Besides, men like Gallo aren’t my type. Rich, powerful men who treat the world like it belongs to them, like everything in it is a trinket that came with the house. Like everyone is theirs to control.
The man in the red shirt oozed the same air.
I wasn’t smart enough to realize it then, but I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. No matter how GQ-gorgeous he can be, no matter how unexpectedly funny and forgiving, he comes from a different world.
The same world that swallowed up my sister.
Rose says something else, a joke or other, and I laugh. I let myself be swept back into the rhythm of the night and the occasional conversation with her at the counter, between orders and clean-up and everything else.
Before we know it, the bar is empty, and it’s closing time.
Donald should be the one doing it. He’s the manager, after all. But somehow he always makes himself scarce while the place is still full, vanishing right before the last rush like he’s late for something important. Izzy says he has a sixth sense for unpaid labor.
Early on, he tried to delegate closing to her. That lasted about a week.
Izzy has a kid at home. A real one. A bedtime and a babysitter and an actual life waiting for her outside these walls. So most nights, I stay. I always have. It’s easier that way. I can lock up, count the till, wipe down the bar, and let her get home without guilt gnawing at her.
Rose shouldn’t have to stay, but she does. In the last few months, she’s taken to keeping me company every night.
She doesn’t say why, and she doesn’t have to.
She lingers while I flip stools and run the last load of glasses through the washer, chatting about nothing and everything, asking me what song is playing, whether the basil at the front needs watering tomorrow, if I think it’s going to rain.
She’s clearly afraid of going home.
I don’t call her out on it. I just let her be here, because sometimes that’s the only help she will accept.
“Let’s go,” I tell her, as soon as I’m done.
When we finally step outside, the street is quieter. Not empty, but thinner. The city itself is at that in-between hour where it hasn’t gone to sleep yet, but it’s thinking about it.
We walk together toward the subway entrance, our steps slowing the closer we get. Rose keeps adjusting the strap of her bag like it won’t sit right.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask, stopping at the top of the stairs.
She hesitates.
For half a second, I see it on her face—the truth, sharp and naked. Fear. The kind that makes you want to reach out and grab onto the nearest solid thing.
I brace myself, ready for her to say it. Ready to stay. Ready to walk her home if she asks, or drag her into my apartment and force her into a month-long sleepover so she can finally rest and think andbreathe.
Then she smiles.
The smile is too quick, too thin, and sis nothing near genuine. It’s the kind you put on because you don’t want to deal with what comes next.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Of course I am.”
My stomach knots.
I want to argue, but before I can, she speaks again.
“We’ll see each other tomorrow, yeah?” she adds.
“Yeah” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Tomorrow.”
She turns and disappears down the steps, swallowed by the station lights.
I wait until she’s gone before I head the other way.
