The bar was nothing like I’d imagined. It was dimly lit, with a long wooden counter lined with mismatched stools. The jukebox in the corner played classic rock, and the air smelled faintly of beer and cigarette smoke. Caleb’s dad, a gruff man with a permanent five o’clock shadow, greeted me with a curt nod.
“So you’re Emma,” he said, his voice gravelly. “You ever worked a job before?”
“No,” I admitted, shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny.
He grunted, then handed me an apron. “It’s not hard. Just keep the drinks coming and don’t let anyone give you trouble. Caleb will keep an eye on you.”
I glanced at Caleb, who gave me an encouraging smile. “You’ll be fine,” he said.
Except, he’s wrong. My first shift was a disaster. The regulars were rowdy, the orders came faster than I could keep up with, and I spilled more than one drink. By the end of the night, my feet ached, and I felt like I’d barely survived.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” Caleb said as he walked me to my car. “It’s not so bad once you get into a rhythm.”
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. “You’re not the one dealing with drunk guys hitting on you.”
His smile faltered, and he frowned. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
Despite his reassurance, I couldn’t help but feel out of my depth. But I needed the money, and for now, this was my only option.
I was starting to find my footing. Marie, the bartender, had taken me under her wing, showing me the ropes with a gruff but caring attitude. She didn’t take crap from anyone, and I admired her for it.
“You’re catching on, kid,” she said one night after the rush had died down. “But you need to stop letting those drunk idiots get to you.”
“I’m trying,” I said, wiping down a table. “It’s just... a lot.”
“Welcome to the real world,” she said with a smirk. “It doesn’t get easier, but you’ll get tougher.”
I was starting to believe her.
Caleb, however, was becoming a problem. He’d started showing up at the bar almost every night, claiming he wanted to “keep an eye on me.” At first, I appreciated the support, but it quickly became suffocating. He’d glare at any guy who so much as looked at me and pick fights with patrons who made harmless comments.
“Caleb, you can’t keep doing this,” I said one night after a particularly tense shift.
“I’m just looking out for you,” he argued, his jaw clenched. “You see the kind of guys who come in here.”
“I can handle myself,” I snapped. “I don’t need you playing bodyguard.”
His possessiveness was wearing on me, and our arguments were becoming more frequent. I could see the frustration building in him, and it made me question if I’d made a mistake letting him back into my life.