I shook the shirt, waiting for the rest to unfold. Nope, that was it. “Roy, this is too small for me. I can’t wear this.”
Roy shrugged.
“Roy, man, holy Mary, I can’t wear this!”
He patted my shoulder. “You’re gonna do great in tips. You’ll see.”
I gritted my teeth and went into the ladies’ room to pull it on.
And it was worse than I had expected. The neck scooped out precipitously. The D for DRINK on the front of the shirt enclosed my right boob, making the C-cup even more pronounced. Plus, I had worn yoga pants to make biking easier. My previous top had been pretty loose and drapey, coming down to cover my butt. Now there was only the apron string back there for concealment. The shirt was so short that anytime I leaned over to serve or clear it would pull up and show way too much tummy.
I tugged it as far down as I could, and drew in a deep breath. There was nothing to do about it.
Two hours later, I surreptitiously rubbed my aching ass behind the bar. Roy was right about the tips. But I had beenogled, pinched, rubbed, and grabbed in various places the whole night. From the knees up to my waist in the back I was going to be black and blue, again. I was about to scream.
“Highway to Hell” started again on the jukebox. That jackass had been there all night playing the same songs. He had a never-ending supply of change.
“Roy!” I yelled above the din of the bar. He cupped a hand at his ear and looked at me from the other end of the counter. “If I hear another AC/DC song, I’m going to lose it!”
Roy and I had established a three-song policy with that band: if you tried for four, you were cut off. Roy nodded and yelled over to the drunk at the jukebox. “Hank, cut it out with the fucking AC/DC! Somebody take his quarters.”
Finally the night was over. Roy evicted a now passed-out Hank from the bathroom stall and called his wife to pick him up from the curb outside. I wiped down the bar, and did a quick sweep.
I was pretty on edge. I had felt uncomfortable the whole time I had been working. I had never, never been the girl in the tight top. The constant groping and comments, plus my worry over Charlie being alone, had made the night absolutely suck. I folded my apron and left it behind the bar, pulling on a sweatshirt over my grotesque new work uniform. Although, it might be helpful if there were cars on the road. No one would miss me in that color. Slowly I pulled the sweatshirt back off, and tied it around my waist. I would be cold, but visible.
I dragged the bike out from behind the dumpster and rolled it into the lot in the dim glow of Roy’s one outdoor light. It was wobbling in funny way—and then I saw the flat tire.
Great. Great. I looked around quickly for Roy, but he had peeled out a few minutes ago. Even Hank had already gotten dragged off by his long-suffering wife.
I squared my shoulders. It wasn’t such a long walk. I had done it before. So I set off for home, pushing the damn bike, trying not to think about animals, or drunks, or whatever else might be wandering in the woods at night.
I was so tired. The bike seemed really heavy, and my feet weren’t stepping anymore, just dragging. I thought about trying to hide the bike in the weedy ditch at the side of the road, but I would just have to get it tomorrow. And maybe someone would see it and take it, and I wouldn’t have any means of transportation at all. Man, it was cold. I started to think weird thoughts about my dad, my mom, and Loretta. Cassie dying. Mike taking Charlie away. CPS taking him because I was unfit. Medical bills. Electric bills. All the bills. The lab. What had happened to my lab work, all my data? Had I just left it there? Loretta was so sick. No, it was Cassie that was sick. How could I help Loretta? No, Cassie! I had a hazy idea that I was crying as I felt the cold night air dry my cheeks. I was so tired.
I heard the car behind me and tried to get as far as I could off the highway without falling into the ditch. But the bike wobbled out of my hands and slid right down into the muddy water that had drained down from the road. I covered my mouth with my hands. Oh my God.
The car slowed and stopped behind me. “Emily?” a voice called. “Are you all right?”
I didn’t want to look at him. I pointed at the bike in the ditch.
“Oh, Jesus, did you fall? Are you all right?” he repeated in a louder voice. The red hazard lights flared up, blinkingincessantly, and the car door slammed as Luke ran over to me.
“I’m ok,” I creaked out. “My bike had a flat. I was pushing it.” My tight throat was squeezing out words one at a time, in slow staccato. I didn’t recognize my own voice.
“It’s all right,” Luke told me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll get it for you. Just get in the car.”
I climbed into the passenger seat, and watched in the headlights as he wrestled the bike out of the ditch and rolled it to the back of the car.
Luke got in, and turned off the hazards. “I was worried about you coming home, but I got the closing time wrong and I missed you.” I was shivering hard, and stretched my hands out toward the heat vents. He turned it up higher.
I didn’t understand. “You came to get me?”
“Yes. And I’m glad I did. How long have you had that flat?”
“Since town.” I rubbed my fingers into my eyes, pressing hard to alleviate the ache behind them.
We drove in silence. I leaned my head against the seat, then jerked forward. “Wait, I didn’t say thank you. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
