She watches him move on to the next table.
“Have a good night, sweetheart.”
By 3:37 AM, all the chairs're flipped, the register's counted, the pile of receipts slapped and banded, and Nina’s behind the bar, sortin' cash, pretendin’ she’s not watchin’ Andrew at the other end of the bar. His sleeves are shoved up, arms veined, and he's backlit by the rows of dusty bottles. He grabs a glass, sets it on the bar, then unloads his pockets. Tonight, he's got a handful of napkins with numbers and one coaster.
He drops one in the glass, flicks the lighter, and watches it burn.
Then one by one, he torches ‘em ‘til the ink bleeds, the paper curls, and the glass smokes. Nina leans back on her elbows, watchin’ the fire eat. “Coulda tossed ‘em,” she mutters. “But, nah. Paisan Prince gotta light up the night.”
Andrew drops the next phone number in, flicks the lighter again. “You toss a number in the trash, it still exists,” he mutters, flames flickering in his eyes. “You burn it? Becomes nothin’… never fuckin’ happened.”
His palm scrapes the sweat off his neck.
“Fire makes sure it don’t come back to haunt you.”
Nina watches him staring into the glass full of ashes. He thinks burnin’ every name, every number, might buy him the real thing someday.
“Every girl in here wants a piece of you,” she says, folding the wad of tips. “You never take it.” She shoves the bills into her purse. “What’s the play here, Harding? You some kind'a saint?”
He lifts the glass, last flame dancin’ at the edge.
Then blows it out.
“I don’t fuck customers, Neen. They know where I work. Last thing I need is ‘em showin’ up every other shift thinkin’ it meant somethin’.”
She snaps her purse shut. “So no girlfriend.”
“Pfft.”He leans into the bar, arms folded. “Got two moms and a boss who flicks coasters at my head.” He pauses, throwing her a sideways glance. “That’s you, by the way. Ain't got time for another woman in my life.”
She eyes the ashes. Then his dumb fuckin’ smirk.
She turns before he sees her smilin’ too.
At 3:56 AM, the bar’s clean, the lights dimmed low.
Andrew’s elbow deep in the sink, washin’ the last few glasses, when her cell rings, the whole thing buzzin' face-down next to the register.
She flips it over, ready to silence it, but then freezes when she sees the name:Ryan.
Her thumb hovers.
She should let it ring. Or toss it into the sink and blast the sprayer over it. But her dumb heart still trembles, remembering the good before everything went to shit.
She answers.
“Ryan?”
“Hey, Neen.”
“Ryan, it’s almost four.”
“I remember,” he says into the phone. “This the time you usually close up. Figured I’d catch ya.”
Her mouth’s dry, hand’s shakin’. She wants to believe he came to his senses, and sex with an eighteen-year-old wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Hell, maybe he got bored, and he misses her.
Ryan breathes through the phone, dragged out and tired.
“I wanted you to hear it from me,” he says. Nina’s eyes instantly go distant, hearin' the bad news in the spaces betweenthe words. Her face doesn’t change. Her body's paralyzed. “Ashlee and I… we’re gettin’ married.”
