Page 96 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

She gave a grateful nod and left.

Mr. Johnson was the last one, slumped against the wall. I went over and hooked his arm over my shoulder, taking his weight.

“I told you not to drink so much. You can’t handle it like you used to, old man,” I chided, shaking my head.

He looked genuinely offended. “Watch who you’re calling old. I don’t have a single white hair on my head!” He tried to stand tall to prove his point, but his legs buckled, and I had to catch him.

That’s because you don’t have hair.

“Right, my mistake. You’re in your prime.”

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment before opening, his gaze unusually soft and clear. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice thick with more than just alcohol. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

My chest tightened. “That’s my line.”

He gave me a wobbly, sincere smile. “I’m proud of you, kid. For building this. For fighting for it.”

I had to look away, blinking hard against a sudden, unexpected sting in my eyes.

The old man really had too much to drink.

Mr. Johnson had been fired from his previous job. Not for incompetence, laziness, or being a liability, but for his age. The company had engineered his dismissal perfectly, leaving him with no legal recourse, just the bitter knowledge that his decades of experience were deemed disposable.

He joined us soon after, and it was a smooth, successful partnership. He was a bedrock of experience and stability. But when the company hit turbulent waters these past few months and people started jumping ship, Mr. Johnson stayed. He was the only senior staff member who did.

“Let me drop you home,” I said, adjusting my grip on him.

He shook his head, struggling to focus. “No need. My son is coming to pick me up.”

As if on cue, a car pulled up. A man got out, took one look at Mr. Johnson leaning heavily against me, and let out a long-suffering groan.

“What did he do this time?” his son asked, grabbing Mr. Johnson’s arm and pulling him from my support.

“He tried to get on a table to dance,” I said, wincing at the memory. “He didn’t even make it halfway up, but he kept trying. I had to hold him down before he broke a hip.”

The son leaned close to his father’s ear. “Seriously, Dad? Table dancing?”

Mr. Johnson jerked back, blinking in confusion. “Huh? What’s happening?”

The son just shook his head in exasperation. “Wait until Mom hears about this.” He started maneuvering the older man toward the car as Mr. Johnson began to whine, “What? Why?”

I stood there for a long moment, watching them struggle to get him into the passenger seat. I didn’t move until the car’s taillights had disappeared from view.

I shook my head, the motion feeling heavy and slow, and dragged in a deep breath that did nothing to clear the fog of exhaustion clouding my mind. Every muscle protested as I turned and trudged back into the bar.

I stood outside the women’s bathroom and knocked. “Cassandra?”

The only response was the sound of violent retching. I winced. “I’m waiting outside.” I moved to lean against the wall, letting my head thud back against the cool plaster. My eyes fell shut for a moment; the urge to just slide down to the floor and sleep right there was almost overwhelming.

The thought of going home, of just collapsing into bed and feeling Alessia’s warmth beside me, was the only thing keeping me upright.

The door finally creaked open. Cassandra stumbled out, immediately latching onto the doorframe for support.

“Cassandra?” I said, getting no response. Her head lolled on her shoulders. “Cassandra?” I repeated, louder.

She lifted her head, her eyes swimming in a drunken haze. “Should I call you a cab or a driver?” I asked.

She slumped harder against the doorframe. “Drove… myself,” she slurred, the words barely recognizable.