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I pull the ticket from between her freshly manicured nails, then read the order.
Four Corona Lights and four Patrons.
Rolling my eyes, I hold up the paper between my fingers. “You realize I can read, right?” She’s wearing the same crimson lipstick I’ve seen her wear five days a week since my mom and I moved here three months ago.
Without a hiccup in her expression, she continues with her annoyingly condescending tone. “I figured I’d tell you too. You know, just in case.”
Picking up her notepad and shoving it into the back pocket of her Daisy Dukes, she turns to walk away from the counter but, of course, has to add one last snide remark.
“I wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be any excuses if there’s a mistake.” She gives me a patronizing wink before taking off toward a table full of male patrons with a sway in her step.
That girl irks me.
Grabbing four shot glasses, I line them up on the bar top and pour the tequila in each before grabbing the beers and popping off the caps.
You’d think with the way she acts that I’d be notorious at Snide’s Dive Bar for messing up drinks all night, but nope. Macie’s just a bitch. Your typical small-town, lived here my entire life so don’t try to show me up kind of bitch.
I’ve come across several Macies in my life, so I’m used to her bad attitude. It’s annoying but not something I need nor have the energy to combat.
Grabbing a circular serving tray, I load the drinks and bring it over to the side of the bar where servers pick up their orders.
Macie’s still flirting her way through the four-top of preppy-looking guys wearing their pastel-colored polos, khaki chino shorts, and Sperry’s. The go-to attire for this small coastal town in Florida.
I smirk while placing her order ticket on the tray. I’ve never served Corona or tequila shots without lime, but Little MissEfficient didn’t write it on the order ticket, so I guess no lime it is.Two can play petty, bitch.
As Macie makes her way back toward me, my phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I know it’s my mom calling from New York.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and answer it. “Hey, Mom, hold on a sec,” I say while ducking under the bar.
I walk down the hall, making my way to the kitchen when Macie’s shrill of a voice comes from behind me. “Hey! You forgot the lime for these drinks, Luxtyn!”
As I peer over my shoulder, I take in her narrowed gaze and scrunched nose.Poor Macie has to get her own limes. What ever will she do?
“Maybe you should’ve leftexplicitdirections if you didn’t want anymistakesto happen with your order,” I shout back at her with a shrug before pushing the kitchen doors open. “I’m not a mind reader,Mace.”
I giggle to myself because I know how much she hates when I call her that. Which, in my defense, isn’t very often, but she’s pissing me off today, so I might as well poke the bear while I can.
“That’s not my name!” The swoosh of the swinging doors drowns out her shriek.
I roll my eyes as I weave my way through the kitchen, doing my best to stay out of the cooks’ ways as I head toward the back door.
Stepping outside, I breathe in the slight breeze from the ocean. You can practically taste the salt from the sea. I take a seat on the bench and bring my phone back to my ear. “Sorry about that, Mom. I just needed to get somewhere quiet.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Lux. I know you’re working tonight, but I wanted to chat before it gets too late. How’s the bar?” she asks in her normal chipper tone.
“Not too bad. Still early, so it’s not quite busy yet. Did you make it to New York okay?”
There’s a brief pause before she answers. “Yes, I’ve just been relaxing in the hotel room.”
“I’m glad you made it safely. Maybe if you get the opportunity to go back I can come with you. Or hey, maybe that’ll end up being our next home for a few years.” I laugh.
My mom and I have moved around a lot throughout my life, and when I say a lot, I mean like every few years.
I know it seems weird, chaotic even, but when you know nothing else, it’s really just a way of life. I think my body has adjusted to wanting to be in a different place every few years, because sometimes when we get to the latter end of the three-year residency period, I get the itch to just leave. You could say I have quite the nomad’s soul.
When I was younger, I used to question my mom, asking her why she was always moving us around, but she would never give me a solid explanation. Always brushing me off, telling me she was ready for a new adventure. I know my mom well, though, and that was never therealreason.
Something must’ve happened, but I gave up on pushing it a while back. If she’s not telling me, then she has a good reason.
