“So?” I ask, hopeful that this won’t be the last time she helps me. “You busy next month?”
She’s already smiling, but my job offer makes her smile even bigger. She shakes her head and looks up at me. “I’m never busy when it comes to a hundred dollars an hour.”
She’s counting the money, separating the bills into piles. She takes two of the one-hundred-dollar bills and holds them up, smiling. “These are mine.” She folds them and tucks them into the front pocket of her (or Palindrome Hannah’s) shirt.
My high from the night begins to fade the moment I realize she’s finished, and I don’t know how to prolong the time between us. I’m not ready for her to leave yet, but she’s tucking the cash away in a drawer and stacking the orders into a pile on the counter.
“It’s after nine,” I say. “You’re probably starving.”
I use this as an opening to see if she wants something to eat, but her eyes immediately grow wide and her smile disappears. “It’s already after nine?” Her voice is full of panic and she quickly turns and sprints for the stairs. She takes them two at a time; I had no idea she was capable of displaying so much urgency.
I expect her to come rushing back down the stairs with the same haste, but she doesn’t, so I make my way toward the stairs. When I reach the top step, I can hear her voice.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I know, I know.”
She’s quiet for several seconds, and then she sighs. “Okay. That’s okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
When the call comes to an end, I walk up the stairs, curious what kind of phone call could cause someone to feel so much panic. I see her, sitting quietly at the bar, staring at the phone in her hands. I watch her wipe away the second tear tonight, and I immediately dislike whoever was on the other end of that call. I don’t like the person who made her feel this way, when just a few minutes ago she couldn’t stop smiling.
She lays her phone facedown on the bar when she notices me standing at the top of the stairs. She isn’t sure if I saw that tear just now—I did—so she forces a smile. “Sorry about that,” she says.
She’s really good at hiding her true emotions. So good, it’s scary.
“It’s okay,” I say.
She stands up and glances toward the bathroom. She’s about to suggest that it’s time to change her clothes and go home. I’m scared if she does that, I’ll never see her again.
We have the same middle name. That could be fate, you know.
“I have a tradition,” I tell her. I’m lying, but she seems like the type of girl who wouldn’t want to break a guy’s tradition. “My best friend is the bartender across the street. I always go have a drink with him after my showings are over. I want you to come with me.”
She glances at the bathroom once more. Based on her hesitation, I can only conclude that either she doesn’t frequent bars or she’s just not sure if she wants to go to one with me.
“They also serve food,” I say, attempting to downplay the fact that I just asked her to a bar for a drink. “Appetizers mostly, but they’re pretty good and I’m starving.”
She must be hungry because her eyes light up when I mention appetizers. “Do they have cheese sticks?” she asks.
I’m not sure if they have cheese sticks, but I’ll say anything at this point just to spend a few more minutes with her. “The best in town.”
Again, her expression is hesitant. She glances down at the phone in her hands and then looks back up at me. “I . . .” She bites her bottom lip, embarrassed. “I should probably call my roommate first. Just to let her know where I am. I’m usually home by now.”
“Of course.”
She looks down at her phone and dials a number. She waits for the other person to pick up.
“Hey,” she says into the phone. “It’s me.” She smiles at me reassuringly. “I’ll be late tonight, I’m having drinks with someone.” She pauses for a second and then looks up at me with a twisted expression. “Um . . . yeah, I guess. He’s right here.”
She holds the phone out toward me. “She wants to talk to you.”
I step toward her and take the phone.
“Hello?”
“What’s your name?” a girl on the other end of the line says.
“Owen Gentry.”
“Where are you taking my roommate?”
She’s grilling me in a monotone, authoritative voice. “To Harrison’s Bar.”
“What time will she be home?”
“I don’t know. A couple of hours from now, maybe?” I look to Auburn for confirmation, but she just shrugs her shoulders.
“Take care of her,” she says. “I’m giving her a secret phrase to use if she needs to call me for help. And if she doesn’t call me at midnight to let me know she’s home safe, I’m calling the police and reporting her murder.”
“Um . . . okay,” I say with a laugh.
“Let me talk to Auburn again,” she says.
I hand the phone back to Auburn, a little more nervous than before. I can tell by the confused expression on her face that she’s hearing about the secret-phrase rule for the first time. I’m guessing either she and this roommate haven’t been living together for very long, or Auburn never goes out.
“What?!” Auburn says into the phone. “What kind of secret phrase is ‘pencil dick’?”
She slaps her hand over her mouth and says, “Sorry,” after accidentally blurting it out. She’s quiet for a bit and then her face contorts into confusion. “Seriously? Why can’t you choose normal words, like raisin or rainbow?” She shakes her head with a quiet laugh. “Okay. I’ll call you at midnight.”