Page 14 of Peripheral Vision

Attempting to locate my phone without door dinging the vehicle next to me, I shut my door and bend down, reaching for it where it landed by my back tire. However, as I grab it, I notice a pair of boots at the passenger door of my truck, pointing towards me. Freezing, I feel my goosebumps rise again as my eyes lock on those boots, polished except for a scuff on the left toe. I feel like I’m barely breathing, waiting for one of us to make the next move. The pressure in the air around me is tense, carrying the sharp tang of gasoline mixed with the metallic scent of the truck’s undercarriage and something else. The breeze picks up and carries with it the aroma of leather, maybe, with the acrid bite of campfire ember and pine. I recognize the scent from somewhere, but before my brain can pinpoint where, the boots turn and vanish.

Quickly snatching my phone, I shoot up from where I’m kneeling, subsequently hitting the back of my head on the undercarriage. “Mother—” I hiss through clenched teeth, grasping at the back of my skull that is now throbbing with the feeling that my brain was just rattled in a jar. A few people give me sideways glances before continuing about their day, and by the time I get my bearings about me once more, the stranger is gone. A frustrated squeal works its way upmy throat, but I suppress it quickly when I notice a flicker of paper on my windshield. Heart pounding, I rush to the passenger side and yank it from under the wiper, the anticipation burning hotter than my throbbing skull.

Nowhere.

At first, my heart clenches in fear, but I notice more writing on the back side and when I flip it over, I find that a to-do list is scrawled on the other side.

- Grocery run

- Study group at six p.m.

- Practice presentation

I tug at the corners of the paper, feeling its weight in my hands, as if it’s somehow heavier than it should be. “Nowhere.” Is it a cryptic message? Simply a coincidence? Am I reading into it more than I should be? What is the likelihood that it slipped from a lost soul’s notepad in the middle of what could be a mental breakdown? The list itself is so normal, but it gnaws at me. Maybe it’s because “Nowhere” was the first word I saw. Maybe it’s because it’s such a strange thing to write on its own.

Looking closer, the uneasy feeling settles further into my gut as I notice the differences between the handwriting—the list is sloppy, as if written in a hurry. “Nowhere,” however, is written neatly, measured, and intentionally. If I were a student in the middle of an existential crisis, I would have written less purposefully. I stuff the paper in my pocket, shaking it off, convincing myself that I’m looking too much into it. I unlock my phone once more to pull up the campus map, continuing my goal of searching out where my classes will be held. Then, I check my surroundings before I’m off again.Fortunately, it only takes me less than thirty minutes to find them because they’re all located in the same location.

Content with just seeing them in person, I make the decision to go home and take care of Alaska and change prior to coming back to the bar tonight for my interview. I wish I would’ve asked what I should wear. Even though it is an informal interview, it’s still an interview all the same, but I also don’t want to put them off by going too lax either. I pace back and forth in front of my closet, pulling things out here and there before settling on a maroon leather skirt that falls mid-thigh and zips up the front. I pair that with a black long sleeve mesh contrast top that shows my shoulders and arms, and black Doc Martens. I throw on a black belt with a gold clasp, some gold hoops in my ears, and a simple gold necklace before styling my hair and brushing on some makeup.

Once I’m done, I assess my appearance in the mirror, wondering if maybe I put intoomuch effort. I don’t want to put them off by being too casual, but I wonder if I’m doing this for more than that. I can’t deny that Callum is attractive, and he clearly thinks I am too, but should I be aiming to impress him with more than my mind? It’s been so long since I’ve been intimate with anyone, since I’ve even gone on a date or entertained giving out my number. But I did come here for a fresh start. Getting involved with a potential co-worker, though? I don’t know why I’m even going there—I’m making assumptions without an ounce of anything to back them. One thing at a time. Smoothing out my attire and giving myself a once over in the mirror, I note the time reads seven p.m. Callum hadn’t given me an exact time to show up, just telling me to return tonight. Seven seems reasonable enough to be getting fairly busy on a Friday. I grab my purse and the application with my resume, saying goodbye to Alaska with a scratch behind her ears, and return to Sins and Sons.

Chapter

Eleven

DYLAN

The bar is packed when I arrive, the time 7:37 p.m. Between the weekend traffic and trying to find a place to park closer to the bar, it’s taken more time than I anticipated in getting here, which I guess in hindsight could be a good thing if I am to get the job so I know what to expect. As I approach the doors, patrons and passersby are spread across the sidewalk engrossed in conversation while drinking and chain smoking. Several men catcall me as well as throw invitations my way to join them before I’m even through the door, and Callum’s words about customers wanting to buy me drinks ring out loud in my head.

Loud music greets me,The Wallsby Chase Atlantic vibrating off of the walls as people everywhere mingle, their drinks spilling over the tops of their cups, and their voices trying to overpower the melody. I catch sight of Callum’s curls at the end of the bar where he is tirelessly pouring drinks and ringing up tabs. Another bartender, a tall woman with an intricate pattern of tattoos splaying the visible skin across her arms and neck, helps him. He locks eyes with me as he turns back in my direction, a quick smile lighting up his facebefore he says something to the other bartender who glances at me before nodding.

He waves his hand at me to come over before grabbing a table that’s clearly been reserved for us. As I draw near Callum, those seductive gray-blue orbs, like morning fog on a still lake, roam slowly up my figure before pausing on the exposed skin of my collarbone beneath the mesh. He lets out a slow whistle, shaking his head back and forth. “You’re hired.”

“You sure? You don’t even want to vet me first? Not even a little bit? What if I was fired from a previous job because I spit in customers’ drinks?” I toy with him, sitting down.

“They probably deserved it.”

“What if I pocketed change from the drawer and got caught?” I test him.

He leans onto his fist, not backing down. “They should’ve paid you more.”

“And if I hooked up with a colleague?” I lift my eyebrow toward him in challenge as I take a drink from the water that had been graciously set on the table by the woman with the tattoos.

Something in his gaze darkens then, rising to it. “Oh, I look forward to it.”

Suddenly, I inhale the water I was drinking and start coughing on it, my eyes watering as I try to catch my breath and fail. I pat my chest, trying to dislodge the invisible foreign body from my throat as he continues to regard me with general playfulness. “I’m sorry?” I squeak out when I finally catch my breath.

“I think I’m going to enjoy making you flustered. Let me see what else you brought.” His eyes flick to the table where I set my application and resume. I hand it to him hesitatingly, knowing my resume is far from impressive, even for a bartending position. We sit in silence for a few minutes while he looks over the information I provided. “Not much work experience?” he asks.

That is what I was worried about… “Military brat,” I admit. “A lot of the stipulations in our household were based onwhether or not I kept my grades up and did sports. I chose not to do sports, so I was required to work in the summers only. But that never led to anything overly advantageous.”

“But you have taken a bartending course?” he probes.

“I never said I didn’t get bored.” I offer a sheepish smile.

He looks up, a thoughtful look upon his face. “I get it, I’ve met a few military brats who have similar experiences. I can appreciate the discipline. That counts for something. Not to mention you were bored and found a bartending course intriguing.”

My heart skips a beat at the unexpected compliment. “Thanks,” I murmur.

---