~ Nick
“Hot,” comes Tony’s voice at the same time his elbow jabs me in the ribs.
Distracted, I turn to face him, see the grin as he eyes the girl sitting at the end of my bar and then me. A sudden protective instinct surges through me, an urgent impulse to stop him from going over and trying anything on with her. I’m not sure she’d be up for it, but I’m not sure I would be either.
“Mmmm,” I say feigning disinterest.
Tony laughs because he knows I’m full of shit. Of course she’s hot, she’s fucking beautiful, but I’m not about to admit that to him. “Well, if you’re not going to,” he says, eyebrows raised in question.
That protective instinct fires up a gear and I step sideways, blocking his view of her. “Leave it, Tony,” I say, my voice firm.
He looks at me, confused. I’ve never stopped him before, mostly because I’ve never cared before. Hell, a year ago I’d have been the one doing all the flirting while Tony hung back and did nothing.
But that’s all changed.
And while it’s now Tony who’s the one flirting with the customers, I also know he’s a good guy about it. He’s not going to fuck them over or treat them like shit because he’s just not that kind of guy.
But this girl feels different, or maybe too familiar in a way I don’t want to think about right now. Whatever it is, she seems far too vulnerable and while I don’t doubt she can take care of herself, tonight I don’t want her to have to.
“Okay,” he says, shrugging. “She’s all yours. You ordering food?” he asks, already distracted.
“Yeah,” I nod. “You want something?”
Tony grabs the menu even though he’ll order the same thing he always does. I’m already on the phone when he hands the menu back, telling me, “Burger, fries, onion rings.”
I nod, waiting for the next part.
“You know this would be a hell of a lot easier if we just opened the kitchen back up.”
I shake my head even as he looks as me with that frustrated why not, you know she’d want you to look on his face he always has when we have this discussion. I know he’s right; things would be easier if we re-opened the kitchen. Business would probably be better too; drinks and food are generally a winning combination. But re-opening the kitchen is something I’ve never been able to do. Not now, especially since that was always her part of the dream.
Still, I also know that me ordering food for this customer is going to create problems. People are going to start wanting their own meals, at least something more than the basic shit we’ve been reduced to serving now that I no longer have a chef.
I glance up at her, this customer that already has me breaking the rules. She’s standing beside her chair, and I can see from the look on her face that she’s about two seconds from walking out of my bar. I step towards her, even with the phone pressed to my ear, ready to say anything to get her to stay, but in that second, something changes. Something in her face shifts, and instead of leaving, she peels off her coat, revealing a strapless black dress. She looks incredibly self-conscious as she sits back down, crossing her arms in front of her body as though she’s trying to hide.
My heart thuds in my chest and I want to tell her she looks beautiful, that she shouldn’t hide. But when she glances up at me, her eyes locking with mine, I can’t move, my body freezing as I try to work out how, after just a short amount of time, she’s able to cause this kind of reaction in me.
“Hello?”
It’s said in a way that tells me it’s not the first time it’s been said and I realise I’ve been standing here, staring at this girl while someone on the other end of the line waits for me to place my order. Shaking my head, trying to clear whatever the fuck is going on with me, I turn away, quickly reeling off our orders before hanging up and going back to looking after my other customers.
By the time our food shows up, the girl has finished both of her drinks. I grab her another beer, opening it as I take her food down to her.
“Here,” I say, smiling as I place it all in front of her. She looks up, surprised as though she’d forgotten she ordered something or that she was even in my bar at all.
“Thanks,” she says, reaching for her bag. “How much do I owe you?”
I shake my head. “It’s fine.”
She looks up at me. “I can’t not pay,” she says.
“Why not?” I ask, wiping my hands on the towel in my back pocket before reaching for my own beer. I twist off the cap, throwing it towards the bucket at the back of the bar that collects all the bottle tops.
“Because,” she starts, pausing as though she isn’t sure of the reasons either. “You’ll lose your job if you keep giving me free drinks.”
I laugh at this, shaking my head as I tell her. “Don’t worry, it’s all good.”
The girl shakes her head again. “No, really. I can’t.” She pulls out her wallet, removing two twenties and sliding them across the bar towards me. It’s not quite enough, but then I’m not expecting anything from her.
I put my hand down, stopping her. “It’s good, really.” She shakes her head again, a determined look on her face. It does something, that look, something I can’t explain but which must be the reason for what I say next.
“Alright, I’ll tell you what,” I say, lifting my hand. “I’ll let you pay, if you tell me your name?”
The look on her face changes now, shifting to surprise and then maybe embarrassment. The lighting in the bar is low, but I swear her cheeks blush a little. Just when I think she’s about to cave and let me buy her dinner and drinks, she swallows hard and says, “Emma. My name is Emma.”
I grin, lifting up my beer as I clink it against hers. “Nice to meet you, Emma,” I say. “I’m Nick.”
Emma nods, lifting her beer up and taking a long pull. I watch as her head tilts back, the movement of her throat as she swallows. My body reacts, instantly and in a way that I can’t explain. Suddenly the room feels like it’s a hundred degrees and I have to force myself to look away, take a long drink of the cold beer before I ask her something even more fucking stupid than I already have.
We eat our meal in silence, me occasionally walking off to serve a customer or take care of something. It’s late now, but it’s still a steady night. Not too busy that I can’t stop and eat with the hope that she actually starts talking to me. When it becomes apparent she’s not going to, I wrack my brains with something I can ask her. I’m usually pretty good at the small talk stuff; it’s kind of a necessity for working in a bar.
With her though, I have no idea what to say. Of course there are a million things I want to ask her, most of which relate to the phone call she made outside, the reaction she had when I first offered her a drink or why she’s here tonight, alone.
But I don’t, mostly because of the closed off vibe she’s giving me, her arms wrapped around her body when she isn’t eating or having a drink, that say, don’t approach and don’t pry too hard. I wonder what’s made her feel this way and whether it’s just tonight, if it’s just with me, or if she’s like this all the time.
I also wonder why she’s alone. How a woman who’s dressed like that and who looks like her, could possibly be sitting alone in a bar on a Saturday night.
But I don’t ask her any of this and she doesn’t volunteer anything in return. Instead she sits and I stand, both of us eating in silence and seemingly trying our hardest to avoid looking at each other. I steal occasional glances though, looking for an in, a way to get her to open up, even though it’s the last thing I should be doing.
When she’s finished her burger, she wraps the paper into a ball, scrunching it tight before she takes aim at the rubbish bin halfway down the bar. I watch as she launches it through the air, landing it squarely in the bin in an almost effortless move.
“Impressive,” I say, smiling.
She gives me a half smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, before she picks up her beer and finishes it. There’s something about the movement that suggests finality, as though now she’s finished her dinner and drinks, she’s paid her dues and it’s time to go. For reasons I can’t even begin to explain or understand, I realise I actually don’t want her to leave.
“Are you meeting someone?” I ask, the question the first thing to pop into my head.
She freezes, as she’s reaching for her jacket. “No,” she answers.
“Waiting for someone then?” I ask, wondering how it’s possible that I can keep coming up with such ridiculous questions.
She shakes her head. “I’ve already missed them,” she says, standing.
I stare at her, urge her to sit back down and stay. But she moves to put on her coat, moves to cover up the curves of her body that are barely hidden beneath the short black dress she wears.
And that’s when it hits me.
“You were supposed to be here for the wedding thing?” I ask.
Emma stops, her head falling before she forces herself to take a deep breath. “Yes,” she says quietly. “But I was late, and they left without me.”
“They couldn’t wait for you?” I ask, shocked.
She looks up at me, exhausted sadness on her face as she says, “I’m always late. They get tired of waiting for me.”
Fuck, that’s a pretty shit thing to do. I mean, I have no idea why she was late, but I’m sure she has a good excuse. Something’s clearly happened to her today that’s hurt her, made her sad in a way that very few people ever feel. It sends a pang of sympathy through me, knowing what that sadness feels like, knowing how little other people get it.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask. “Will you go and meet them?”
Emma shakes her head, pulling her coat tighter. “I think I’m just going to go home,” she says. “Call it a night.”
I’m shaking my head at her, unwilling to let her leave, for some reason, unable to say goodbye. “Don’t,” I say, the word out before I can stop it.
She stares at me as though confused and I don’t blame her. “What?”
“Don’t go,” I say, pulling the towel from my back pocket as I wipe down invisible spots on the bar. “Stay, have another drink.”
She picks up her bag and I can feel the inevitable drawing closer. “I can’t do that,” she says.
“Yeah you can,” I tell her. “All you have to do is take off your coat and sit back down.” I’m already reaching for another bottle of beer, enticing her to stay when I have no fucking right to.
“And sit here alone?” she asks, her words filled with loneliness.
I smile now, twisting the cap off the bottle. “You wouldn’t be all alone,” I say, placing it in front of her. She glances around the room as though wondering exactly who it is she’d be here with. Everyone else in the bar is with someone else. Couples, groups of friends, all here together. The room is filled with laughter and chatter and everything that Emma is not.
“Who would I talk to?” she asks and I can sense the hesitation, the tiny spark that suggests she might just be open to changing her mind if I can somehow come up with an answer.
I clear away her empty bottles, gesturing for her to sit again as I slide the fresh beer closer and say, “You can talk to me.”