The bar in Pacific Heights gets so busy now, even on weeknights, that it feels unreal. It’s only 6:00 p.m., but the crowd looks to be almost capacity.

I’m locked in behind the bar, and Susan mails me a look from the middle of the floor. She’s between tables, and I’m alone in my spot, trying to corral the masses of newcomers vying for drinks. Word of mouth is working for this location, yet I hardly see any familiar faces tonight.

There is one familiar face that I hope to see tonight, but I don’t count on it happening. That’s going to have to wait until the right time, when I can find out what’s really happening.

At the moment, I’m more worried about my staff, or lack thereof. The new kid, Henry, chose one fucking hell of a night to call in sick. Even if Emily did show up, I’d probably need to let her float away like last time.

You know what? Fuck no.

I wouldn’t do that. Not now.

But she’s not coming here, most likely.

When the time is right, it’ll be right. That’s the only attitude to possibly have tonight.

I work my way down the bar using a fair method, starting at one end and moving down. People are ordering wine too. Youthful hip patrons and seasoned drinkers alike—even young, burly dudes usually not seen without a domestic long-neck in their hands are swilling glasses of the house white.

There are lot of those dudes here tonight. They remind me of the guy Em was with. I set that thought aside for later, when I’m not trying to manage an unprecedented slam of patrons.

I continue down the bar, pouring house wines, taking cash and cards, quickly opening tabs like a motherfucker, and ignoring complaints. I have efficient tunnel vision for drinks and money, with occasional glances to the tables and waitstaff to make sure chaos isn’t breaking out.

Unfortunately, one of these quick glances throws me way the fuck off. One of the requisite burly dudes with a blush wine is trying to chat up a woman by herself at a table.

I recognize her—it’s not Emily, but it is her friend.

It’s Lana.

Fuck, that might mean Emily is showing up at some point. Lana says something to the hopeless guy, and his disappointed expression is obvious even from my distance. He skulks away from Lana’s table, holding his glass by the stem.

I’m not much for panic, and I know it wouldn’t do me much good if I were, but I’m having a tough time trying to figure out what to do next. A new crowd is materializing at the bar in a hurry, so it’s time to serve more fucking drinks.

Then, like some kind of guardian angel, I see a fashionable yet slightly gawky college-aged kid standing heroically across the bar from me. It’s Henry, my new hire, and he’s looking terrifically healthy.

“Hey, I went to the emergency room. I’m good to go.”

I don’t know if Henry is full of shit. It’s probably a fair assumption, but I don’t have time to be punitive about it.

“Emergency room? You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I had these stomach pains, but it was just from drinking too much green tea earlier. I’m all good now.”

I can question him about that later. Maybe. At this moment, Lana is still there, probably waiting for someone.

She might want nothing to do with me, but I really want to talk to her, if she’s okay with it, and I may not get another chance.

“Good. Can you tend bar?”

I know he hasn’t before, but he manages to look confident while thinking of an answer.

“I took that two-day seminar—that one on my resume. I got some practice there...”

“Great. I need you to get behind the bar now. Price list is by the soda. Don’t worry about cards. Tell ‘em the machine is broken and it’s cash only.”

Henry nods, looking in control. His confidence should carry him through, hopefully. He struts to the bar.

I stride over to Lana’s table.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Lana’s glued to her phone when I get to the table. After looking up, she looks moderately surprised to see me, but nothing more.

“Oh, hey. Sure. I’m waiting on someone, but might be a while.”

I sit, trying to hold in the question until it fights its way out.

“It’s not Emily, is it?”

There are shades of realization showing on Lana’s face, but I can’t decipher it. I want to try to figure things out with as few questions as possible then leave Lana alone and get back to the craziness.

“Oh, no,” Lana says. “It’s some other people. I may have to go somewhere else.”

“Okay.”

I don’t think Lana knows why I’m talking to her. She’s not volunteering anything else, but she looks ready to answer more questions.

“Why doesn’t she like me?”

The question just escapes from me. And seeing the confusion on Lana’s face makes me regret not guarding it better.

Fuck, I fucking fucked up.

I look away, and I see Henry’s pouring drinks like a boss, being a little showboaty, but the patrons are enjoying it.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I’m snapped back from Henry’s show by Lana’s response. Before I can get back to her, she continues.

“She’s been...how do I put this...she thinks you don’t like her, that you’re not interested.”

“What?”

Like really. What the fuck.

Lana looks at me earnestly and ignores a fresh text message on her phone.

“Kirk, everything she’s doing is based on how she thinks you feel about her. Is it true you don’t like her?”

“I don’t even know what to say to that.”

Lana lets out a mild chuckle. “A rarity for you.”

“Fucking tell me about it! This is all new territory. I don’t know why she would think that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to go into all that myself, but she’s definitely thinking it.”

I have a new plan for tonight: leave Henry behind the bar and clear up all this confusion immediately.

“There’s no chance she’s showing up anywhere tonight? Do you think she wants to talk to me?”

“She certainly does want to talk to you, whether she realizes it or not, but she’s in New York. She’s in quite a state there. So no, I don’t think she’ll be around San Francisco tonight.”

Em’s thousands of miles away, but for some reason, my old razor-sharp, strategic instincts are awakened for the first time in weeks. I look at the crowd, now expanding and growing impatient around the bar.

“What about Miranda?” Lana’s glaring at me now, like she just remembered some horrible thing I did.

“What about her? I haven’t...oh, fuck. Did she tell you we’re back together?”

“That’s who we heard it from, I guess. You’re not?”

“Fuck no. You’ll have to believe me on this, but no, we’re definitely not. That’s not possible. We’re broken up, anyway, but she also manipulated Emily at my barbecue. She did everything in her power to make sure Emily got as drunk as possible.”

“Oh.” Lana looks rightfully disturbed, and I feel a little bad for telling her that so plainly.

“That’s the origin of, well, really everything that’s gone so fucking wrong. The good news is that things are clearer now, thanks to you. I have a plan...but I can’t make it happen alone.”