk and stack my tray.
It’s just a storm.
