“Thanks, Shel. Sorry to always drop all the drama on your lap.”
“Hey, that’s what I’m here for. And for the record, I’m pretty sure I dropped the drama on your lap this time.”
“Oh, that’s right. You totally did,” I said with mock irritation. “But seriously, is there a reason you called? I just kind of railroaded our whole conversation.”
“Not really,” she replied, and I could almost hear her shrugging. “I just saw the best friend bat-signal and decided to call.”
“You’re the best. Thanks for always looking out for me.”
“Anytime, sister.”
I hung up and noticed Devon had texted me back.
**Great. Will six work?**
I stared at the text and every emotion inside me waged for control. I wanted to see him, wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, to believe that there was nothing to the story about him and Evie, but the doubt that still lingered grabbed hold tightly. If anything, I just needed a little time. Time to think clearly and work through my own issues, to come to terms with the fact that everyone had a past, even me, and that if I expected Devon to share his story with me, I should be prepared to share my own with him.
Inevitably, fear made the decision for me.
**I’m sorry. I’m going to have to back out. There’s a lot going on for me right now, and I think it would be best if we just took a few steps back. Maybe we can try again sometime down the line.**
I sent the text, then immediately powered down my phone. I didn’t want to know what Devon had to say in response. It didn’t really matter. The only thing that mattered was that I didn’t want to be emotionally wrecked again, and I was beginning to realize that Devon Roberts had the potential to ruin me.
I’d made it through a few hours of my shift, but I hadn’t succeeded in keeping Devon from my thoughts. I wondered if he’d texted back, how he’d responded to my decision to take some time for myself, but I managed to keep my phone in my purse and not turn it on. Instead, I focused on smiling and pretending everything was fine, as I knew full well that a sulky and depressed bartender didn’t make great tips.
“What time are you off tonight? Need a ride home?”
A guy who looked just barely legal had been sitting at the bar for nearly my whole shift, slowly sucking down Jack and Cokes. As was usually in the job requirement of bartenders, I made polite conversation, threw him a couple smiles, and I may have batted my eyelashes at him a few times. It was harmless flirting, and most of the time the guys played along. They didn’t really want to take home the bartender, but they liked getting their egos stroked before they went out onto the wild dance floors, looking for hopefuls.
As the night went on, and the music grew louder, I was forced to lean closer to hear him order, and wasn’t convinced he needed to press his lips to my ear for me to hear him, but I let it slide. Now, he was slurring his words, and sooner or later I knew I would have to tell Randy, our security, to take his keys and call him a cab.
“I don’t need a ride, but even if I did, I don’t think you’re the right person for the job,” I hollered over the loud music. I backed away, using a towel to wipe the bar, and watched as he slowly realized what I’d said, a drunken smile spreading across his face.
“I see. You like to play hard to get,” he said, pointing a finger at me, eyes narrowed, as if he’d just figured me out. I just laughed and turned to another less-drunk customer to take their order. A few minutes later when I made my way down the bar again, drunken guy was gone, and I was secretly glad. I knew bartending came with its fair share of brushing off dudes, but that summer in particular seemed to be chock-full of lonely college guys looking for an easy score.