Chapter One
Cypress
“Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim.”
I run writer and filmmaker Nora Ephron’s words of wisdom through my head like a mantra, and I clutch them like a drowning woman as I set down a pitcher of beer in the middle of a table surrounded by several more-than-halfway-to-tore-up frat boys.
There was a time I used my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in accounting to monitor business accounts and analyze markets for expansion and acquisition opportunities. Now I’m using them to count tips and the number of times I’ve been propositioned and groped in one night.
Fuck. My. Life.
Having my ass squeezed or my breasts ogled is part of the job description in The Rabbit Hole, the dive bar in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village where I now work. The irony of it all—after being blackballed from my former, high-five-figure-salary job for blowing the whistle on systematic sexual harassment—is not lost on me.
“Me and my boys are having a party at the frat house next week. You should come by. Pi Nu knows how to party,” Frat Boy #1 invites me with a drunken leer that I’m sure he believes makes all the girls drop their panties. Unfortunately for him, I’m not some naive college girl, and I’ve never been that damn desperate in all my twenty-six years. “We could use a girl with your—” The leer deepens, passing annoying and steaming full-speed ahead toyuck. “Assets.”
Since he’s staring at my tits and reaching for my ass, it doesn’t take my two degrees to decipher his meaning of “assets.” What the hell? Not only is he a douche, but not even an original douche. Do they offer classes in Asshole 101 at his university? And this is a perfect example of a future asshole that will probably one day run a company like the one I quit. Making it hard for women everywhere to come to work, do their jobs, and not be harassed.
You need this job. You can’t pour beer over the customers’ heads.You need this job.
I silently repeat the reminder over and over as my lips stretch into a smile that feels so brittle, it should crack right down the middle. I manage to evade his hand, but not quickly enough that his blunt fingertips don’t glance over the upper curve. Nausea churns in my stomach, and the anger inside me threatens to spill over until I raze him, his buddies, and the city block The Rabbit Hole sits on to the ground.
That now-familiar sense of helplessness and powerlessness swirls inside me, damn near swamping me. I hate that it’s familiar. I hate that I’m giving someone the control to make me feel this way. Again.
I hate that I don’t know how to stop.
“Thanks for the invite,” I grind out, turning and heading for the bar. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“You do that,” he says as I turn away. “Look at the ass on her,” he groans.
I could give him the benefit of the doubt and believe that he assumed I was out of earshot. But I stopped being that naive around fifth grade when I discovered why Bobby Russo constantly asked Sister Mary Catherine to sing the “Pussywillow Song,” then snickered with his friends in the back of the classroom.
As I scan my tables to see if they need more alcohol, food, or clearing, my cell buzzes in my back pocket. Though Ben, my manager, frowns on the servers being on their phones while on shift, I slip it free and turn toward the bar to conceal my wrongdoing. It could be Mom. With her, it could be anything from having a “bad day” to something regarding her heart attack and surgery three months earlier. After that terrifying voicemail informing me my mother had collapsed in the middle school cafeteria where she’s worked as long as I can remember, I can’t ignore a call. Especially now that her doctor wants her to have another surgery, I’m too scared to not answer.
Cradling the phone between my hip and the bar, I glance down at the screen and glimpse the notification. The niggling worry evaporates as relief slides in, quickly followed by irritation. And resignation.
Dad.
Probably another invitation to Sunday dinner at his house. With his wife.
The woman who replaced my mother in his life all those years ago.
With a family who replaced me.
One of my customers waves a hand in my direction, and gratefulness sweeps through me like a cool, brisk breeze. Good. Any distraction that keeps me from tripping down that too-travelled, pitted road is welcome. Nothing but regrets, pain, and pointless what-if’s litter that path, and I’m too damn tired of stumbling over them.
Minutes later, with an order for drinks and food delivered, I smother a sigh and head in the direction of the back booth in my section. Twenty minutes until my break. And three and a half more hours before I can escape this place and hide in my apartment until Saturday night, since I have a rare Friday off. Hell, my roommate might be kicking me out in a week to move her boyfriend back in—the“asshat, cheating bastard who could go suck a dick”boyfriend who she would supposedly never forgive—but that’s a week from now. For tomorrow, at least, I have a place to sleep.
Forcing my lips into a smile that I hope is more “Welcome, I’m delighted to serve you,” than “Oh my God, why are you here?” I approach the curved booth with its lone occupant, flipping to a clean sheet in my order pad.
“Hi, welcome to The Rabbit Hole. My name is Ro.” I lift my head. “What can I…start…you…?”
The usual spiel dries up on my tongue like all the moisture in my mouth. My eyes widen—I can freakingfeelthem grow round—and I try to swallow past a throat as tight as Kris Jenner’s face after a Botox session. The thud of my heart echoes in my head like thunder across a threatening, dark sky, and prickles of heat sting my face, throat, and chest.
Holy shit.
He’s…beautiful.
Angel-appearing-to-shepherds-with-tidings-of-joy beautiful.
