Page 5 of The Quit List
I’ve often wondered what her deal is. Why she always orders a bottle of Chilean red while she sits through dates she clearly doesn’t want to be on, her foot tapping under the table (same table, every time) like she’s mentally counting down the minutes until she can leave.
I know the feeling well. Usually because I’m counting down the minutes before I can leave the bar, too.
“Jax? All good over there?”
I give my head a quick shake and turn away from the window to resume my pacing. “Yup. Sorry, Morris. Just thinking about… my upcoming booming social media presence.”
My mentor tuts good-naturedly. “You’ll get there.”
“Or, more likely, I can hire someone to get there for me,” I mutter.
With what cash, I don’t know. But I’m sure I can make something work. Maybe ask my little sister, who’s somewhat of a TikTok star—whatever that means—to give me some tips.
“You’ll need to think about the bigger picture too, Jax. How to sell this thing so people want to come to you. In fact, I’d suggest taking some friends or family on practice trips. Especially beginners who need a lot of guidance. The more experience you have—and the more natural and confident you appear as a guide—the more likely people are to book with you.”
I’m nodding. Doing a whole lot of nodding and head bobbing.
But I have to admit, I’m overwhelmed. Probably in over my head.
It’s not like I’m an outgoing people person with an active presence on social media. When it comes down to it, I’m content being alone. With my own thoughts and company.
Guiding is the best way I can think of to make money doing what I love, being where I love. Failing is not an option. I’ve sunk all of my savings into this cabin, and it’s going to be my stepping stone to the life I’ve worked towards for a long time now.
I’m about to answer Morris—a joke to the effect of taking some of my more unwilling friends and family (AKA my sister Maddie) to the middle of nowhere and leaving them there to fend for themselves like they’re on Survivor— when the door to the bar flies open, and a blond man stalks onto the street, his face red as a beetroot.
I recognize him as the concerned brunette’s date for the evening. And right now, he looks angry, his fists clenching.
What the hell?
I’m pretty good at reading people—serves me well as a bartender, let me tell you—and this guy strikes me as a man with some serious ‘roid rage.
I immediately look into the bar, but there’s no big commotion, no drama. So at least the guy wasn’t getting himself into a fight.
My break is definitely coming to an end, so Morris and I say our goodbyes—with a promise from me to look into this whole website and booking system and social media fandango—and I cast one last glance at the angry guy on the street as I walk back into the bar.
He’s standing on the sidewalk, clenching and unclenching his fists in clear agitation. But he’s turned towards the street, probably waiting for his Uber or something. He doesn’t seem to have any interest in coming back to Full Moon. Which means that he’s not my problem.
As I make my way back behind the bar, I look over at the brunette to make sure she’s okay, that the guy didn’t take any of his anger out on her.
I’m not sure what I expected to see, but I’m surprised to see her smiling as she texts someone.
Another date, perhaps?
Yeah, I might be good at reading people, but I have to say that the concerned brunette with her parade of different men each week throws me for a bit of a loop. Which means that, on the bright side, tonight’s shift is slightly less mundane than other nights.
I slip back behind the bar and nod at Dante, my fellow bartender. “Thanks for letting me take five. Everything good here on the floor?”
“All g, my man.”
Guess I must have misread the situation outside, then. Maybe the guy was just red-faced from stepping out of the heat and into the cold, or something.
But again, not my problem.
With a shrug, I grab the next order and get back to work.
And that’s when the front door swings open, and ‘Roid Rage himself marches back inside.
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