“I know, I know,” she sighs, waving a dismissive hand. She fishes out a compact mirror to check her lipstick. “But you’re smart, right? You’ll figure it out. It’ll be dead tonight anyway. Tuesdays always are.”
It doesn’t look dead to me. Through the doorway, I can see at least a dozen customers scattered across the pub, and Tom is already shooting glances toward the back like he’s wondering where his servers are.
“But, Bridget?—”
“Us girls do what we gotta do, right?” she interrupts, snapping shut her compact. “If we have a date to make it to but ourbosses want to drag us down, then we find workarounds, you know?”
“Not really…”
“There’s this guy, Tyler. He’s a young attorney who just got hired at Cravath. He has his own apartment in Williamsburg and I caught his eye at a rooftop mixer the other night. Icannotpass this chance up.”
I’m not sure whatthisis that she can’t pass up, but by the playful wink Bridget gives me, apparently I should.
I want to point out that I barely know where anything is. I still haven’t memorized the drink menu. Tom already gave me a warning about spilling a drink on my first shift, and I really can’t afford to mess this up.
But Bridget’s backing toward the exit, purse slung over her shoulder, keys jangling in her hand.
It doesn’t matter how I feel about her ditching her shift. It’s happening regardless.
“You’re the best, seriously. I owe you big time.” She blows me a quick kiss. “Lock-up’s easy—Tom’ll show you. Oh, and the creepy guys at table six? Just ignore them, they’re harmless so long as they don’t mix brown with clear. Bye!”
She’s gone before I can think of another reply. The back door swings shut behind her, leaving me in the hallway with a knotted stomach and a sinking feeling tonight’s about to be a disaster.
I draw a breath to try to settle my nerves.
This is fine. I can do this. I’ve survived worse than a Tuesday night shift at an Irish pub.
…much, much worse.
I grab my notepad and pen, tuck a dishrag into my apron pocket, and push through the door into the main bar.
Time to earn my keep.
The first hour is rough.
I mix up drink orders twice, forget to bring salted peanuts to a table that asked three times, and somehow manage to spill half a pint of Guinness on one of the old-timers arguing about hurling scores near the bar.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The man shoots up from his seat, dark beer dripping down his fan jersey. His buddies howl with laughter while I scramble for the dishrag in my apron.
“Shit, my bad. Here, let me?—”
“TOM!” he bellows. “Where’d you find this one!?”
The pub owner appears from behind the bar, weathered face creased with irritation. He’s in his sixties, with a stout build and a gray mustache that twitches whenever he’s annoyed. Right now, it’s twitching plenty.
“Jhene,” he grunts, jerking his head toward the back. “A word.”
I follow him to the hallway, stomach sinking with every step.
This is it.
Two shifts in and I’m already getting fired. I’ll be back at the shelter by midnight, fighting for a cot and dodging the handsy security guard who always seems to find a reason to patrol the women’s section.
Or worse. Back on the streets, where anyone could find me…
“Look,” Tom says, crossing his arms. “I know you’re going through some things. I’m not blind, and I’ve seen the stories on the news. But I can’t have you dumping drinks on my regulars. Jimmy’s been coming here for thirty years.”
“I know, I know. It was my fault. It won’t happen again.”
