I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and drag my eyes back to the road ahead of me because the last thing I need tonight is my brain replaying every quiet moment we shared like it’s trying to prove a point I’m not interested in hearing. This was my choice. My words. I’m the one who said them, clear as day, standing in my kitchen like I had everything figured out.
This isn’t real life.
The sentence drops back into my thoughts with annoying persistence, the memory of Cole’s face right after I said it following close behind. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just… still. Like something inside him closed a door quietly and he didn’t see any reason to argue about it. That’s the part that keeps bothering me more than it should. Cole Mercer looks like the kind of man who should argue when someone tries to push him away. He looks like the kind of man who would step closer, not back. Instead he packed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out like he understood something I was still trying to convince myself of.
The neon glow ofThe Rusty Nailsign flickers into view ahead of me just as the road curves toward town, cutting through the darkness like a beacon that’s been waiting there all along. The old brick building sits at the edge of the main road exactly the way it always has, the windows glowing warm with yellow light and beer signs buzzing quietly against the glass. The sight of it loosens something tight in my chest before I even realize that’swhat’s happening. This place has been part of my life longer than almost anything else. When everything else feels like it’s shifting around me, the Rusty Nail stays exactly where it’s always been.
I pull into the gravel lot and cut the engine, the truck settling into silence around me except for the faint ticking sound it makes when it cools down. For a moment I just sit there with my hands resting on the wheel, staring at the front door of the bar like it might tell me something useful if I look at it long enough. It’s just work. Just another night. People will come in, drink their beers, complain about their jobs, argue about sports, and go home. Same as always.
I grab my bag and climb out of the truck before my brain can wander anywhere else it doesn’t need to be. The gravel crunches under my boots as I walk up to the door and push it open, the familiar creak greeting me before the smell does. Beer, fryer grease, lemon cleaner, and that faint ghost of cigarette smoke that soaked into the wood from the years before the smoking ban ever happened. It hits me all at once, and for a second it feels like stepping into a version of normal I didn’t realize I needed tonight.
The bar is already half alive when I step inside. The jukebox hums quietly in the corner, its colored lights reflecting off the scratched wooden floor, and two regulars are sitting at the far end of the counter arguing loudly about football like they’ve been having the same conversation every Tuesday night for the last decade.
“I’m telling you the man can’t throw under pressure.”
“That’s because your team’s offensive line collapses like wet cardboard.”
Their voices blend into the background noise as I slip behind the bar, ducking under the small gate like I’ve done a thousand times before. Normally the moment I step back here something inside me settles into place automatically, like my brain recognizes this space as home base. Tonight the feeling doesn’t come quite as easily.
Wayne notices immediately.
He’s behind the bar finishing the early shift like he always does before I take over for the night. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s wiping down the counter with a rag that’s probably been in this building longer than some of the bar stools. The moment he sees me walk in, his hand slows just a little and his eyes narrow over the top of his glasses in that way that means he’s already clocked something about my mood that I haven’t bothered trying to hide.
“Evenin’, troublemaker,” he says, setting the rag aside.
“Evenin’, old man,” I answer automatically as I drop my bag under the counter and start moving around the bar.
The exchange is so automatic it barely requires thought. We’ve been greeting each other like that since I was sixteen and convinced I could bartend better than half the grown adults in this place.
Wayne snorts quietly and leans his hip against the counter, watching me as I reach for the bottles on the shelf and start rearranging them in a way that makes absolutely no difference to how the bar functions. I can feel his eyes on me the whole time, that steady, assessing look that’s been following me around since I was a teenager and tried to convince him I hadn’t started a fight in the parking lot five minutes earlier.
After about half a minute of watching me reorganize the same three bottles like they’re suddenly fascinating, Wayne exhales loudly through his nose and folds his arms across his chest.
“You gonna tell me what’s eating you,” he asks, “or are you planning on reorganizing that shelf all night?”
I glance down at the bottle in my hand and realize I’ve been holding it longer than makes sense.
“Maybe I just like whiskey,” I mutter, sliding it back into place.
Wayne lifts one eyebrow slowly.
“You don’t even drink whiskey.”
“That’s not the point.”
He studies my face for another second before pushing himself off the bar and heading toward the kitchen behind it.
“You look like hell,” he mutters as he disappears through the doorway.
I roll my eyes and grab a stack of glasses from the rack, even though they’re already clean.
“Wow,” I call after him. “Exactly what every woman hopes to hear when she walks into work.”
“You know what I mean,” he calls back.
“I’m fine.”
Wayne makes a low noise in the back of his throat from the kitchen, the same sound he’s been making since I was seventeen and trying to lie to him about why my knuckles were bruised.
