“I’m fine.”
Claire doesn’t move. And I don’t move, either, even though I desperately want to — her eyes keep me pinned in place. “No, you’re not.”
The glass slips in my hands. It doesn’t fall, because I catch it. Barely. It shakes in my grip, and when I set it down on the counter, it lands so wobbly it nearly falls over.
“Molly,” she says quietly, “talk to me.”
Something inside me fractures.
Not a loud break. A slow one. Like ice splitting under pressure.
I suck in a breath and it comes out wrong — shaky. I blink fast, furious at the sting behind my eyes that won’t go away no matter how much I fight it. It just intensifies until all I see is a hazy shade of sorrow.
“Don’t,” I whisper, because if she keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to fall apart right here in front of everyone. And I can’t do that. Not in front of people who know me. Not when I swore I’d never put myself in this position. I know better. At least I should’ve.
So why the fuck did I do this to myself?
Why did I let myself fall in love?
She reaches out and places her hand on my arm. It’s gentle, and still, I feel like I’ve been struck. “Tell me what’s going on.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
I try again, and this time the words come in a rush I can’t control. “I found out something… terrible. Personal. And I can’t… I can’t talk about it. Not here. Not… I… Claire, it hurts…”
My voice breaks on the last word. Hot tears spill over, humiliating and unstoppable. I turn away fast, pretending to reach for a bottle, but my hands stay empty and my pain just burns a river down my cheeks.
Claire rounds the bar in one smooth movement and grabs my shoulder — not hard, just enough to anchor me. “Hey. Come here. Molly, it’s OK.”
“I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth, swiping at my face like that’ll erase it.
“You’re not.” Claire guides me toward the back corner by the sink, out of the main line of sight. “Go home.”
The word lands like a punch.
I flinch. Home. My apartment. Evan’s door across the hall. Him. His lies. His phone lighting up with that message that is branded into my brain.
“I can’t,” I say, too quickly. “I can’t go home.”
Claire studies me. “Why?”
Because it feels contaminated.
Because if I go there, I’ll see him everywhere, and I’ll either scream or break or do something I can’t take back.
“I just —” I swallow hard. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Claire’s grip tightens on my shoulder. She’s not rough, but she’s not letting me slide. “Then you sit in my office and you breathe for ten minutes. Or you go to the clubhouse kitchen and eat something. But you’re not pouring drinks while you look like you’re about to collapse.”
“I’m working,” I say. Stubborn. Desperate. Wanting to believe myself. Wanting to believe that this sensation of having my heart in a bench vise is just a passing feeling. “I’m fine.”
Claire’s eyes sharpen. “Molly, do you really think I’m going to buy that?”
I wipe my cheeks again, forcing air into my lungs. Forcing the mask back on. “Please, Claire. Just let me work.”
For a long second, she holds my gaze.
