Page 13 of The Games We Play
“Why don’t you come down after you get settled? I have some leftover pizza that I made at home. I hate to know you always eat alone.”
I sighed. Every night, she tried to convince me to join her for dinner. As much as I appreciated it and sometimes gave in, I did have someplace to be.
“I can’t tonight,” I said, giving her a sweet smile. “Rain check?”
“Of course, dear.”
I blew her a kiss before disappearing up the stairs to my apartment.
The second I stepped inside, I exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
Kicking off my shoes, dropping my bags by the door—I was home.
My safe haven of colors and comfort. The one place where I could let go of the day and justbe. Here, I didn’t have to be anything but myself—chaotic, carefree, light.
Crossing the room, I connected my phone to the kitchen speaker and hit play. Music filled the apartment, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace, loud enough to follow me from room to room.
First task, dinner.
I needed to eat something before heading out tonight. With a couple of hours to spare, I opened the fridge and stared at the contents, debating my options before finally pulling out a salad kit and some fresh fruit to toss in.
After eating, I’d shower and then get ready to meet everyone. I needed to give myself one hell of a pep talk in the mirror.
Swaying my hips to the beat, I dumped the lettuce into the bowl and added fruit, croutons, and some strawberry vinaigrette before carrying it to my dining room table and sitting crisscross apple sauce. The music filled the space, but I sat in my own head, shoveling fork full after fork full of lettuce into my mouth.
4
MAC
PRESENT DAY.
Iinhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling around the cigarette dangling from my lips. Another night behind this bar—the same bar I’d grown up in, the same one I couldn’t seem to leave.
Working here was in my blood, woven so deep into my DNA that I never saw myself anywhere else. Slinging bottles, pouring drinks, and watching the same faces roll in and out was all I knew.
My father owned this place until the day he died.
I’d like to say he poured his blood, sweat, and tears into keeping it afloat, but that would be a damn lie. The only thing that man ever put effort into was playing pool and getting too fucking drunk to function.
By ten years old, I was pouring draft beers and charming my way into tip money, stuffing every last bill and coin into an old coffee can beneath my bed. Hard work had never been a choice for me—it was a necessity.
“Put that shit out,” Lizzie, my sister, barked as she walked by, rolling her eyes. She made it to the window where our neonOpensign hung, officially signaling the start of another night of business.
“Mind your damn business,” I shot back, taking another slow drag.
“My bar. My rules.”
I scoffed, turning my attention away from her and toward the bottles lining the back wall.
Lizzie was a barracuda, ruthless and set in her ways which made us butt heads more often than not.
She was tall and petite, the spitting image of our mother, right down to the sleek brown bob that barely grazed her shoulders—the same color as mine, though I’d never admit we had anything in common because she and I werenothingalike.
Our parents never married, and when I was eight and Lizzie was twelve, they finally decided they were better off far away from each other. Mom took Lizzie. And me? I drew the short end of the stick, staying behind with Dad in the cramped one-bedroom apartment above the bar.
While Lizzie had a decent life—sports, friends, college—I was left to fend for myself, playing the fucking adult before I was even old enough to ride a bike without training wheels.
“You are insufferable,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Go bark your orders at someone who gives a shit.” Waving her off, I focused back on my final count of liquor bottles, scribbling down numbers before the first pour of the night.
