Chapter 1

1

" I 'm so tired it's not even fucking funny."

Adam breezes over to me and flings himself against the wall next to the bar, his voice flat with that I'm so over this shit tone.

It's a tone I know all too well.

It's two o'clock on a Monday afternoon and I've had a total of one and a half bar guests. The first left me a breath mint as a tip and the second just asked for a water and directions to the bathroom. It hasn't been a total waste of an afternoon, though. In the five hours I've been here, I've had so little to do that I downloaded a new book on my phone and am already halfway through it.

The story isn't unlike the others I've devoured lately. Shameless romantasy—usually involving an obscenely beautiful male, a badass heroine who makes you feel pathetic in comparison, and a battle against evil forces that inevitably results in the main characters saving the world and banging angstily in a run-down inn.

You know, all your favorite tropes .

I toss Adam a polite smile and laugh, grasping at straws for a response. I won't stoop so low as to mention the weather.?

Connecting with others has never been second nature to me. I'm sure people think I'm strange—the girl always more interested in reading than social interaction. It's not that I'm anti-social. I actually don't mind conversing with people—making small talk, the whole nine yards.

I just prefer imaginary worlds to the one I'm living in.

I'm still relatively new to town, and I'm not drowning in friends. Far from it. I had a few growing up, but there was only ever one person besides my dad that I could trust and truly rely on.

Annie.

We met in college, and it felt like we had known each other in another lifetime. She was infectious and passionate. Alive. But then a few years after we graduated, she disappeared. The last time we spoke, she sent me a text saying she was staying in Germany with her hot Belgian fiancé and that she'd be in touch.

That was years ago. I eventually stopped trying.

I come to work and see the servers off in the corner, giggling loudly over inside jokes. I see them flirt with our managers—both parties seeming equally chummy and at ease with one another. That kind of camaraderie can only come from openness and trust and self-assurance—none of which I'd particularly pride myself on these days.

Propping my chin on my hand, I swipe my finger across my phone's screen, eager to get to the next chapter of my book.

Maybe it's because my love life is so devoid of…well, existence that living vicariously through these characters is all I can do to remain hopeful in the face of constant disappointment.

I've done my time on the failed relationship circuit. Being a lifelong hopeless romantic has only skewed my idea of what love looks like into something idealistic and unobtainable. There was the bar manager when I was nineteen. The lawyer when I was twenty-one. The pilot at twenty-three. And a handful of unmentionables in between.

And then there was Jack.

I didn't just think I loved him. I knew I did. Because when it ended, I fled the state. I would have made a fool of myself for that man.

And I couldn't do it.

I don't think I ever stopped loving him. Not really. It's been two years and even after all this time, the thought of kissing someone else makes my stomach churn.

And I know I shouldn't be looking for fulfillment in the form of a man and that I have to love myself first and foremost and wait for when I least expect it. Basically, I need to live my life like it's a fucking Pinterest board of inspirational quotes. But let's face it, happy people who have traveled and lived and found their soulmates aren't chanting "live, laugh, love" over and over to themselves and crying into their dinner.

I want someone to love. I want to be loved.

There was a time after my dad died when I was afraid of what that meant. But my loneliness has since curbed that fear. I was so close to having everything I ever wanted. If I hadn't been so stubborn and scared, I could have actually been happy.

But I was an idiot and let it all slip away.

I just want a good story to tell in the end. I want to get to the last chapter of my book so that I can have that "aha" moment. The moment when it all clicks into place. When I realize what I, as the narrator, have been too blind to see from the first page. Maybe I realize that what I wanted was always right in front of me. Maybe I find that place where I truly belong. Maybe I fall in love with the mailman or the guy who comes to fix my apartment appliances when they break .

I don't fucking know.

So here I am. New home. New job. New job that I hate , but new job all the same.

When I left New York two years ago, I slowly made my way down to Florida, stopping in sleepy towns and staying a few months at a time as my savings dwindled. I couldn't bring myself to care. About anything .

Grief had me twelve shades of fucked up. It was as if everything I once cared about suddenly faded into grayscale, the vitality drained, leaving only the bones of my old life behind. I was blindly stumbling around, searching for color in cheap motels and dirty dive bars—searching desperately for the girl I was before losing the person I loved most in this world.

I ended up in Jacksonville this past August, right around the time The Black Rose opened and they hired me on the spot. It's a far cry from the dream job I fumbled at one of the top women's magazines in the country, but beggars can't be choosers. I was told I'd make good money as a bartender here, although I've yet to see it reflected in my bank account. I have a couple of regulars. Most of them misogynistic middle-aged men who I secretly hate.

"Did my ticket come through?" Adam's voice snaps me out of my haze.

I hadn't even noticed it printing. I rip it free and get to work on an espresso martini before sliding it across the bar to him.

"Here you go."

"Thanks, girl." He drops a few coffee beans in the drink and saunters off to a two-top by the French doors.

The January day is nice enough to have the patio doors open, the breeze cutting the scorching heat. He sets the martini down in front of two handsome men in expensive-looking suits.

I wonder what their story is. Are they brothers? Are they lovers? What do they do for work? Are they here on vacation? Are they perhaps Secret Service on their lunch break?

I have to stop.

Everything I see serves as grounds for creative material—millions of great ideas collected in a Word document saved on my computer. The problem is, I can't seem to do anything with them. I read and read, and then I try to write because what else can you do with an overactive imagination and a tanked career in journalism?

Of course, it's not easy to write anything substantial when you feel like your life is in the gutter.

"Whatcha reading?" Zoe sneaks up on me, whisper-shouting in my ear. I gasp loudly, nearly jumping out of my skin as I shoot her a sharp look.

"Jesus," I breathe, my heart rate slowly recovering. She claps a hand over her chest and laughs.

"So jumpy today." Leaning over the bar, she quirks an eyebrow at my phone. "Are you reading smut? At work?! Serena !"

I roll my eyes but allow a small smile. Zoe's got one of those endearing, absurd, always saying-something-crazy types of personalities I've always envied. She says the first thing that comes to her mind and can make conversation with a brick wall. Sometimes I'm stunned by how much she reminds me of Annie.

"Not smut," I clarify, "but is it even a finished book if there's no steam?"

She offers another loud laugh that sounds like wind chimes. "I've never seen anyone read so much."

"What else is there to do while I'm bar-sitting?" I say, shrugging my shoulders.

"Do you see those guys over there?" She leans in, lowering her voice and discreetly pointing over my shoulder. "Freaking gorgeous . I think that one is an influencer."

I follow her gaze toward the dark-haired man at Adam's table and study his profile. From where I stand, I can tell he's stunning. Black hair that spills over his forehead with model-like cheekbones and eyes a remarkable shade of sea blue. He lazes in his seat as he says something to his handsome friend with the mushroom brown hair and blue-gray eyes.

"What would an influencer be doing in here?" I scoff, leaning my elbow against the service bar. My eyes inadvertently lock with his and I quickly avert my gaze, turning back to Zoe as she sifts through a stack of crinkled cash.

"Fourteen dollars today. And I spent forty on happy hour last night, so that's how my week is starting off!" Stuffing the wad of cash into her apron, she gives me a sardonic look and is off to charm one of our managers with a bounce in her step.

I cast a glance around the nearly empty restaurant, heave a sigh, and turn back to my book.

? Cue: Scott Street by Phoebe Bridgers