I keep washing glasses, hands trembling, focusing on the motion, on something simple and repetitive, when I feel him behind me again. A glass of water appears beside the sink. Then Tylenol.
I look up to thank him, but he is already walking away.
The Tylenol dulls the worst of the pain, taking the sharpest edge off the pounding in my head, and I manage to push through the rest of the shift, one table at a time, one order at a time, making enough tips to pay for the spilled beer and afford something warm to eat tonight.
That is enough, I tell myself, even if it does not feel like it.
I can survive another night in the car. Just one more.
It is six in the evening when Dex walks out of his office and calls my name.
I turn. His expression is stern.
This is not good.
He nods toward his office. “We need to talk.”
His voice is firm. Final.
I follow him inside. He takes his place behind the desk while I remain standing, the air in the room suddenly heavier, dread pooling deep in my chest.
“I watched you work all day, Lexy,” he says. “And while I’ll admit I admire your will to keep going when you clearly shouldn’t…”
My heart drops, a hollow, sinking feeling opening up inside my chest like the floor has given way beneath me.
“I don’t think this is the right job for you.”
I fight the tears, the exhaustion, the ache in my bones, forcing myself to stay upright, to hold myself together long enough to get the words out.
“I know I sucked today,” I say, swallowing through the burn in my throat. “But I really need this job. And you really need a waitress.”
I meet his eyes and see the resolve there. Solid. Unmovable.
“I’m sorry, Lexy. This isn’t working out. Come by tomorrow morning and I’ll have your day’s pay ready for you.”
He stands.
That is it.
I nod, forcing my eyes to stay dry, forcing my body to move even though everything in me feels heavy and slow, and walk to my locker to grab my coat and purse.
I’ll find another job, I tell myself.
But the words feel empty, slipping through me without landing, like there is nothing left inside me for them to hold on to.
CHAPTER 4
Dexter
I watch Lexy walk out and ignore the gut feeling clawing at me, the one I’ve been fighting since the moment I told her she wasn’t getting the job.
I know she needs it.
I know she’s hungry for it, desperate in that quiet, stubborn way that never begs but still aches beneath the surface. And I know she would’ve learned. Would’ve gotten better. Fast.
But I can’t.
I drag a hand over my jaw, exhaling hard through my nose, then shake my head once and walk over to Stephen.
