Page 49 of Crossed Paths
The music’s stopped, the guests are gone, and the chaos has dulled into the low hum of tired bodies moving through closing tasks.
Peter, Mandy, and the waitresses have already moved the tables back into place and flipped the chairs upside down, ready for the cleaners in the morning. Their laughter faded out with the last sweep of the mop.
Hunters kept to himself. I’ve barely looked at him all evening, but I know what he’s been doing.
The fridge is fully restocked. Neat rows of bottles and cans stacked tight, shelves full again like we hadn’t just been run ragged for six hours.
I manned the dishwasher. Polishing. Drying. Putting away the last of the glasses with more focus than strictly necessary.
Now there’s nothing left to do.
No more trays to carry or guests to serve. No distractions.
Just silence.
And the weight of him still being here.
There are knots in my stomach, tight and restless, because I know what’s coming.
We have to talk.
We have to have it out.
And I don’t want to.
Not because I don’t deserve answers.
But because I’m scared, I already know them.
Peter and Mandy step up to the bar, jacket slung over one shoulder, car keys spinning idly in his hand. The two waitresses stand by the door, looking half-dead on their feet.
“I’m giving them a lift,” Pete says. “It’s late, and taxis aren’t showing up for love nor money.”
I nod, wiping down the last stretch of the counter even though it’s already clean. “Thanks. For helping. And for making sure they get home.”
He gives a small shrug, like it’s nothing. But it’s not. Not tonight.
He turns toward the door, then pauses.
Looks back at me.
“Listen to him,” he says quietly.
Not a command. Not even a suggestion, really.
Just a gentle nudge.
“He is right, you know,” Mandy says as she pulls me into a tight hug. “You owe it to yourself. Trust me, a selfish knobhead that just wants to screw you over wouldn’t have spent all day working for you.” She gives me one last squeeze before following Peter. The door clicks shut behind them.
And I’m left with nothing but the hum of the fridge, the ache in my feet—and Hunter.
I turn toward him, arms crossing over my chest before I’ve even made the choice. Trying to look defiant. Like I’m still in control of something.
“Thank you for your help,” I say, cool and clipped. “I pay bartenders twelve pounds an hour. You were here for eight, so that’s ninety-six quid.”
I open the till, count out the notes with steady hands, and set the cash on the bar between us.
Hunter doesn’t move. Just leans back against the counter, arms loose at his sides, and shakes his head slowly.
