“I know what you’re going to say,” I interrupt, keeping my voice light. “That I should reach out. That we both said things we didn’t mean.”
“I mean, yeah.” Maren gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Listen, believe me, I’m going to give him a big old kick in the pants for leaving so suddenly without talking to you or his brothers. Calvin too. But maybe it’s worth texting him. Just to clear the air.”
I force a smile. “No way. I have too much pride for that.” I pause. “Maybe that’s the problem. Anyway, lighter subjects. Please. I can’t spiral about Jack right now or I’ll lose it completely.”
Maren studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay. Lighter topics.” She drums her fingers on the bar, thinking. “Ooh! What are you going to wear on stage? Because thisis Vegas, Formula One, international coverage. You need something that screams ‘I’m about to be a star.’”
“Ooh, now we’re talking.” I feel myself relax slightly, grateful for the subject change. “Something that says‘I’m talented and professional but also cool and approachable.’ You know, casual. Easy.”
“So basically impossible,” Maren laughs.
“Exactly.” I’m grinning. “I was thinking maybe something?—”
“Wait!” Maren’s eyes light up. “What about that beaded dress you have? The dark blue one with the silver details?”
I pause, picturing it. I do look pretty damn good in that. “You think? Not too much?”
“Are you kidding? It’s perfect!” Maren’s getting animated now, counting off on her fingers. “It’s classy, shows off your legs, will lookamazingunder stage lights, and that dark blue is ridiculously flattering on you. Plus it has all those little silver stars beaded on it. You’ll literally be wearing stars while becoming a star. It’s a sign!”
“Okay, yes, I love me some signs from the universe.” I laugh. “I’ll take all the extra cosmic support I can get. The universe speaking through sparkly embellishments.”
“Exactly!” Maren laughs. “The stars have aligned. On your dress.” She’s grinning so wide now. “Ooh, and maybe some cute boots? Knee-high maybe. Or heels. Tricky though.”
“God, I love cute clothes,” I say, and for a moment I actually feel lighter. Like maybe everything will be okay. Like maybe I can do this.
Maren reaches for her back pocket, then pats her other pockets, frowning. “Oh shoot, I left my phone at home again.” She looks at me apologetically. “You okay if I run and get it? I’m expecting a call from my editor tonight and I don’t want to miss it.”
“Yeah, of course, go ahead.” I wave her off. “It’s not too busy. Sarah’s got trivia handled. I’m good.”
“You’re the best.” Maren squeezes my hand and heads for the door. Her house is only a few minutes’ walk from here, so she’ll be back before I know it.
I turn back to the bar, pulling out my phone to scroll through my Vegas performance outfit ideas on Pinterest, trying to stay in that lighter headspace we just created. Sarah’s voice carries over the crowd, and there’s laughter from one of the teams. It’s a good night. Easy.
The door chimes. I glance up automatically, expecting to see a regular or maybe a young couple looking for a place to grab drinks.
Brandonstumbles in.
“What the fuck,” I breathe.
He’s drunk. Obviously, spectacularly drunk. He catches himself on the doorframe, then straightens up with exaggerated care and heads straight for the bar. A few people look up, conversations pausing. The easy energy in the room shifts immediately.
He reaches the bar and leans heavily on it, and the smell of cheap gin hits me from three feet away.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I keep my voice low but firm, very aware that we have an audience now.
“I hope you’re happy.” His words are slurred, his eyes unfocused. “Kelly left me. Just fucking left. Packed her shit and went back to Seattle.” He points at me with one unsteady finger. “And your asshole boyfriend punched me. Did you know that? Jack Midnight punched me in the face a few weeks ago. And I was asaintand didn’t report it, though I fucking should have. So are you happy now, Lark? Is this what you wanted?”
I’m not sure which part of that to process first. But mostly I’m just furious that Brandon is here, in my space, drunk and making a scene.
“Yeah, actually, I am pretty happy about that.” I cross my arms. “Now get the hell out of here before I call the cops.”
“You think you’re so much better than me now,” Brandon spits out, his voice rising. “With your fancy boyfriend and your little music career. But you’re still just?—”
“You need help, honey?” Eleanor appears at my elbow like a guardian angel in a cardigan. She’s one of our regulars, part of the Romance Raiders book club that meets here every other week. Mid-seventies, always has a paperback with a shirtless cover model, and sweet as pie until you piss her off. Right now she’s glaring at Brandon like she’s planning exactly how to dispose of a body.
“No, I’ve got this,” I say, but I’m grateful for her presence. I can see Eddie and Marcus standing up from their table in my peripheral vision, other regulars shifting in their seats. My people. Ready to back me up if I need it.
“You’ve got nothing,” Brandon snarls. “You’re a bartender playing dress-up as a musician. You always were too much. Too loud. Too ambitious. That’s why?—”
