Taylor teeters at the edge of the wobbly table, like she’s testing its limits, then pitches forward. My stomach lurches as I catapult off my stool, driven by the foolish notion I could get to her in time—or at least somehow soften her fall.
But it’s not me who reaches her first. Her date swoops in, catching her midair, and the bar erupts in ear-splitting applause.
I exhale sharply, turning back to Mike, who looks like he just shit himself.
“I think I hate when she visits me,” I mutter.
“I think I hate when she visits you too,” he says, dragging a hand down the front of his apron, probably wiping off sweaty palms.
I hoist myself back onto the barstool.
“Why is she even here?” Mike asks, still watching the spectacle. “I thought you two didn’t really get along.”
I down the rest of my sangria in one big gulp and shrug. “I think something’s up. I think she needs something.” The thought rattles me more than I care to admit.
I glance down at my phone and check my bank app, my heart hammering. My insides knot at the dwindling balance staring back at me. Barely enough to get by for the next few days. The numbers stare back at me with a mocking grin.
Please don’t let Taylor ask me for money too.
Mike pushes out a slow whistle, watching me carefully. “You know, that’s your biggest fault. You think you’re responsible for everybody.”
He doesn’t get it. I’ve been responsible for them since I was ten.
Somewhere in the back room, someone starts playing the piano. It’s so painfully off-key, I can’t even tell what song it’s supposed to be.
“Hey,” Taylor says, popping up next to me with her bear-sized date glued to her side. She leans in close. Too close. The scent of cheap tequila and my own perfume wafts off her. “Can we have the keys to your place and a few hours to play in it?” She giggles loudly into my ear, and God, Ireallyhate when she visits.
I glance down at my phone. It’s nine o’clock. She wants afew hoursin my apartment? Where am I supposed to go? This bar closes at eleven, and I’m not spending the rest of the night wandering the boardwalk like some lost tourist. Plus, I have to be at work ridiculously early tomorrow. “Taylor, come on…” I groan. “A few hours?”
She winces, then laughs, clutching my arm like she can charm her way into anything. “Pleeeeaase?” she whines, dragging the word out like she’s five again.
I stare at her.
“Give her the keys,” Mike says, leaning over the bar. “I need a break. She’s riling everyone up.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I get it. The Rum and Room is usually a quiet, low-key spot with a handful of locals, maybe a few older tourists. But an hour ago, Taylor was out front literally dragging groups of men inside in case her hookup didn’t show. Now the place is so packed, I almost feel guilty for not jumping behind the bar to help.
I should, actually. I could use the tip money.
With a groan, I pull out my keys and hand them to her.
“Two hours tops. This place closes at eleven, and after that, I’m coming home and going straight to bed.”
Taylor squeals and yanks her giant blond date toward the front of the bar.
“I mean it Taylor! I have work tomor—” I cut myself off. She’s already halfway across the bar, completely ignoring me.
Mike refills my drink with a shake of his head. “Hopefully it’ll die down in a bit. How long is she staying with you?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say.” My gaze drops back down to my phone. I tap the screen. Ten missed calls. All from the same number my father called from earlier.
I don’t click on the notifications. Instead, I watch the screen go dark and take another long sip of my drink.
Mike says something else, but I barely hear him. I wave him off as he hurries down the counter to help a rowdy group ordering another round.
My phone lights up again. Another call from Dad.
I still don’t answer.
