Page 3 of If You Never Come Back
Valentine’s Day, last year
“Hey, Shannon! Shot of Beefeater, will you?”
I glower at the collar-popping frat bro shouting his drink order at my end of the bar. That’s the second time this evening that preppy prick has called me the wrong name.
“Listen up, Preppy Prick.”
His eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. I’m guessing not many people take that tone with this snowflake.
“My name is Shay. I’m here to serve you drinks, but that doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole and call me by the wrong name.”
The nervous laugh he lets out does little to quell my annoyance. It’s ten o’clock on Valentine’s Day and for some reason, every single man in Bend has decided to spend his evening camping out at this bar. Possibly because they’re aiming to pick up a lonely single lady on the most romantic commercial holiday of the year. That’s all well and good, but they still have to treat me with courtesy and respect.
I wave an ice pick at the unblinking douchebag standing inches from me. “What’s my name, Preppy Prick?”
He eyes the razor-sharp tip as it glimmers under the low-hanging lights above. The sleek, copper light fixtures are my favorite part of the bar décor. Remy did a hell of a job remodeling this place. He bought it for cheap when it was a run-down industrial space, investing his savings in building it up. Now it boasts an industrial-chic aesthetic that’s a hit with pretty much everyone, from hipsters to young professionals to college students. Dark wood furnishings, exposed brick walls, and mood lighting make Dandy Lime a laid-back hangout most nights. Except for tonight when I have to deal with the likes of Preppy Prick.
He stammers out the words. “Your name? Er, um, Shay.”
I stab the pick into the block of ice resting on the bar top and drag it across. “I knew you were smarter than you looked. Wanna tell me why you’ve been calling me Shannon?”
“I um…I don’t know.” His gaze darts from me to the floor to above my head, then to the side. It’s like his brain is playing ping-pong with his eyes.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. It’s hysterical how easy it is to make overconfident pricks like him squirm. All it typically takes is calling them out on their bullshit, giving them a mean nickname, and peppering them with questions. They always, always break.
It’s a skill I learned as a kid. Being one of the only mixed-raced kids in school, I got plenty of dismissive and ignorant comments. White kids remarking that I wasn’t white enough; Asian kids remarking that I wasn’t Asian enough. It was the epitome of ironic, seeing as I’m both. But when I started calling people out, the comments stopped. As I got older, I got bolder, informing any hecklers that if I wanted their worthless opinion on what they thought of me, I’d ask. But I didn’t ask them. So I’d tell them to shut the fuck up. They always did.
I employ that same snark and attitude as a twenty-seven-year-old woman. “Well, let me tell you what I know, Preppy Prick. That’s your name from now on, by the way, if you order a drink from me ever again.” I point to his neck with the ice pick. “That popped collar is atrocious. Fold it down.”
“But I—”
“Hey, everyone!” The hum of chatter falls silent as every pair of eyes in the bar turns to me. “Who else thinks this prick should fold down that godforsaken popped collar?”
Every arm shoots up. He obeys with fumbling fingers.
I lean over the counter to him, our faces inches apart. “I may not be a country club cum stain who calls people by the wrong name on purpose like you, but when you’re in this bar, you will treat me, every other staff member, and patron with respect. Understand?”
His wordless nod and frantic blinking indicate that he finally gets my drift.
“You said Beefeater, right?”
He nods, still playing eye ping-pong with himself. I pour two shots and slide them to him before swiping the cash from his hand.
A hand taps me on the back. I turn to see Remy beaming at me. “That was a thing of beauty, the way you gave that douche a dressing down.”
I shrug. “It was nothing.”
“Cuz, it was everything.”
He squeezes my shoulder, earning a chuckle from me. Remy and I have the same half-white, half-Filipino background, but he got some Goliath genes on his dad’s side. He stands six-foot-three with the build of a linebacker. Utter sweetheart, though, always showering patrons with compliments and praise, always offering hugs and high-fives.
“I just wish you didn’t cut back your hours,” he says.
“Come on, Remy,” I groan. “I need the extra time to focus on my business.”
He shakes his head and gives me a side hug. He’s the only human being whose side hugs are as cuddly as his full-on ones. I breathe through the squeeze.
“I know. Just thought I’d beg one last time. I’m so proud of you. You know I ordered a print of your latest cityscape watercolor, right?”
