Page 72 of Since We're Here
“It’s not your fault.”
But it kind of is, isn’t it? I saw that the inventory was going down. I’d taken over from Beth. I’m supposed to know how to run a restaurant.
It’s just like when I was dating Jacob while at The Bank. My manager said I was missing things. Getting distracted.
But this time, I’m the one doing the distracting.
I’d checked in the pub office, and the note I wrote earlier in the week about the inventory levels was nowhere to be found. I should have told him verbally as well. Kept telling him. Asked about shipments. I swallow and stand up straight, crossing my arms.
But I didn’t do any of that.
“It’s my fault,” he says gently, the softness I was missing before finally evident.
“No. It’s mine, and you know it.”
He rakes a hand over his face, not disagreeing.
Here I was, thinking I was doing a great job running the pub. Helping out Patrick, but also using my brain, my past experience. Instead, I fucked it up.
“You should go.”
“What?” I say, the edge in my voice contrasting with his calm tone. He’s telling me to leave?
“I just mean that you’ve been here all day. Go home. Ronan and I can take care of tonight.”
“But you’ve been working at the brewery. And I want to help. I can stay and you can fix the inventory problem.”
“It’s too late.” He shakes his head. “It’s a Friday night. I can reach out to the distributor in the morning for an emergency shipment.”
“Let me stay.”
“Madison. Come on. Leave.” He sits back and looks up at the ceiling, as if I’m the most frustrating person he’s dealt with all day.
I flinch. How could he want me to leave? He’s hardly been able to stay away from me. Even when I’m working, he’ll come in and sneak a kiss or pin me in the dark hallway.
Leave.
That’s a pretty clear directive. My face heats and a spark of anger ignites in me. And beneath it, a raw rejection that I don’t even want to acknowledge.
“Fine. Good luck tonight.”
I bend to grab my purse from under the bar and stomp out without another word. He doesn’t follow me.
“What a dick,” I mumble as I welcome the evening air, pausing outside the entrance. Shit, the sun is behind gray clouds and it’s much colder than it was earlier. Thankfully, due to slacking on laundry, I’m wearing leggings—not one of my stupid sleeveless summer dresses—but also a skimpy tank top.
I look up toward my flat, but don’t move my feet in that direction. I can’t go home now. No way. Not when I feel like this. What would I do all night in there?
Instead, I stride in the other direction without any destination in mind, the anger and hurt rolling around in my belly and mixing together into an unhappy cocktail.
I wrap my arms around my body, clinging to my bare skin.
O’Brien’s is job number eleven. Patrick is guy number eleven. How humiliating.
“Maddie?”
I jerk my head up. Noreen is stopped in front of me, holding hands with Gray, the guy I met at the table my first night in Dingle.
“Oh, hey.”
