Taking a deep breath, I fix myself some water in a styrofoam cup, take a sip, marking it with my name, and put it on a shelf in the kitchen. Pushing back through the doubledoors, I head out to the main floor and take another deep breath as I make another lap.
A month. That’s how long it took for me to poorly grieve my brother dying—and I don’t say those words to myself lightly.
When I was finally ready to come back to work, Hannah made me an assistant general manager. I had no experience and I was way too young and nowhere near ready to take on a position that big, but for some reason, it worked. I think she knew that if I was given something to stay busy with, then the process of healing from losing my only sibling would help, and it did. Slowly. But when she announced we were closing for a bit for renovations, I felt lost again. Two things were taken away from me and I had no idea how to cope. One of those, I knew I was getting back. But the other—my brother took himself away from us instead of facing his problems. Sure, some days I teeter on the edge of forgiving my brother for what he did. He destroyed another family in his selfish downfall and that’s what I can’t forgive. But other days, I also fall into the boat of hating him for leaving me an only child.
Growing up, it was easy to hide behind his shadow with our age difference. We were six years apart in age, yet neither my parents nor Liam could ever understand me or the passion I had for playing the piano. I’m sure my family put up with my playing Chopsticks over and over in the house until I perfected it, because that’s what they were supposed to do. But my talent was never on Liam’s playing field. I’d tag along with them to his tournaments and show up to his high school games like a good sister does, but even then no one noticed me. I was good at being the invisible little sister. I kept to myself so much that when I finally got to high school, the teachers thankfully didn’t connectthe dots that we were related since so much time had passed.
When Liam told us he was planning to enter the draft, that’s when every ounce of attention on him amplified. I retreated further into a musical bubble where I would spend hours playing until my hands ached from being stretched to the max and my butt went numb from how long I sat on the hard bench.
But somewhere between graduating high school and Liam dying, I lost my love of playing the piano and it devastated me. So much of my identity was tied into being a pianist and it’s like the reason I was playing was to feel like I belonged somewhere—like I was playing to make sure my family knew I was still alive. But after he died, the love for an instrument that meant so much to me slipped out of my fingers. It felt like I was coming down from a huge crescendo and all that was left was an empty room.
But day by day, I get that itch to sit down and stare at the keys until the desire to play something that’s ingrained in my memory spills out, and still, nothing. I just can’t make myself do it. I’ve tried. And maybe it’s because I still live with my parents. Well, living with them is a stretch as they’re never there. But they’re grieving and have been for the last two years. I never once held any ill will toward my parents. Unfortunately, after Liam died, my mom started putting her focus on me to figure out my life. And the unwanted attention made me resent them—her—for the first time in my life and I began to pull away. I didn’t need the forced attention now that my brother was gone to figure out my future. I needed a hug. I needed a place to safely fall apart without feeling like I have nothing to be sorry for. I needed my parents so we could all fall apart and then heal together.
At the time, and without those proper coping steps, Icontemplated moving out. Because when days go by and I’m the only person there, I might as well. But the rule has always been to live at home when you’re in college, unless you’re out-of-state, and thanks to my lack of friends, I took summer classes to get ahead and I’m set to graduate at the end of summer a year ahead of schedule. So, that’s where I’m at—counting the days until I can put a deposit down on a studio apartment in the city. I don’t need anything fancy. In fact, I would want something the complete opposite of my parents’ house. Something old with a leaky sink and an older neighbor who checks in on me or makes me cookies because she thought of me. I’d want a place where I can walk down the street to the quad and hope that the sights and sounds of Philadelphia spark my need to play the piano that sits out there all year round. Yeah. I can see that now. A simple life filled with music. That’s what I want.
With that thought in mind and goals on the horizon, things begin to clear, and breathing becomes easier.
“Anythingelse I can get for you, gentleman?” I ask some of my regulars, even though I know the answer. These three have been coming to Blue Pint Outpost since before we renovated and well before I became of legal age to serve them.
“Yeah. When are you gonna let my grandson take you out on a date?” He looks up at me with eyes that have seen more than I’ve experienced.
“I don’t know, Harvey. How old is he?” I ask just to placate him.
“Well, Ms. Angie, he just turned forty-seven.”
Old. My first thought and then I slap myself, laughinglike I’m nervous. “He might be a tad too old for me. But I’m gonna go ahead and get your drinks and then I’ll be back.”
I turn to go check on my other tables when the spitting image of someone I never thought I’d see is standing in the entrance. Glaring at me like I shouldn’t be here. Only it’s him who’s out of place and shouldn’t be here.
Brandon Hayes.
I’m gonna be sick. I was doing so well. Some days are really hard. But some days, like today, are really good.
I had just turned one when we moved to Philly from Charlotte, so this place is all I know. Our families go back two decades. My dad and Brandon’s dad used to be best friends. So us, along with the Rawlins family, would take a big vacation every year. But that slowed down once the older kids got into college, until they ceased altogether. Mr. Hayes was so distraught that he couldn’t even look at my dad after that day, and he left the company altogether. It caused such a huge disruption that I didn’t even see my dad for a month straight because he ended up sleeping on a cot in his office, trying to fix and find a replacement.
As we stand in a silent staredown, I curl my hand into a fist and feel the welcome sting of my nails biting into my palm. Hurriedly, I walk past him and his group to input the drink orders. My Doc Marten clad foot taps an erratic beat and I spin the ring on my thumb in an attempt to tether myself to this space. When that doesn’t work, I feel like the room is closing in on me. The telltale sign of a panic attack right on the edges, just begging to take me under. Once I’ve placed the orders, I beeline it to the kitchen and head straight for the fridge.
The cold air envelops me and I use it to bring my heart rate back down. Gasping in cold air, I bend over and place my hands on my knees and take in deep cleansing breaths.Standing back up, I continue to spin the ring on my thumb and count down from one hundred, pacing the small walk-in freezer until I can breathe somewhat normally. I do all my self-taught panic attack tricks until I’m no longer feeling like the floor is going to fall out from under my feet. Taking another cleansing breath, I fix my blonde hair in a new ponytail and head back out.
“You okay, Ms. Angie?” One of the cooks, Kevin, asks as I exit the fridge. He’s an original member of the Blue Pint Outpost team and he’s more like an older brother to me than Liam ever was. So his question isn’t out of the ordinary, but having other people care about me and notice when I’m on the edge still makes me want to cry because I’ve never had that. People who care so deeply about me like they do.
“Never better,” I tell him with a faux smile and quickly dodge his eyes before I head back out front. I find my table's drinks sitting on a tray for me and gather them carefully. “Here you go, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
I give them a closed-mouth smile. “I’ll be back to check on you in a little bit.”
Tucking the tray under my arm, I head back to the bar. Resting my elbows on the bar top, I look up at one of the eight TVs sitting in the middle of the bar like a dais, before looking around, all the while spinning the ring on my thumb. This space is quickly filling up with corporate workers looking to unwind, students from the local university looking to destress, and the retired crowd, like my table. This is what Hannah envisioned when she wanted to rebrand and reopen in the city. In this spot specifically. It’s central to everywhere in Southside Philly. And if I know her like I think I do, then she’s already planning something big for the first anniversary.
As I’m standing here waiting for my next order, my neck prickles and I look toward the outdoor seating and see his eyes on me. He may be wearing sunglasses, but there is no mistaking the clench of his jaw or his hatred of me. Or maybe it’s what and who I represent. I can’t imagine seeing someone related to a person who took your family member. I hate myself sometimes too for who I’m related to, but I can’t change that any more than he can change why he’s so angry.
Luckily, I get assigned more tables and tasked with some administrative work that keeps me busy and away from his vicinity for the next few hours. But it’s just barely enough, as I’m still very much aware of the table outside.
I’m doing some sidework when I notice movement out of the corner of my eyes when I look up and suck in a breath. His hazel eyes sear into me the longer he saunters toward me like a man on a mission. He’s less than two feet away and looks ready to unleash all of his hatred and anger out on me—because if the roles were reversed, I would be doing the same thing. I brace myself for the onslaught of words, but when he opens his mouth, he says nothing. He must see something because he hasn’t even stopped walking when his steps pick up speed again and he goes around me toward the bathrooms. I spin the ring on my finger again and count to ten.
“Angie, once your table closes, you can clock out,” Hannah tells me as she comes to stand next to me not five seconds after Brandon breezes by me.
“It’s not even eight,” I protest, well aware that we’re not even into the swing of a Friday evening.
