He wipes his hands on the bar rag over his shoulder. “What was your name again?”
“Adam Shaw.”
He turns and plucks my ID and a receipt from a tumbler by the register. Fucking finally, something is going my way.
He keeps hold of the ID and slides the paper over to me. I hold up the receipt and nearly have a stroke. It says we racked up a bill of over two thousand dollars. “This is a joke, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” the bartender replies in a flat voice. And yeah, no. I’m not convinced this guy has ever cracked a joke in his life.
I huff a sigh, and then pull out my wallet. I’m too out of sorts to negotiate with this surly motherfucker. I just want to get my ID so I can get my annulment and focus on more important things, like doing my job. I pass him my credit card and try not to question every choice in my life that’s led me to this point while he rings it up.
It’s not until the machine beeps angrily that I remember. The card is frozen.
“Shit,” I say, as the bartender holds the card out between his middle and index fingers. I take it and he crosses his arms, a look on his face like I’m trying to scam him on purpose. “Uh. Let me make a call real quick.”
I pull out my phone and call my credit card company. I navigate the automatic menu and am put through to a customer service rep named Peter, who I’m pretty sure is actually a bot. Peter the bot tells me a purchase at a pawnshop last night was flagged as suspicious—fair enough—and that they sent me an automated text message alert asking me to confirm whether I had made the transaction. Evidently, I replied indicating they should cancel the card instead.
“That was a mistake. Uncancel,” I say. Then, louder: “Un-fucking-cancel,Peter.”
“Uh…”
My spine straightens, a hot flush rushing up the back of my neck.
“Sorry, Mr. Shaw, there’s not really anything we can do once the card has been deactivated.”
“No, yeah, that’s—I get that.” I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I apologize for being so rude. I… thought you were AI.”
“… nope. I’m a man.” Another awkward silence stretches out between us. “So we’ve sent a new card to the address on file, and it should arrive in five to seven business days.”
“Fantastic,” I grumble.
“Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
I’m still wondering what I could have possibly bought at a pawnshop last night, and am about to ask if Peter can provideany more information on that, when it hits me: the rings. “No,” I say with a sigh. “Nothing else.”
“Okay. Thank you for calling, have a great day.”
The line goes dead. I nod and slowly lower the phone. After a deep breath, which does not diminish the urge to find a wall to punch, I turn back to the bartender. Who, judging by the unimpressed look he’s giving me, heard enough from my side of that conversation to understand the situation.
Before I can come up with something to sway him, Eleanor comes striding in. My gaze sweeps over her, clocking her stiff posture and the way her skin still looks a bit too pale. But she lifts her chin and sidles up next to me, shooting me a steady look that almost reads as a dare. Like she’s waiting for me to coddle her, so she can go ahead and bite my head off for it. The worst possible thing I can do right now is give Eleanor the impression I pity her. Which I don’t. I just… didn’t love seeing her like that. The way she curled her knees into her chest, made herself small. The way her hands shook. It was so backward from her usual confidence, like seeing a seasoned musician suddenly develop stage fright.
In the end, I settle on a gruff: “You good?”
The relief is easy to read in her expression, and she nods once in response as she sets her empty water glass on the bar. “All set here?”
“Not exactly.” I make a pained face. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”
Her expression turns to stone. “You’re kidding me.”
“Sadly, no. I’ve solved the mystery of where that bottle of Lagavulin came from.”
She takes a measured breath. Her hand is fisted on top of the bar, and I get the sense she’s barely restraining herselffrom turning around and flipping a table. “Okay. And the bad news?”
“Turns out we didn’t pay for it.” I straighten and slide the tab over for her to see.
“Fuckkk.”
“And I sorta need you to take care of the bill.” When Eleanor’s head whips up, I tack on: “Please.”
