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“I’m looking at you, obviously,” I hiss, eyebrows raised high, my eyeballs feeling like they’re going to pop right out of my head with the swell of anger that’s building pressure in my head. I’ve never been good at tact or playing it cool. I’m not capable—everything’s there on my face for the entire world to read, and unless you’re my parents, who are a special kind of case, I’m going to speak my mind.
Or try my hardest to.
Callum clenches his jaw, like we’re about ready to get into an actual fight even though he’s the one being all pushy and shit.
Hell, we’re still in the classroom, the conversations having died down after slam after slam of the door as people have headed out. I glance around to see if any of my remaining class are looking, if the prof is somehow glancing between the two of us and wondering what’s going on there.
But nope, no one’s paying attention, and I feel better already.
My heart pumps hard with the increased adrenaline, my hands feeling hot and cold all at once.
“You know me,” I say, trying to remind him that we both work at The Arsenal, especially on weekends. Hell, we’re headed toward the same building tonight, right after this class. I know so because Callum has been working every single weekend that I’ve been on, too.
“Do I?” he asks, and I want to slam my hand on the table.
“What’s the point of being rude when you and I both know that we work together, huh?” I say, gathering up my shit, and stuffing it into my duffel. “What’s the point of trying to dupe me when I literally see you every single weekend?” I shake my head, tongue running over my teeth as I look down at him, still seated.
It’s a shame that he’s beautiful in the way that his face is incredibly interesting to me.
Even from this distance, keeping that empty seat between us, I can tell he’s not as symmetrical as most people are. His nose has been broken a few times, I would think, with the way his septum has deviated, and his ears look like they’ve been busted up, too, like the kind of ears that you’d have if you practice grappling or wrestling—there’s a word for those kinds of ears, but I can’t think of it right now.
His eyes are an interesting shade of spring green, contrasting deeply to his black-as-soot eyelashes. He’d be pretty if his jawline wasn’t so sharp, if he didn’t have that horizontal scar across his entire left eyebrow, the look in his eyes less than impressed with me.
It’s annoying that I find him so very interesting at this moment, and I’m getting nothing back.
I shrug it off. “See you at work,” I say, giving him a wave, my heart pounding as I leave the classroom behind, swinging the door open hard enough for it to hit the wall behind it and nearly trap me in the door frame if I didn’t slink by fast enough, nearly squishing my own freaking self while trying to make an exit.
In the grand scheme of things, someone asking me what I’m looking at isn’t even the worst thing I’ve been asked, really.
I work at a bar, where guys tend to have a different opinion of the women working in the back, regardless of their sexual orientation. I mean, I have to dress in a way to get tips, to pay for my bills, for my schooling, for food.
Want a peep of my cleavage? It’s going to cost ya.
I just didn’t peg him as being that defensive.
Huh.
Not my problem.
***
I’M ON MY FIFTEEN-MINUTE break, and I need some fresh air.
I hit the back alley, walking toward the brightly lit mouth of it, the mucus in my nose having flash-frozen the second I popped out here, coat unzipped, but wrapped around me all the same as the sweat lingering along my skin starts to freeze.
It feels good in that refreshing kind of way, minutes before it gets too cold and then I’ll be thankful for the oppressive heat back near the bar, body heat from everyone being packed inside like sardines, forcing familiarity that can quickly turn to violence if the timing’s right, if enough alcohol has been consumed.
I know that Callum’s working inside tonight (apparently there’s a rotation because it’s the cold, dead heart of winter, and that’s the way it goes, like they’re a pack of Antarctic penguins huddled together, each one taking turns at being in the middle, stealing away all the heat that they possibly can).
I saw him inside, walking around the perimeter, my eyes moving to him more than once, even though he blends in with the shadows, the white-printed SÉCURITÉ on his chest glowing all kinds of colors depending on the lighting and the songs being played.
My feet are aching, my lower back hurts, and my hair’s coming out of the pile I’ve secured at the top of my head.
And I have another three hours of this until last call.
It’s the post-New Year haze, where people still want to party, but not as hard as they did over the holidays, celebrating the New Year well into January, if memory serves.
Sighing, I watch my breath plume white against the January night air, my nose already starting to drip, the back of my neck erupting in goosebumps and making the rest of my body shiver as a bitter and sharp wind hits the exposed skin there.
I pull on my hood, then quickly wrap my arms around myself again, pacing, pondering my life and getting stressed about it, as you do when the clock moves past midnight and you can sit with your thoughts in the darkness and wonder what life would have been like if you’d chosen differently, made the right decisions.
I pace along the corner wall, peering into the back alley more often than not, making sure the way stays clear for me to get back inside. I stamp my feet, my exposed legs in their fishnets tingling now, stinging with the cold, but I push myself to stay outside a bit longer, if only to cool my body temperature so I don’t feel like I’m going to explode going back inside.
I cave another two minutes later, going straight inside and getting yelled at by idiots who aren’t dressed properly waiting in line, shivering in line, stamping their feet, sniffing and looking like frozen human popsicles while I bask in the warmth inside before handing my coat back over to Kayla, our resident coat-checker who’s doing some studying out of a textbook that I can’t hope to understand, I’m sure, and head back to the bar, squeezing past people to get to my spot.
I’m surprised to find Callum at the bar, standing a little off to the side, nodding to me as I get back behind the partition, and start taking orders from priority as my partner Finn heads out for his break, jonesing for a cigarette.
Conversation’s impossible, of course, so I just get to work, making drinks, running through the motions, double-checking ingredients when the order isn’t the standard amaretto sour or whiskey straight.
I can forget for a moment that I’m twenty-seven years old (going to be twenty-eight real soon, my twenties passing me by before they’re gone altogether), and flirt and make my tips, and pretend to sling back drinks when I’m asked to take one for the team, smiling my big, fake smile until it feels like my cheeks will burst, and I’ve got a pulsing headache starting out at the back of my head.
All the while, I notice Callum watching, waiting, like that old school song from The Police.
I mouth What are you looking at? more than once, watching his gaze skitter away when I catch him watching, but it makes sense that he’s hanging around the bar, making sure everything’s cool and calm.
I had the misfortune of making a mistake, and one customer got real impatient with me, calling me all sorts of names, and basically making everything shit for the rest of the night because I forgot who actually showed up first to get a drink—a drink.
So, yeah, it makes total sense that Callum’s hanging around, and I find myself reassured more often than not when I see him pacing the length of the bar, glancing around, reading body language or whatever else he does to make sure people stay in line.
Before I know it, it’s last call, and I’m almost dead on my feet. I have to drive myself home (it’s finally starting to feel like home, and not like Max’s place that I’m just currently occupying). I want to crawl into bed and sleep for ten hours, but I have errands to run tomorrow because I, of course, postponed all of them until the end of the week, and the only thing left in my fridge is a bottle of spicy mustard and that’s it.
I’m calling out my goodbyes by close to four in the morning, yawning wide enough that my jaw ends up hurting, a pulsing pain right near my ears. I swipe at my teary eyes, pull on my coat, and head outside to the back parking lot, throw my hand out into the cold and aim my starter at my car, getting it to run all from the press of a button, needing it to warm up in this cold-ass weather that I know is just getting started but already feels like it’s never going to end.
“Are you okay to get home by yourself?” a voice asks behind me, and I shriek, nearly jump two feet in the air, swing around, and let my fist fly.
Oh God, oh God, no, no, no...
“Holy shit, holy shit!” I stammer, hands fluttering around Callum’s face, the fluorescent lights pulling long hollows underneath his eyes, making him look even more sinister than before in class.
“I’m sorry! I hit things when I get scared, oh my God. Ouch, ouch, what’s in your face?” I cradle my hand, the throbbing in my fingers making me whimper. “Jesus, what’s in your face, Callum? Could you at least try to look hurt? For the sake of my pride?”
I cradle my hand to my chest, trying to flex my fingers a little, relieved that I didn’t break anything, because I know that’s a thing if you don’t punch properly, but it’s not like I’m thinking on how I’m holding my fist and aligning it with my wrist or not when I let it fly.
Callum rubs at his jaw, opening and closing his mouth like he’s trying to make his ears pop, and I start sweating, realizing that I’m in a back hall with a guy that could mess me up because he’s bigger and stronger than me.
Have to talk to Vick’s boyfriend, Michael. Have to, have to!
It’s going on the never-ending to-do list.
I take a step back, bumping into the emergency door that doesn’t have an alarm because that’s still on the building owner’s to-do list, no matter how many times, Trisha, my boss, tries to get it fixed.
No one knows I’m back here.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Callum says, taking a step backward, and then another, but staying there, and my erratic heartbeat settles a little, because there’s more space between us and I could get away and somehow dive into my car if I needed to. Maybe.
Jesus, I’ve never been athletic a day in my life.
“Yeah, you scared me. You can’t go sneaking up on people like that. And you’re a big guy, how come you move so quietly? That’s creepy, man, just creepy.” My mouth’s running a mile a minute, and I’m clearly just along for the ride.
“How’s your hand?” he asks, pointing to it where it’s still cradled to my chest like a broken toy pressed close to my heart.
“I’ll be fine,” I say stiffly, straightening myself up but not getting any closer.
Callum hunches forward a little, stuffing his hands in his pockets of his dark jeans in the front pockets where I can see them, and in a distant part of my brain, I’m wondering if he’s telegraphing every single movement for my benefit, trying to make his body look smaller, too.
Huh.
We’ve watched way too many true crime shows to fall for this. No way.
“I wanted to make sure that you’d get home okay,” he says, and I’m baffled.
This is the most we’ve talked to each other in the whole three quarters of a year that we’ve been working ‘together.’ What the hell is this?
“Do you feel guilty because you were a complete asshole in class today?” I ask, wincing at my own damn self. Why am I looking to rile him up?
Clearly I have zero sense of self-preservation. What the hell?
“Yes. I was.”
I gape at him, wheezing out a laugh from surprise before it becomes a full-blown one. “I didn’t expect you to admit it. Wow. Well, I guess it helps that you’re self-aware.”
Callum frowns at me, and those dark hollows under his eyes are freaking me out. He looks like something out of The Crow, but it’s all shadow and light in this case. I shiver.
“I’m sorry.”
“Wow” is all I can say. I’ve never been apologized to so quickly before. What fresh hell is this?
“So will you be all right getting back home?”
I nod dumbly, still reeling a little at the emotional whiplash. “Why do you care?”
“Because it would help me sleep better at night if I knew you were okay to get home all right.”
I puff out my cheeks and let out a long breath. “Yeah, you gave me the fright of my life. Nearly had a heart attack.” I knock my hand against my chest for emphasis. “I’ve got enough adrenaline swimming in my veins to drive to the moon and back right now.”
I could have imagined it, I could have, I’m admitting it, but I think that Callum’s mouth quirks up, just a tiny fraction that would’ve been a smile if he lets himself smile. I don’t know; judging by how hard his face is, he could totally be made out of stone, or maybe he’s a cyborg.
I don’t know, I don’t know.
“I’m good, Callum,” I say, nodding toward him, until he follows suit and nods back at me. Then we’re both standing there like idiots, nodding at each other.
“Well, have a good night, yeah?” I say, turning around to get the door open, the latch sticking for a second from the cold and the constant change in temperature, but get outside in the end, wading through snow and wobbling a little when I hit a patch of ice before turning around to see if Callum’s somehow watching my gorgeous display of elegance and grace.
Oh shit, he totally is. I hike my bag higher up on my shoulder, wave at him, and glide along the powder-speckled ice and get inside my car, locking the doors (after checking that it is indeed empty—I’ve seen too much shit, not to check), and then sticking my key in the ignition, putting the heat on full-blast, shivering in my spot until my seat warmer kicks in and starts warming me through.
Callum’s still standing in the doorway, nothing but his hoodie on, making sure I make it out of the parking lot in one piece, and I wave at him again before I get another nod, and he heads inside.
I make it home totally fine, the adrenaline crash making it difficult to get upstairs to my condo, unlocking the door, and turning on lights, and brightening up the place.
The emptiness has a particular sound to it, a weight that somehow settles on my shoulders in an odd way after a day like today.
I’ve been stressed since the morning (well, morning for me), for school. It’s been forever since I was in a school-like institution, and I’m worried I’m not smart enough to go through this, but honestly, what else am I good at? What else?
I plop onto my couch, grabbing the bag of makeup wipes I keep specifically on the coffee table for this very reason, swiping at my face, rubbing hard at the waterproof mascara that is the only thing that works for my sad eyelashes.
So much happened today, but nothing really outstanding, and I feel curiously hollow, sitting on the couch, wondering if I’m always going to feel this way, if I’m always going to feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.
Why do I have no idea what I’m doing? Why couldn’t I be more like Max?
Why don’t I have that drive?
What’s wrong with me?
I shake my head at myself, since these kinds of questions aren’t going to be answered right now, if ever.
This is who I am as a person. I can try to make changes until I find something I really love that doesn’t include me slinging drinks and making tips that keep me in peanut butter and bread.
Instead, I try to focus on getting into bed, washing off the day, and taking down my long hair, shaking it out, and rubbing at my sore scalp. Today wasn’t all bad, there was that one little bright spot at the end, I guess.
And it was a nice thing for Callum to do to make sure I left the lot in one piece.
That was nice.
But I know it’s just a one-time thing.
