Hannah scoots closer and talks low so that our conversation doesn’t travel. “You think I don’t know who that was that’s got you all shook up? Honey, you’re brave and toostrong for my liking, but I also commend you for staying on. But I’m also mad that you haven’t asked anyone to kick him out. Finish up your tables and sidework, then go home.”
I mull over Hannah’s words after she walks off. The truth is that I’m not strong. Not by a long shot. I just pretend to be so that people don’t worry over me. Because Idon’tneed people to worry over me. I can take care of myself. I hate being a bother. But I should’ve known that she would see right through me.
I look over and see my table looking at me with the expression of wanting to leave. It’s something you pick up on after being in the food industry for as long as I have. So I print out their receipt, tuck it into a black folder, stash it in my apron, and make my way toward them.
“Are we ready for the check?” I ask as I make it to their table and take their empty plates.
“That’d be great,” the woman, I’m assuming is the mom, speaks up.
I place their check on the table with a smile and walk around to pick up some of the empty glasses. We have busboys for this very reason, but I like getting my hands a little dirty. On my next loop around, I take up my table’s check and head to the register to close them out. This routine of opening and closing checks is one thing I love about working as a waitress. Especially when I need my mind to focus on something else entirely.
“Have a great evening, guys,” I tell them as they leave.
I officially close them out and do a final walk-through. Realizing I can’t avoid that space any longer, I head out to the patio to see what needs collecting, and the whole way, I feel his eyes on me. Tracking every step and move I make makes me feel like I’m under a microscope because in front of him, I’ve never felt more exposed in my work uniformthan I do now. Collecting a few empty glasses, I swing by his table and collect those too without a word. I finish up my jobs without another word, saying goodbye to those in the kitchen and waving to the bartenders. That’s also a goal of mine and I’m hoping to get behind the bar full-time one day. But it would require more sacrifice than I’m ready to allow.
3
BRANDON
Ishouldn’t be here. It’s my thought as I find myself standing outside of Blue Pint Outpost a few days later. After my failed attempt to confront Angela on Friday, I decided to come back for round two after a last-minute gym session. I’m not a malicious guy. But something about her makes me want to unleash all my pain onto her. To make her feel worse than I have for the last two years.
And that’s not me. It’s never been me. I’ve never been someone fueled by anger or the desire to make someone feel bad about themselves…until now. But seeing her on Friday stirred an entirely different reaction inside me. It was no longer anger. It was wanting. It was a need to see her again to confirm whether what I had started to feel after that one moment was the opposite of hate.
So I walk inside.
The first thing I notice is it’s less busy here on a Tuesday. And as someone who hates crowds, this would be the perfect day for me to come to a place like this. I’m usually able to hide my nerves behind others' confidence. But today, I’m not in control, and my nerves are at the highest level offreaking out as I slide my sunglasses to the top of my head and I find a seat at the spacious bar. The corner spot I’m at gives me a view of everything. So when she walks out of the kitchen with her arms full of napkins and what looks like a box of straws, her steps falter when she sees me, and I track her movements to behind the bar. I expect her to be the one to serve me so I can confront her, but I should’ve known better when one of the other bartenders does just that.
“I’ll just have a beer. Doesn’t matter what kind,” I tell him and pull my wallet out of my back pocket.
When he sets my glass in front of me, I hand him my card.
“Just the one?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I stare up at the TVs that line the bar. Various news channels, some sports highlights, and a random home improvement show play on the screens. But all the while I see the head of blonde hair I’ve forced myself to ignore, busying herself out of the corner of my eye, expertly avoiding me. Which is a good call because now that I’m here, I’m waiting for any sort of venom to fly out of my mouth. I wrap my hand around the cold glass of beer and finally take a sip. I set my glass down and ponder my next move. Do I get her alone? Do I just leave? Now that I’m here, I’m wondering if what I’m doing will actually pay off.
Time has moved around me and I check my watch, noting that I’ve been here for an hour. It hasn’t gotten any busier than when I came in and my butt is starting to go numb from the hard chair. Figuring this is a lost cause because I clearly can’t do what I told myself to do, I down the rest of my beer and pull some cash out of my wallet for a tip when I stand up.
“Have a good one,” the bartender says as he grabs my empty glass and the cash I placed down.
Nodding to him, I meet the saddest and most confused blue eyes I have ever seen. And it has me wondering whether she’s holding on to the same amount of anger and sadness as I am?
“So they liked it?”my mom asks enthusiastically at Sunday dinner.
My family knows I work on and develop video games. I try not to overload them with too much nerd speak. So I usually give them the Cliffnotes version. “It’s only been a week and the beta feedback has been great so far.”
“Nerd,” my younger brother Malcolm says under his breath, but like always, I ignore him.
To my brothers, I’m practically a stranger. James was our bridge, and we’ve had to figure out how to exist without him—how to be brothers without him. It doesn’t help that I haven’t lived at home in almost ten years, and apart from the holidays, home from college, it’s more like I’m a guest here. Plus, my youngest brother, Ford, is sixteen years younger than me, so to him I’m just his older brother who shares the same parents. At least that’s what it feels like anytime I come around because I have a secret I can never tell my family. And this secret could be the one that breaks the camel’s back.
“Malcolm,” my dad scolds, though it lacks any sort of bite.
My dad used to be the happiest man on the planet. Although that could be because he’s been blissfully in love with my mom for forty years. But since James died, he’s lost his spark. There may be four of us left, but James was his shadow—our family was complete with him. And for thelast two years, my dad just seems like he’s forever stuck in a room, with the curtains tightly drawn over the windows so no sunlight can get through. I’ll see the occasional flicker of his happiness now and then when I come over here or when Mom catches him off guard, but my dad is no longer the joyful dad I grew up with.
“Sorry,” he mumbles under his breath.
Malcolm and I couldn’t be more opposite if we tried. I spend my days in slacks with a button-down shirt and tie, while he spends his days in blue utility pants with a blue shirt that has ‘Rookie’ and the fire station’s logo on it. My hair is brown, and even then, I have pomade in it to keep it off my face, where his hair is closely shaved but a mix of all of ours—not quite blond, brown, or red. The only similarity between us is the shape of our eyes.
I think Malcolm has always tried to compete with me, despite me not having a competitive bone in my body when it comes to my brothers. I love my brothers even when it feels like there’s an ocean between us. Golf, on the other hand—now that’s a different story. But I haven’t played for anything since graduating college. Sure, Dad and I would go out to the course on Saturdays years ago, but it was never for a prize.
