Page 5 of Glass

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Every surface is covered in wood or metal, the quintessential small town dive bar. There’s a hint of cigarette smoke in the air, not like people are smoking inside but as if it’s wafted in with someone. No one seems to notice me as I stroll in.

Val brought me here for lunch when I first arrived, trying to feel me out before she offered me the rental cabin on her land. I’m not sure what draws me here now—I’m not exactly the bar-hopping type, considering I’m underage.

Maybe tonight I want to feel like someone else.

I make my way to the bar where a lone bartender is tending bar with a practiced hand. Behind her, a window in the wall opens up to the kitchen and a flurry of activity between two cooks. This is exactly the kind of distraction I need tonight. The bartender hands two guys at the end of the bar pints of beer as I slide onto an empty stool toward the middle of the bar, leaving empty seats on either side of me.

She glances down the bar and greets me with a head nod. I take her in as she ambles toward me, coiffed brunette curls bouncing on top of her head in a high tease. When she reaches me, she smiles at me through bright purple lipstick.

“What are you thinking?”

I put my elbow on the bar so I can rest my chin on my hand. “Would you judge me if I asked for a Shirley Temple?”

“Are you kidding?” She leans across the bar and lowers her voice so that we’re sharing a moment. “I wouldloveto pour anything that isn’t beer and cheap whiskey. Some nights I’m not sure why we even bother with a fully stocked bar.”

Her enthusiasm is catching, and I can feel my lips pulling to return her toothy smile. Plus, she doesn’t seem inclined to card me for being in the bar, and I’m insanely grateful for that.

“Be right back, doll.” She slaps the bar before pulling away with a wink. I love her energy, and my eyes stay on her while she works. She dances to an upbeat rock song that I don’t recognize, looking like she’s enjoying herself despite being at work. Have I ever had that much enthusiasm for anything besides looking for my missing siblings?

The longer I watch her, the more I question myself. Do I have a personality outside of ping-ponging between being uptight and overly agreeable? I’ve spent half my life trying not to upset anyone for fear that my status at the youngest Glass would make me too easy to cast out of the family if I bothered anyone too much. I felt expendable.

And the other half of my life has been spent searching for the true youngest in the family—in spite of everyone’s doubts that I’m set on an impossible task. I know I’ve grown uptight as I’ve looked for them, too afraid of being wrong to let even the smallest details be overlooked.

If this is it… If this is really the end of the line for my search… What am I supposed to do next? Who am I supposed tobe?

Nausea swirls suddenly in my stomach. I swivel on my stool to face away from the bar top and force my attention to a drunken game of darts taking place a few feet from where I’m sitting.

I can almost always recognize shifters on sight. There are signs if you know what you’re looking for–a particular looking sharp gleam in the eyes or the slightly sinewy way their muscles move, both inherited from a shifter’s wolf side. The bar seems to be a pretty even split; it makes sense because Val told me there was a high shifter population around here. The cover of trees makes for a nice place to settle down.

When I lived in Chicago, we often struggled to find nearby areas to shift that weren’t densely populated with hikers. This place, with its cover of trees, feels like a haven in comparison.

“Do you want to start a tab?” the bartender asks from behind me. I glance over my shoulder at her as she sets my fizzy red drink on the bar top next to my elbow.

“Sure.” I’m in no rush.

I swivel on the stool and take a few sips of my drink. The bartender wanders away, stopping at an ancient relic of a computer for a moment before she moves on to refill beers for a pair of guys that walk up to the bar.

I gulp one bigger swallow of the sweet drink before letting my attention roam again. The men playing darts are arguing now about one of them allegedly cheating.

There’s a jukebox directly in front of me playing music across the speakers littering the walls of the bar. The line to pick songs has been constant since I walked in; I guess choosing the music is a big deal around here.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to bask in the sounds of people enjoying themselves without the visual reminder that I’m not actually among them. I don’t know what it is tonight, but I feel distinctly out of place. More so than I’ve ever felt in my life. No one here does anything to make me feel that way; it’s all me.

I start to feel surprisingly relaxed–my muscles loosening and stomach settling–by the chaotic sounds around me. But when something shatters loudly a little too close for comfort, my eyes fly open, and I instantly size up the mess in front of me. Behind me, the bartender groans. “I’ll get the broom,” she huffs out haughtily.

Plates lie shattered in big chunks on the black and white tile floor. The culprit stares down guiltily at his mess. It isn’t until he looks up and inadvertently makes eye contact with me that I truly take him in.

He wears a bad black wig with a big poof over his head, but that’s not even the most shocking part of his get-up. His white bedazzled jumpsuit hangs open almost to his belly-button, a sheer red material lining the opening and accentuating his dark spattering of chest hair. And the look is complete with gaudy gold chains hanging down from around his neck.

I spend long enough trying to sort out what I’m seeing that the man mistakenly thinks I’ve taken an interest in his costume. He pats the gaudy jewelry hanging between the open buttons of his shirt. “It’s genuine costume jewelry!” he shouts to me, drawing eyes from across the bar.

I bite back an amused smile. I guess no one ever explained to him that costume jewelry is cheap and not exactly something worth bragging about.

“Could you–just once–come in here without breaking anything?” The bartender shakes her head at the man dressed in an Elvis costume as she moves to him with a broom and dustpan. A thin, exasperated smile plays on her lips as she bends and quickly scoops the mess up, as if she’s done this a hundred times before. Based on her words, I guess she has.

I feel like I’m watching a bizarre comedy special as the man shrugs like, “Eh, couldn’t be helped.” I’m not sure why he had plates in the middle of the floor anyway. The tables are on the other side of the bar.