“So noble of you.” He gives me that half-smile again, resting his elbows on the bar and leaning in closer. “Sacrificing yourself for the greater good of drunk men’s egos.”
“I’m basically a saint,” I say, placing another rolled set in the caddy. “A saint who desperately needs rent money, so I’ll be staying right here where the tips are.”
He takes another sip of beer, watching me steadily over the rim of his glass. “A saint, huh? That’s funny, because I seem to recall back in high school you hustling some of the guys on the football team out of their allowance money playing pool at Jason Miller’s parties.”
I look up at him with a grin now, the memory flooding back instantly. “One of my finer accomplishments. Those guys never saw it coming. Thought I was just some girl who didn’t know which end of the pool cue to hold.”
“As I recall,” Jack says, “you relieved Travis Peterson of two hundred bucks in under ten minutes flat. The guy was absolutely devastated. Pretty sure he cried in his car.”
“It was three hundred bucks actually,” I correct him, laughing. “And the look on his face when I sank that final eight ball? Absolutely priceless. Best money I ever earned, and I spent it all on concerts and terrible mall food.” I shake my head. “I’mshocked you even remember that party. You were barely ever in town for those things. Always off in Europe or wherever racing.”
“Are you kidding?” Jack leans forward even more, his eyes bright. “Your pool skills were legendary. The girl who took down half the football team’s ego and their wallets in one night? You were famous for like a month.” He gestures toward the pool table behind him. “Come on, just one game. I’ll even talk Sarah into covering for you.” He glances over at my coworker with a look that suggests he knows exactly how effective his charm offensive can be when he deploys it properly.
“Your delusional self-confidence is, as always, deeply entertaining,” I say dryly, though I’ll admit part of me is tempted. It would be extremely satisfying to wipe that confident smirk right off his perfect face. “But I’m going to stay right here, working like a responsible adult with bills to pay.”
He laughs, then slides off the stool with fluid grace. “Fine. But if you change your mind about showing off those legendary skills…”
“Keep dreaming, Midnight,” I say cheerfully.
He winks before turning around to head back to his game, and I firmly ignore the way that wink does something stupid to my pulse. Attractive? Obviously, objectively yes. My type? Absolutely not. Total player with a reputation that spans continents. Jack Midnight can direct those dimples and that wink elsewhere. I’m perfectly content enjoying the view from a safe distance.
An hour or so slips by. I’ve sent Sarah home for the night and I’m currently munching on an order of fries that I talked Jayson intomaking for me, even though the kitchen was technically closed. The salt and grease are exactly what I need right now.
The door chimes. I glance up casually and my entire body goes rigid. The half-eaten fry freezes halfway to my mouth and I just drop it back into the basket, my appetite vanishing instantly.
Brandon walks in with Kelly. My ex-husband and my former best friend who chose his side when everything fell apart.Fuck my actual life.
I haven’t physically seen either of them in almost two years. Brandon moved to Seattle for work right after the divorce was finalized, and I’d managed to successfully avoid them both during his occasional visits back to Dark River. But of course they’re both originally from here, so this collision was always inevitable.
Just my spectacular luck that it happens tonight when I’m alone at the bar with absolutely no buffer and no escape route. I would kill to have Maren here right now. She’s the best at deflecting Brandon’s bullshit.
Kelly’s got her arm looped through Brandon’s like she’s marking territory or proving a point, though her face goes immediately tight with surprise when she spots me behind the bar. Her eyes widen comically, then dart toward the door like she’s calculating exactly how fast she could make an escape. She leans in to whisper something to Brandon—probably desperately suggesting they leave—but he’s already pulling her toward the bar.
Deep breath. You’re not married to him anymore. He literally cannot affect you now. You’re a free woman.
I desperately reach for something from my therapy sessions, some piece of wisdom about self-worth or standing in your power. Instead, the only thing that comes to mind is fromThe Princess Diarieswhen Joe tells Mia that thing about… nobody making you feel inferior without permission? Or consent?Something like that. Pretty sure it’s Eleanor Roosevelt originally, but I only know it from a Disney movie I watched while demolishing Ben & Jerry’s during the worst of my divorce wallowing.
Great. Just great.My self-help and courage is coming from a teen movie about a girl who finds out she’s royalty. Whatever.Princess Diarieswisdom, please don’t fail me now.
“Lark,” Brandon says as they approach, his tone dripping with fake pleasant surprise. “What a surprise seeing you here.”
“Brandon.” I keep my voice professionally neutral even though my jaw is already clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, possibly diamonds. Then, because I literally cannot avoid acknowledging her existence, “Kelly.”
“Hi, Lark,” Kelly says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She’s suddenly absolutely fascinated by her purse, adjusting the strap obsessively, fiddling with the clasp, doing anything possible to avoid making eye contact with me.
“It’s been so long, hasn’t it?” Brandon continues, settling himself onto a barstool like we’re old friends catching up over drinks instead of exes with a spectacularly messy history. Kelly takes the seat directly beside him even though there are plenty of empty tables scattered throughout the bar. “What has it been now, two years?”
“About that.” I busy myself with wiping down the already spotless counter, giving my hands something productive to do besides curling into fists or reaching for something to throw.
“Time really does fly when you’re living your life,” he says, making himself comfortable, elbows claiming space on my bar. This is exactly the kind of power play he loves—showing up in my territory, my workplace, acting like absolutely nothing happened between us, forcing me to perform customer service for him with a smile. “So what can we get here? Still have that decent IPA on tap that you guys used to serve?”
“We have several different IPAs actually.” I keep my answers clipped and professional. The less I engage with him, the sooner this nightmare will be over.
“I’ll take whichever one you’d recommend then.” He gestures vaguely toward the taps. Then he adds without even glancing at Kelly beside him, “And she’ll have a pinot grigio.”
The casual way he orders for her without asking, without even looking at her, makes my skin absolutely crawl. He used to do that exact same thing to me constantly when we were married. Always ordering for me, deciding what I wanted before I could speak. Back when I’d somehow convinced myself that I actuallylikeddirty martinis just because he kept insisting they were “my drink” and I was too young and unsure to push back. It took months after the divorce to realize I hated them with an absolute passion.
I pour their drinks in deliberate silence, setting them down on the bar with perhaps slightly more force than strictly necessary. The beer foam spills over the rim a bit, creating a small puddle that I don’t bother wiping up. Brandon’s eye twitches at the mess, at my lack of immediate service, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Small victories where I can find them.
