Chapter Three

Julia

"JAMESON ON THE ROCKS."

The smooth voice rolls over me as a suited guy with cropped black hair settles down on a stool, twirling his phone distractedly. He looks to be in his early thirties and exotic in a way I can't really pinpoint. Something about the lack of contrast between his light brown eyes and honey colored skin. 

This restaurant is just south of campus and the surrounding area is mostly shopping centers and apartment buildings. Our clientele is typically college-aged, but every once in a while, people from the office buildings further south trickle in for an office luncheon or business meeting. Except this guy is different. For starters, it's after seven in the evening--way past the time for the workday crowd. His suit doesn't seem like your everyday office attire, either. It looks expensive just in the way it fits him, the cut over his shoulders, the length of the sleeves. Or maybe it's the way he wears it.

As I fix his drink, I catch the way he eyes the kitchen doors behind me, as if he's waiting for someone to come out. It's not until I set a drink down in front of him that he reveals the subject of his curiosity.

"Where's the other girl?" he asks me. I tilt my head. Other girl? The other two bartenders are men and neither one of them are working today. As though to clarify, he adds, "The one with the eyes."

Kind of a vague description for someone who is presumably sober, but I know exactly what he means. There's only one person in the restaurant that someone might describe as 'the one with the eyes,' because coupled with her near-constant unsmiling expression, her green gaze--and the way it could cut through steel--is the most memorable trait about her.

"She's the floor manager. Did you have an issue?" My hands come around my back to fiddle with the apron strap around my waist. He just got here and has yet to try his drink. I doubt he could have a complaint already.

"No. Never mind." He tilts his glass to his lips and there's a trace of annoyance in his response, like he's blaming me for not telling him what he wants to hear.

I go off to tend to the other drink orders, most of which are coming from the dining room. Mr. Suit nurses his drink for what seems like forever, answering phone calls and having various cryptic business discussions with what I can only describe as an inflated sense of importance. I never understand how some people come to a bar to have private phone conversations. But it could be worse. He could be trying to engage me in conversation. 

This restaurant's a popular hangout spot and one of my least favorite things about working the bar is listening to people who, in their booze induced candor, ask me overly personal questions or reveal way more than I would need to know about them. 

I guess being a sober person surrounded by drunks isn't supposed to be fun. Being behind the bar is like viewing what I used to consider a fun night out from an inverted glass, where what I used to think was awesome now just seems obnoxious. It's never boring here, though. Even the paradox of customers acting like teenagers while demanding the respect of adults is mildly entertaining. 

My shifts are fairly busy even when there aren't many customers at the actual bar since I make drinks for the dinner guests, as well. So, it makes things difficult for me when people take my proximity to them as an invitation to engage me in long, drunken conversations. I try to be as polite and accommodating as possible, not just because it's my job, but because I get it. Some people come to bars simply because they're lonely.

What I have less of a tolerance for is when a guy tries to flirt with me all night. I'm like a caged animal, lit up by the overhead counter lights, with very small real estate to maneuver away from unwanted attention.

Even in those moments, I don't hate this job. It's not what I want to do forever, of course, but I guess if I one day become a research psychologist like I hope to, this is a good place as any to observe potential behavioral research ideas. At the very least, I make decent money, even on slow nights.

I prepare a couple of mixed drinks for two girls sitting at my bar and a pair of cocktails for a table in the dining room. My mind is elsewhere. I'm mentally taking inventory of my belongings, of what will move with me to my new place. I want to make sure I leave my uncle's guest room looking exactly the way it did when I settled into it a few months ago. Even though he was kind enough to insist I take my time finding the right permanent living situation, it's hard not to feel like I've overstayed my welcome. There's nothing I hate more than inconveniencing someone, being a burden. Which is why I could not be more determined to move in with Ava and, yes, Giles, too. 

I had an initial freak out when I first found out he was the new roommate. He obviously isn't what I'd bargained for, but after a good night's sleep and some careful consideration, I've decided that I can handle him. After all, he's a magazine I can read just by glancing at the cover. There's even a strange part of me anticipating the opportunity to put an asshole in his place. I intend to do just that, if it comes to it. Especially since the asshole I truly hate is too far for me to reach now. 

The doors behind me open, and the aroma of grilled steak wafts from the kitchen as Lex Stone, the floor manager, comes out. I'm washing a few glasses in the sink, but from my peripheral vision, I notice Mr. Suit sit up when he gains sight of her. 

Lex doesn't seem to notice him. Her stern gaze sweeps the immediate area and I stand a little straighter when it fixes on me. There's an incredibly imposing energy to her despite how quiet she is, but the tiredness behind her expression contradicts that. 

She's just a little older than I am. A senior, I believe. When I first met her, I thought maybe we could be friends. She's unassuming but undeniably beautiful and oozes an easy confidence. 

She gives me the small nod I've come to know as her greeting. "How's it going?"

"Good," I say, as I set the glasses down on the drying rack. "Still waiting for the crowd."

"You're off this weekend, right?"

"I am. It was my weekend to work but I switched with Derik because I'm moving into a new place."

"Cool..." She keeps eye contact as she says it, and the word hangs awkwardly between us, not exactly inviting further conversation even while her demeanor is attentive and expectant.

I dry my hands on a towel, not sure if she's lost in thought or wanting to carry on our discussion. She's hard to read. 

"Oh," I say, in an afterthought, "that guy over there was asking for you."

She looks past me to Mr. Suit. He flashes her a charming, pearly smile that she doesn't return.

I laugh inwardly.

Men are pathetic. The way they see a beautiful face and completely miss the blatant disinterest written all over it. I'm almost sure she'll make a point to head off in the opposite direction. But, to my surprise, she heads over to talk to him. It appears the two have met before, which would explain why he asked for her. Yet, he didn't know her name.

Well, that's a first.

I've seen her get hit on more than once in the time I've worked here. But never have I seen her lean into it in any way. That's actually one of the things about her I admire--how she handles male attention. Me, it makes me defensive. But she doesn't let it go to her head or get under her skin. She's indifferent to it and that, I think, is the essence I want to embody.

I try to grab snippets of their conversation, like the shameless eavesdropper I am, but I can't manage to catch a coherent word due to the ambient noise and music playing through the overhead speakers. They talk for over ten minutes, while I tend to a few other customers.

When they finish, he leaves and when Lex passes me again, I hear myself ask, "Who is that guy?" and immediately regret it. My question is too interested and gossipy. She and I are not at that level, I remind myself. We aren't friends.

"Just a guy," she says, straight faced, then turns her attention to a cocktail sitting on the service bar. "No one's picked up this drink yet?" 

Before I can respond to her question, she reads the order receipt and whisks the drink away to its table. And I know that later on tonight, one of the servers is going to get an icy scolding for their lapse.

The rest of my shift goes smoothly enough. There's just one obnoxiously drunk guy to deal with, whose drinks I take the liberty of watering down before finally cutting him off. Otherwise, it's a quiet Wednesday night, hours ticking past slower than usual as I look forward to peace and quiet.

Afterward I sit in my car, my face illuminated by my phone screen as I scroll past names on my contact list. I've caught myself doing this over the last few nights, just watching the names go by and feeling a slight pull behind my navel when I reach the names of my sisters.  

The emails from friends have dwindled away over the past few months. I'm relieved because I don't need the constant reminder. Nor do I need the disingenuous concern from people who I rarely talked to until they heard what happened. It was as if people wanted me to entertain them, wanted details of my personal life to distract themselves from their own reality. I refused to be an act in someone's circus and that meant alienating myself.

It's funny, really. I used to complain of not having a moment to myself. Living with my two sisters and my very conservative parents felt suffocating. But now, sitting in my car after a long shift, the slow build of nostalgia grows in my chest. The desire to hear a familiar voice, a familiar laugh. 

I guess I didn't realize how often I'd unwind by telling my sisters about my day. They're my closest friends and just one simple phone call away. If I just allowed my finger to tap on Cassandra's name, I'd hear my older sister's voice and her loud, infectious energy would fill my car. Calling Lola, on the other hand, would guarantee an update on her love life, which is always eventful.

But I haven't spoken to either of my sisters in a while. We haven't had an easy conversation since the day I was sure everyone was ganging up on me, when I felt my sisters were just mouthpieces for my parents, scolding me in indirect ways. 

Looking back, I wonder if maybe I'd been overly defensive and too hurt to see their questions for what they were--concern. Time and distance have a way of putting things in perspective. 

And though I'm not upset with them anymore, I still scroll past both of their names, my pride not quite allowing me to press call. Calling either of my sisters carries the load from the weeks of silence, like a physical barrier we would have to climb over in conversation. That climb feels too daunting for me to tackle tonight, so, once again, I make the choice to put my phone away, to avoid facing the music for a little longer.