Gin told Michael her plan to go stay with some friends in Colorado a few days ago. She hadn’t specified when she’d be back, only that we should probably find someone to replace her.
“Oh . . .-” Hurt drips from Lucy’s voice.
“Lu...I-I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” Had I been more in touch with everyone, I might have realized this wasn’t something Gin had shared widely. But then again, of all the people she should have told, I’d have thought Lucy would be near the top of the list.
Lucy shakes her head. “It’s ok. It’s...she needs to dowhat she needs to do. It’s fine.” Oliver and I exchange a look, one that says we both know it’s anything but fine.
My stomach decides this is the perfect time to inform everyone how I’d neglected it today. I press a hand to my middle as Lucy and Oliver shoot surprised looks my way.
“Not to change the subject, but I am starving,” I say.
“Pizza?” Oliver suggests, getting to his feet.
“I kinda want wings,” Lucy says, following his lead.
“Both?” I ask.
“Both.” They agree as they each hold a hand out to me, helping me to my feet.
The next day,despite my aching leg and the obscene amount of food consumed, I feel lighter than I have in weeks.
I still can’t bring myself to face the graveyard of missed notifications my phone has become, but I do call my mom on her lunch break and hold a conversation with my brother as we switch off at the bar. Progress, however small, is progress.
After lockup, I let the newbies go home a bit early and handle a few of the more menial closing duties myself. Of course, they think I’m just being a generous boss when, in reality, I want the time alone to wind down before going home.
I’m wiping down the bar when Ginelle lets herself in the front door.
“We’re closed,” I say as she locks the door behind her.
“Very funny,” she drawls and tosses the keys on the bar as she hops onto a stool. “Meant to bring these to Michael earlier, but I lost track of time packing.”
I pick them up, looking from the keys to my cousin, worry pressing down on my shoulders.
Ginelle was the kind of person who, even on her worstday, looked at least a bit polished. So to see her in this state—hair dirty in a nest on top of her head, no makeup, circles under her hazel eyes rivaling my own—is more than a little jarring.
“How is the packing coming along?” I ask, pulling a glass out for her.
“Fine.” She picks at her cuticles, a habit I hadn’t seen her do since she was a teenager. “Never know how much shit you have until you move. You know I’ve been in that apartment for five years?” She shakes her head.
I nod, pouring grenadine. “It really has been a while. Kevin and I helped you move in.”
“That’s right.” She pauses, tracing the woodgrain in the bar top. “You’re like a whole different person now.”
“Thanks?”
“It’s a good thing. I feel like I...Like I’m the same. Like I’ve been the same.”
I set a bright red drink in front of her, plopping three cherries on top.
She huffs a small laugh. “Shirley Temple.”
“Sprite, not ginger,” I add. “And if you want it dirty, just ask.”
“Nah, this is perfect.” She pops a cherry in her mouth.
“Remember when you drank so many of these, you hurled?” I ask.
That brings a real smile to her face. “Oh god! Your dad tried to cut me off, but I begged, and he caved so easily. My puke was an unholy color, and Mom thought I was dying.”