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He stiffened, pulled out a few bills, threw them down on the bar.
“You grew up with Frankie, right?” Luke nodded toward Frankie, who had meandered over to the jukebox.
“Kind of.”
He stood up, draining the last of the water. “Then it makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” I hated that I had to look up at him, hated that despite my rush of anger, I could still feel some part of me being pulled.
Luke waved his hand toward me, dismissing. “Tattoos, bumper stickers, indie rock, blah blah. Probably a Prius your parents pay for.”
“All right. Number one, you don’t know me. Number two, I wasn’t shitting on you, personally. Or your choice to do whatever it is you do in the military. All I was doing was stating my right to not be called a bitch by your friend.”
Luke jumped on the end of my sentence. “You’re right, we don’t know each other, and what we do know is that you didn’t give a scared kid a chance to sober up, apologize, and spend the night with his buddies, because, what? You want world peace?” He tapped the bar. “Correct? Just so we’re clear.”
“I do know how he acted right here, right now, soldier or not.” I was almost yelling, breathing hard again. “And you can vacate as well.”
“No problem,” he told me, stepping back from the bar. “Have a nice life.”
A few minutes later the whole group stumbled out, Frankie offering a sad wave over his shoulder as they went. There went the possibility of any more tips. I felt my apron. Even after I’d served them two rounds, the wad of bills and receipts was thin.
Frankie stuck his head back in the doorway, giving me a sad wave before disappearing again.
Shit.
Nora sidled up, holding a colorful brochure in her hand. She looked at Luke’s payment. “You gonna take that?”
“Yeah. But part of me doesn’t want anything from that asshole.” I wiped down every inch of the bar where he sat. “Can you get me another Gatorade?” I asked Nora.
“Sure. How many is that? Five?”
I shrugged. I was thirsty. I was always thirsty.
“Anyway, I don’t want this, either.” She handed me the brochure. Go Army, it read. Count the Benefits. “It came with a proposal from Armando.”
“A marriage proposal? Seriously?”
“As serious as a drunk warrior on the eve of battle.”
I shoved the brochure in my apron and pulled out the wad of receipts. “How many more rounds until we can buy another amp?”
“A lot.” She sighed, before pouring two shots. “Cheers!”
“Get back to work,” I said, lifting the little glass to clink with Nora’s, laughing but barely feeling it. I chased the shot with a sip of Gatorade, and tried to shake off a feeling of dread. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Maybe it was that soldier, or maybe it wasn’t until now that my unemployment was sinking in. I was really cut loose, a flailing kind of freedom. As I finished clearing the bar of receipts and straw wrappers and soaked cardboard coasters, I found myself suddenly shooting my hand out from my waist, trying to catch a piece of paper as it fluttered in the air. My napkin to-do list, crumpled and disguised, had almost landed in the trash.
