“Oh,” she says softly, “it’s you.”
Marcie Bollingdon. Perfect. Beautiful. Everything a Spencer should want.
“It’s me.” I snap, ducking into a stall before she can see the tears. I sit on the closed toilet lid, trying to breathe through the anger and hurt churning in my stomach.
I hear the door shut and let out a shaky breath, thinking she’s gone. But when I emerge, she’s still there, watching me with something like sympathy in her perfect face.
“Is everything okay?”
The gentleness in her voice breaks something in me. The tears I’ve been fighting start falling and don’t stop.
“Oh, honey.” She wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I feel horrible for every mean thought I’ve ever had about her. She’s been nothing but nice, and here I am, sobbing all over her probably very expensive blouse. That I would absolutelyloveto steal.
“I'm sorry about Alfie,” I choke out between sniffles. “I know everyone wants you two together and?—”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “Honey, you being with Alfie is the best thing that could have happened to me.”
I pull back to look at her. “What?”
“You know what I admire about you? You walk into this world thatterrifiesme, that I've spent my whole life trying to please, and you don’t change asinglething about yourself. Not your clothes, not your laugh, not yourpassion. Do you know how rare that is?” I pull back to look at her.
“You’re just so…so you!” I can’t help but smile. “And I wish I could be brave enough to be me.” She gives me a sad smile.
She glances around, checking under the stalls. When she's sure we're alone, she says quietly, “I’m not into him. Oranyguy.”
Oh.Oh.
“God, I’m so sorry for assuming! Everyone kept talking about you two, and I just...”
She waves it off. “Don’t worry about it. Actually, it’s been such a relief having you around. Takes the pressure off for once.” She fiddles with her bracelet. “I haven’t told my parents yet. Or anyone in the families. It’s... complicated.”
I nod, understanding hitting me hard. All those comments about suitable matches, family expectations, they must feel like a noose around her neck.
“But”—she shifts on her feet, looking younger, more vulnerable—“I was wondering if you knew... that other bartender? The one with the curls? Is she...”
“Becky?” I’m actually not sure about her preferences. “I can find out for you.”
She hugs me tight. “Whatever’s going on out there? Don’t let them get to you. They’re all bark and no bite.”
“Thank you.” And I mean it.
The words settle something in me I didn't know was unsettled. Maybe she's right. Maybe not fitting in isn't a weakness after all.
We go back into the bar together and I serve the Spencers with my head held high.
Drake makes another comment about my “service industry career path.” But this time, his words don't land quite as hard. I catch Marcie's eye and we share a secret smile - two different kinds of strength, recognizing each other.
The bar is windingdown when Mrs. Spencer appears, poised and calculated.
I meet her gaze without hesitation, the same defiance that simmered in me when I learned the truth about my dad—the lie my family had crafted to protect my so-called “delicate personality.”
“Mrs. Spencer,” I say, setting the glass down, turning to face her head-on. “Is there something you need?”
She smiles—polite, practiced. “I’m curious about your decision, Tara. You haven’t responded to my email.”
“I considered it,” I reply, voice steady. “And I decided that I won’t be accepting your offer.”
Her expression doesn’t falter, but I see the flicker of surprise in her eyes. “I thought you wanted a career in this field.”
