Page 4 of Falling for You

“Your girl’s still here, I see,” one of our servers, Penny, teases, nodding her chin in the direction of where Brooklyn isstillsitting. She’s usually not this persistent. I try not to huff my annoyance. “Need me to kick her out?” she asks, and I have no doubt that she would. Penny’s a ball buster and wouldn’t hesitate to march over to where Brooklyn’s sitting,staring at me,and tell her to get the hell out of here.

“Nah, maybe another time,” I lie.

“You’re no fun.”

I grin and run my fingers through my hair, a little longer on top but not so long that it hangs in my eyes.

“She can stay as long as she wants. She’s not hurting anyone — and besides, I’m leaving in about,” I look at my watch – yes, I still wear one – and grin wider, “oh would you look at that. It’s time for me to head out.”

“You suck.”

I remove my glasses and use my shirt to clean the lenses before replacing them. “Don’t even deny that you love it when this duo of clowns are working the bar instead of me.”

She glances around and places her chin in the palm of her hands, elbows resting on the bar as she stares at the other bartenders working tonight. “They are pretty fucking sexy,” she admits and I roll my eyes.

“They’re also only twenty-one.”

“And?”

I raise my hands, chuckling. “Don’t let me stop you from having fun.”

“About time,” she teases. “Yo! Zeus twins! You’re stuck with me tonight. The old guy has to bounce. Think you can handle me — I mean, it?”

“You sound like a douche,” I tell her.

Their hardy laughter behind me says they agree.

“Alright. Then I guess I’llbounce, you weirdo.”

“Phew.” She wipes at her forehead. “I thought you’d never leave.”

I shake my head and spin on my heel, ready to leave before it gets too busy and stop in my tracks when my eyes land on a gorgeous woman standing at a high table chatting with a few other women. Rich, auburn hair spills down to the center of her back, a black long sleeve dress ends just above her knee and little boots cut off at her ankles. That dress, though. It hugs her curves and hides nothing. Her pert little nose scrunches as she looks at something on her phone then shows it to her friends.

She covers her mouth with her hand and ducks her head, shoulders moving up and down. She places her glass on the table, shakes her head back and forth then leans over the table as if whatever she’s laughing at is so humorous she can’t stand anymore.

But when she straightens, I realize she’s not laughing at all.

She’s fuckingcrying.

Shit.

I take a step forward.

A friend of hers places a hand on her back, rubs up and down. Leans over and speaks into her ear. Another woman scoots closer, resting a hand on her arm and another reaches across the table, doing the same. Her friends are comforting her, offering her support for whatever is going on in her life to make her break down in tears in a public place.

What am I doing? I don’t know her. YetIwant to go console her. Cheer her up. Figure out what’s making her sad and fix it.

She’s here at The Flying Goat, with what looks like a group of friends out for drinks which means it’s supposed to be a happy time for her. So, what is happening that’s causing her to stand here and cry? Better question is, why do I care so much? It’s not that I lack compassion, but typically if I see someone upset, but they clearly have a support system surrounding them, I wouldn’t think of it again.

But this beautifully broken girl, I can’t tear my eyes away from her. I still haven’t moved from my place, staring at her and wishing like hell I had the right to storm over to her and slay all her dragons.

Whatever this feeling is, it’s completely new and I’m not sure I’m on board with feeling it. I’ve managed to go my entire life without attaching myself to another person and don’t plan to start now. Instead of following every instinct screaming at me to do the opposite, I turn on my heel and head toward the back of the bar after clocking out at the register and head home.

Her people are with her. They’ll take care of her.

Only…

I don’t make it very far.

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