Page 38 of Unruly

“Like you’re trying to figure out what’s wrong.”

He doesn’t move right away—that’s the infuriating part. He just stands there in my space with that steady look and I’m holding it together by about one thread, and the last thing I need is someone being kind to me right now because kind is the thing that will unravel it.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, quieter this time. “Please.”

Something moves across his face. He reads the please for exactly what it is, and nods once before stepping out from behind the bar without another word.

I watch him go back to the pool table.

That’s worse somehow—him just … doing what I asked. I don’t know what to do with a man who listens when I ask him to leave.

I turn around and start restocking things that don’t need restocking. The rest of the shift is like being on autopilot on steroids. I pour drinks and trade barbs with the old guys, but my smiles feel plastic.

Inside, Zach’s words churn like bad whiskey: You ran. You blew it up. Get over it.

I keep moving because stopping means feeling it fully, and I’m not doing that here.

I restock the beer cooler, hauling cases from the back with more force than necessary, the bottles clinking together like they’re judging me too. Boyd calls out for another round and I force a smirk, sliding the beers over while he launches into some story about his latest doctor visit. I nod at the right moments, and throw in a sarcastic comment about him still being able to chase tail at his age.

Tyler and a couple of his washed-up buddies roll in around nine, loud and obnoxious as always. I shut down their comments with sharper one-liners than usual, but it takes effort. My usual fire feels banked—smothered under the weight of that phone call.

Cash is posted up at the pool tables with Dawson and Makai. He’s not playing much tonight, though. Instead, his eyes keep finding me across the room. Not the usual flirty watching—he’s watching me like a hawk watching prey.

There’s nothing prey about me.

Turning my back to refill the garnish trays, I even wipe glasses that don’t need wiping. When I feel his gaze again, I’m pouring a draft, shifting to the other end of the bar to help a regular. He doesn’t come over, doesn’t make some cocky comment or try to draw me into conversation, he just watches.

Every time our eyes catch, I look away first, busying myself with pointless tasks—polishing the liquor bottles behind the bar until they shine, rearranging the straws and napkins like the placement of a damn lime wedge is suddenly critical.

Zach’s sneer echoes louder in the quiet moments between orders.

Pathetic. You ran.

And the worst part is, the tiny voice in my head wonders if he’s right. If everyone sees me as the one who bailed instead of the one who finally stood up.

Aria pokes her head out from the back at one point, still looking pale from whatever bug she caught. “Halle, girl, I need to go home. Matt’s already gone and the last of them are clearing out. You okay to close?”

Sitting means thinking about the empty crib we never got to use—the way Zach had shrugged off the doctor’s follow-up appointments because “these things happen.”

I look at the room. There’s three people left—Tyler and his buddies, paying their tab, and Boyd is already heading for the door.

“Go,” I say. “I’ve got it.”

“Lock up tight. Back door too.”

“Always do.”

She squeezes my arm once and then, she’s gone.

Tyler and his group shuffle out not long after, loud all the way to the parking lot. The door swings shut behind them and the bar goes quiet.

I flip the sign to CLOSED.

Lock the front door.

Exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for four hours.

Then, I turn around.