Mike grins. “Told you.”
Frank steps closer. “You free for Happy Hours during the week? Maybe a few Sunday nights?”
“Sure. I work until five though during the week.”
He nodded, “I’ll be in touch. We’ve got dinner covered later. You’ll warm the place up. Keep people drinking.”
“Cash?” I ask.
“Forty an hour,” he says. “Tips are yours. If it’s good—” he shrugs “—we talk again.”
I nod. “Fair.”
He sticks out his hand.
I shake it.
It’s simple. Solid. Done.
As I pack the guitar back into its case, Mike tilts his head. “You play like someone who used to do this a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say. “A lifetime ago.”
“Well,” he says, “welcome back.”
Outside, the sun’s higher now. The street louder. Life moving.
I sit in my car for a second before starting it.
Forty bucks an hour. Cash.
Late Sunday afternoons. Random Happy Hours.
Not quitting my job.
Not changing my life.
Just… adding something back in.
I think about my mom. The house. The bills.
I think about Sage—her laugh, the way she looks at me like she’s daring me to keep up.
I don’t tell anyone.
Not yet.
Some things feel better when they’re earned quietly.
Saturday night we hit a different place.
Bigger. Darker. More dance floor than bar.
Tony picked it. Said the DJ owed him a favor.
Beth showed up in a sundress, phone already in her hand.
Sean texted twice before we even ordered drinks.
