Page 14 of Waiting Game

“I-I want him back.”

She pats my hand. “He’s not suffering anymore.”

My jaw works. “No, he’s not.”

“If you need anything from me, extra shifts, overtime, whatever, I’m here.”

“I appreciate that,” I tell her earnestly.

What I don’t tell her is I can’t afford extra shiftsorovertime.

I’m not about to repay her kind offer with worries about job security though.

“And if you need to talk, my kids always say I’ve got the best ear in Queens.”

I shoot her a timid smile in thanks then seek refuge behind the bar—I always tend and never serve—and take over for Dionne, who starts hitting up tables, asking if anyone needs a refill at the premature wake.

I don’t charge the regulars even though the financial hit will have repercussions—Chuck would be very unhappy if there weren’t a few rounds of drinks on him—but as some semblance of normalcy returns to the establishment, I let myself drown in the routine of a shift.

However, that normalcy makes it even weirder not to hear the ping and the dings from the small arcade Chuck had out back.

He used to be constantly playing those damn things when he should have been working. Instead, a game’s on, and most of the patrons are watching it as they chow through hot wings and peanuts.

It’s turning into any other night.

A night where Chuck’s about to sneak outside with a cigar he’s not supposed to smoke and which I always reprimand him for.

A night where patrons boo as a pitcher drops a ball. Where the grill sizzles out back and the scent of buffalo sauce and fried chicken skin is heavy in the air.

I suck in a cheek and gnaw on it, eyes darting around as my throat starts to feel like it’s closing in.

Breathing is hard.

Sweat beads on my brow as the sudden flush of heat overwhelms my senses.

Suddenly, I know where I can’t be—here.

Not now.

Whether or not I can afford this, my ever-tightening throat and increasingly narrowing vision make the decision for me.

With a quick sob, I snatch my purse from behind the counter and rasp at Jarvis, “I need a minute.”

Before I can rush out, he mumbles, “You need to take some time off. Go home, Mia. We can handle things for a couple nights.”

I don’t have the luxury of taking a couple free nights, not anymore, but grief waits for no woman.

With a sniffled thanks, I make a swift departure, raising a hand in farewell when some of the guys call out as they notice me leaving.

Once the door shuts behind me, I race down the street.

Five minutes later, I arrive home.

Chuck’s name might be on the rent-controlled apartment’s lease but he barely lived here.

Most nights, he slept in his recliner in the back office at the bar, a beer resting on top of his belly, a baseball bat nearby in case anyone tried to break in.

I’m glad I didn’t argue about his sleeping arrangements because while he’d amble his way here once a day for a shower and a change of clothes, that was pretty much it. Meaning I can breathe easier without the weight ofhimin my space, drowning me in memories.

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