Molly
The paper shakes in my grip as I set it on my professor’s desk with all the grace of Tank after six glasses of whiskey and the espresso martini he’ll sometimes ask me to make for him when he thinks no one is paying attention; he’ll always have me serve it to him in a highball glass and, whenever anyone asks what he’s drinking that’s so damn dark, he’ll just claim it’s his own reserve bourbon and it’s dark from the ashes of the last person who asked him what the hell he was drinking.
They usually leave him alone after that.
Then he’ll wink at me and touch his nose, like it’s our little secret.
I don’t have the heart to tell him that everyone knows what he’s drinking, that it all came out one night when he chased his whiskey with four shots of tequila, a full glass of mezcal, and some brandy, before calling out to me across the bar: “Molly, make me one of those nummers coffee drinks I like.”
We’ve all been humoring him since.
My fingers are cramped into a claw from gripping the pencil too hard, and my brain feels like it’s been scrubbed with steel wool. Accounting isn’t hard in the way running the bar is hard — there’s no drunk customer grabbing my wrist, no knives, no blood — but it’s hard in a way that still makes me ache, still leaves fantasizing about the bottle of red I’m going to polish offwhen I get home, and yet, for how different it is to running the bar, it aches in a way that matters to me.
It’s hard, it hurts, it’s mine — my future, my ambition, my pride.
“Ms. Rogers?” Professor Hensley says when I gingerly set the paper down and take one hesitant step back. She’s fifty-something, silver hair twisted into a bun so tight that it looks like it could stay that way for years, and her eyes have the steady, appraising calm that pierces through your willpower and makes you want to confess to all your idiot thoughts.
“Yes, Professor Hensley?” I say.
She takes my paper, flips it once, then looks at me over the rim of her glasses. “Are you sure you want to hand this in? You look like you’ve just fought a bear. There’s another fifteen minutes left… You can take some more time.”
“I… studied,” I say. Then, because my mouth has never understood the concept of shutting up, I add, “Aggressively.”
One corner of her mouth lifts, her eyes scan the paper. “I can tell.”
That should make me feel better. It doesn’t. Because the second she slides my exam into the pile, my brain immediately starts replaying every question I might’ve screwed up. Every number. Every formula. Every place I blanked for half a second and felt panic rise like bile in my throat.
It’d always come with the same refrain: it doesn’t matter how hard you studied. You’re going to fail. You’re going to prove you’re not worth it. You’re just a dumb bartender, and you’re going to be stuck pouring drinks forever.
I turn on my heel and walk out before my nerves can eat me alive.
The hallway outside the classroom is a long, beige throat of fluorescent light and stale air. People with backpacks and cups of coffee mill around wearing the blank stare of college studentswho are doing their best to pretend that their futures don’t scare the shit out of them.
Seeing these kids — seeing how young they are, how bright they are, how many years sit open in front of them — makes my chest tighten, sharp and sudden.
I don’t belong here. I’m just a dumb bartender.
I shake my head and keep walking. The test is done, I’ve turned it in. I tried, and, well, if I fail, at least I still have a job that pays well and people to support me.
I turn a corner in the hallway, heading toward the exit, and suddenly the world stops.
There, down the hall, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place, is Evan.
And June.
And — I freeze.No. No way. Absolutely not.
A shocked wail breaks out of my mouth. “What the hell?”
A wall of black leather and denim and attitude lines the hallway on each side. Smiling, standing at attention, waiting, all eyes on me like I’m the fucking centerpiece of some goddamn royal procession. There’s a banner stretched across the hallway right above the door, decorated with glitter glue and stickers, that says: CONGRATULATIONS MOLLY.
I freeze in the middle of the hallway, staring as if I’ve hallucinated the entire thing from exam stress.
Evan starts toward me immediately. And even though I’ve looked at him countless times, I still can’t help myself from appreciating the sight of him. He looks… good. Not perfect. Not untouched. Still healing. There’s still a faint stiffness in his shoulder when he pushes off the wall, and a grimace crosses his handsome face — a reminder of the bullet he took to save my life. But he’s upright. Strong. His jaw is rough with stubble. His eyes are the heart-stopping same — dark, intense, like he’salways one breath away from either laughing or burning the world down.
Evan wraps me in a hug and plants a kiss on my lips that threatens to overwhelm my already stressed heart. “It’s about damn time you got out here. How’d you do?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t been graded yet.” I take in the entirety of the assembly, and my eyes narrow. “Why are you all here?”
