Page 55 of My Merry Mistake
I’m not a patient guy.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor, trying to get the image of Raya’s face out of my mind.
I’ve never seen her look so scared.
I stand, clenching and unclenching my hands.
I sit back down.
I stand up and pace, wondering if anyone is ever going to come to the waiting room and give her parents an update.
She thinks she can handle everything on her own, but she obviously kept one too many tabs open for too long. Do her parents know what I know—that Raya isn’t nearly as strong as she wants everyone to think she is?
She puts up a great front. Half the guys on the team are terrified of her. And I get it. She’s blunt. Forward. Smart. She says what she thinks, and most people aren’t used to that.
I clench my teeth. I hate that this happened to her. I want her back in her office, rolling her eyes at me, secretly eating the chocolate I gave her after I leave, doing everything she can to pretend she doesn’t love it.
A stiff, protective feeling forces a deep breath. I just want to make sure she’s okay.
She needs to be okay.
I remind myself to slow down. I’ve been looking for ways to keep people safe since I was in high school. Always the designated driver. The one who made sure my friends got home safe. Heck, I took that job at the bar in college just so I could keep an eye out. I took keys away from people who’d had too much to drink more times than I could count. And I always paid attention when a guy tried to follow a drunk woman out.
Guys can be real jerks sometimes.
So I started doing what I could. Calling a guy back in, claiming he hadn’t settled his tab, stalling him while another bartender called a ride for the girl. I perfected the art of the diversion—usually “accidentally” spilling a drink on a guy to divert his attention away from a woman who didn’t want it. I’d follow the spill with a bunch of apologies and an open tab for the next hour, and most of the time, the guy would forget all about the woman he’d been bothering.
I look down the hallway, trying to see any sign, and walk over to the nurse behind the glass.
“Any news yet?”
She shakes her head, “No, I’m sorry, hon. As soon as we get word, someone will come out or we’ll let you know.”
I tap the glass softly with a closed fist, nodding. “Okay.” I cross my arms and straighten, staring at the door where they wheeled her.
In my mind, I imagine her walking through the doors of the bar—the first time I saw her. From the second she walked in,she had my full attention.
After her friend left, she looked a bit out of her element, and unsure what to do. She asked for the same drink she’d just had—a Long Island iced tea. As I slid it over, she just . . . started talking.
I hadn’t been a bartender long, but I could tell when someone needed to talk.
“Did you know I got fired today?” she said, and not quietly. “Me! Fired! Do you believethat?!”
I filled a tall glass with beer and handed it to one of the servers. “What happened?”
“I screwed up.” She blew a raspberry, and it was pretty obvious this woman was not a drinker. Those two drinks had gone straight to her head. “Plus!” She pulled out her phone, tapped a few buttons, and held it up, showing me the engagement announcement of two strangers. “Look at that.”
I’m not sure what kind of look I gave her, but a woman waved at me and ordered a Moscow mule.
I made the drink, half-listening to the dark-headed woman who’d had too much to drink.
“That’s Jeremy.” She pinched the image and enlarged the man’s face. “My ex.” Then, she swiped the photo over. “And that’s Margot. She’s the devil.” She went on a mini-tirade about Margot, then the conversation wound back to work, and she actually started to cry.
Alcohol, a poor man’s truth serum.
I didn’t know for sure, but it seemed like I was the only person who knew about any of this. I was trying to figure out how to respond to her when a guy slid onto the stool next to her and asked her to dance.
“I don’t dance,” she said.
