"Daddy, I saw him."
"He was watching me."
"He's been watching me all along."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Why didn't you warn me?"
No answer.
There was never an answer.
"Daddy, please."
"Please tell me what to do."
"Please tell me who to trust."
"Please tell me what's real."
17
The First Glimpse
The bar was alive tonight.
I hadn't noticed it at first—the way the light caught the bottles, the way the glasses sparkled, the way the voices of the customers blurred into a hum that felt almost like music. I'd been working for three hours, moving between the taps and the register and the rows of gleaming glassware, and somewhere along the way, I'd stopped counting the minutes.
I was having fun.
The realization hit me like a wave, warm and unexpected. I washaving fun. Smiling at the regulars, joking with the college kids who ordered shots they couldn't handle, rolling my eyes at the old man who tried to flirt with every woman who walked through the door. Matt was at the other end of the bar, polishing glasses and watching me with something that looked almost like pride.
"You're good at this."
He'd said it earlier, when the rush had finally slowed and I'd leaned against the counter to catch my breath.
"I'm not."
"You are. You've got the touch. People trust you."
"They don't know me."
"Doesn't matter. They trust you anyway. That's a gift."
I hadn't known what to say to that. So I'd just smiled and poured him a glass of water and gone back to work.
The dress was new.
Baby blue with ruffles along the hem, short sleeves that brushed my shoulders, a sash that tied in a bow at my waist. Matt had bought it for me last week, along with three others in different colors, when he'd noticed that I'd been wearing the same pale pink dress for five days straight.
"You need options."
"I don't care what I wear."
"I know. That's why I'm choosing for you."
He'd held up the blue dress and tilted his head.
