Get it together, Lexy.
I pull the tap and watch the amber liquid fill the glass, foam rising too fast because my hand is not steady enough to regulate the pressure, and I correct it quickly, jaw clenched, heat prickling behind my eyes, not from tears but from sheer stubborn refusal to break in the middle of a shift.
I can feel Dex without looking.
His attention finds me anyway, settling somewhere between my shoulders, heavy enough that I cannot quite ignore it.
He is behind the bar, hands moving with practiced ease, every motion controlled and confident, everything mine is not right now.
I carry the beers back to the table, careful, so careful, every step measured and my breath shallow like that alone might keep everything steady. When I set them down, the man smiles, oblivious to the war raging inside my body.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You’re welcome.” My voice comes out hoarse, rough around the edges, and I clear my throat quickly, hoping he does not notice.
By the time I turn away, sweat dampens my spine despite the cool air in the bar, my legs heavy, my joints aching like I have run miles instead of carried drinks back and forth.
I pass Dex on my way back to the bar. His eyes flick to my face, then to my hands, lingering just long enough for me to notice, for something tight and uncomfortable to coil low in my stomach.
I straighten my shoulders.
I will not ask for help.
I will not complain.
I will not give him another reason to think I do not belong here.
I just need to make it through the shift.
Just a few more hours.
Just enough tips for food and medicine.
Just enough to survive one more night.
And then, maybe, tomorrow will be better.
Dex comes to stand beside me as I start washing glasses.
“You sure you’ve waitressed before?” he asks.
I look up. His green eyes are sharp, irritated. Watching.
“I have,” I say, swallowing against the burn in my throat, forcing the words out anyway because honesty feels like the only thing I have left. “I’m just… not feeling very well today. But I promise I’m not this bad.”
He studies me so intensely I have to look away.
“You’re sick,” he says, the annoyance still there, but thinner now.
“I think so,” I whisper, defeated.
“Then stop. You should go home.”
Panic floods me instantly, sharp and suffocating, because working all day on aching feet is still better than going back to my car, better than another night curled up in the cold with nothing but thin blankets that never quite hold the heat.
“Please,” I say quietly. “Don’t send me home.”
He exhales slowly, a long breath through his nose, then turns and disappears into his office.
