Page 23 of Notes About Vodka

I ask in return, "So, what about you? Got someone? A girl? A guy? A random person?”

Jack laughs, nearly choking on his fry. “Something like that. But hey, we’ve got time. Guess we both just need to get these degrees first, right?”

His banter lightens the mood, and for a moment, I forget the tension weighing on me. But even as I enjoy the moment, apart of me remains tethered to the classroom, to Laura, and to that unreadable expression in her eyes.

I laugh, the tension in my chest loosening slightly, though not disappearing entirely.

What could be bothering her so much that she’s shutting me out when I'm trying to learn more, and why does it feel like whatever it is...it’s something big?

Chapter Seven

VAL

"Vodka is like truth serum; it reveals more than it hides. But sometimes, what it reveals is exactly what you didn’t want to see."

A few nights later, I’m at work when I hear Laura come on stage. As always, I’m captivated by her singing. Her voice fills the room, rich and velvety, wrapping around every corner like a warm embrace. It pulls me back to late nights at the piano bar, the first moments I realized how much her music spoke to me. It’s not just the sound—it’s the way she seems to understand emotions I didn’t know I carried. Every note stirs something deep inside, a mix of longing and comfort that I can’t quite put into words. It’s as if her voice cuts through the noise of the world and leaves only clarity in its wake.

The audience is spellbound; heads turn, conversations pause, and even the most distracted patrons lean in to listen. A few people close their eyes, swaying gently to the rhythm,while others clap softly along, unable to resist being swept up in the magic she creates.

The low murmur of conversation quiets as people turn to listen, captivated by her tone. For a moment, the clinking of glasses and the shuffle of feet fade away, leaving only the purity of her song.

It’s the kind of voice that makes the hairs on your arms stand up, carrying both strength and vulnerability in every note. There’s something about the way she sings that makes the world feel less heavy, like her voice alone can lift away the weight I’ve been carrying. Each note she hits seems to resonate in my chest, and I find myself standing still, forgetting the glass I’m supposed to be cleaning.

I notice Laura’s friend Rhea in the audience along with a few other people. They’re sitting near the stage, laughing and clapping between songs. Taking the chance, I go over to their table, a tray balanced in one hand. “Hey, are you guys enjoying your drinks?”

Rhea looks up and smiles. “Hey, Val. Yeah, we’re having a great time. These are all friends of mine from campus.” She gestures to the others who give polite nods.

“Glad to hear it,” I say, giving them a small smile before moving back to the bar.

The atmosphere is lively, but one man at the bar stands out like a sore thumb. With every song Laura finishes, he cheers obnoxiously loud, his voice grating against the otherwise pleasant ambiance. He’s clearly intoxicated, swaying in his seat as he raises an empty glass toward me. His eyes are glassy, his grin sloppy.

“Another Makers and Sprite,” he slurs, his words running together. “And make it strong, buddy.”

I nod tightly, hiding my irritation as I prepare his drink,minus to alcohol. I won’t charge him for just soda, but he can’t have any more liquor.

However, as I turn my back, his voice carries across the room. “My woman is so awesome, isn’t she? Best singer here!”

I glance over my shoulder, watching as he puffs out his chest with exaggerated bravado, nearly falling off his stool in the process.

A sick feeling settles in my gut.Does he really think Laura is his?Surely he’s not talking about her.

The thought sends a wave of unease through me, tightening my chest. It’s not just the arrogance in his words; it’s the way he speaks about her, like she’s something he owns rather than a person with her own light and strength.

A mix of frustration and protectiveness wells up inside me, the kind of instinct that makes me want to step in and shield her from this kind of disrespect. But more than that, there’s a helplessness that gnaws at me—a realization that I don’t know how to fix this, or even if I can. It’s not just discomfort—it’s a protective instinct I can’t ignore, a growing frustration at the way he speaks about her like she’s some object to flaunt. My hands clench into fists behind the bar, and I force myself to take a breath. The more I watch, the more I’m certain she deserves better than this.

My mind races, trying to reconcile the Laura I know—the one who lights up a room with her presence—with this man’s delusions. The disconnect is jarring, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is deeply, horribly wrong.

Throughout the night, I keep a close eye on him. He doesn’t just watch Laura; he leers at her, his gaze lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl. When Laura takes a break and another artist steps up to perform, he shifts his attention to other women in the bar.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says to a blonde sitting nearby, leaning in far too close. “Join us! My woman won’t mind.”

The blonde’s discomfort is clear as she tries to edge away. Without hesitation, I step in and place his fresh drink on the bar in front of him, giving him a pointed glare. “Here’s your drink,” I say curtly.

“Thanks, pal,” he mutters, barely acknowledging me before turning his attention to a brunette a few seats down. “Hey, there, sweetheart,” he calls out, grinning as if he’s irresistible. “You got a number for me?”

Incredibly, he collects at least three napkins with scribbled phone numbers, stuffing them into his pocket with a self-satisfied smirk. Each interaction makes my jaw clench tighter.

Meanwhile, Laura remains oblivious to his antics. She pours her heart out into her performance, her voice soaring effortlessly through the room, commanding attention with its raw emotion and precision. Her focus is unwavering, as if she exists in a separate sphere, untouched by the chaos around her. The way she holds herself tall, the way the scar barely reflects light as it peeks out from the back of her dress, the way her fingers glide across the keys, is mesmerizing—a striking contrast to the man’s drunken outbursts which fracture the otherwise serene atmosphere she creates. It’s like watching two different worlds collide, her grace and poise highlighting his disruptive behavior even more starkly.

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