I’ve almost worked up the courage to go over and face them, under the guise of finally getting a break, when I dart a quick glance over to their table. Gemma has disappeared. A quick scan of the bar shows me she’s chatting up one of our regulars. One of the regulars who’s not a total tool, so I’ll allow it. Nick and Harley are sitting suspiciously close together. I try to peek under the table, but I can’t get a clear view. But if I were a betting woman, I’d put money on their hands being intertwined beneath the sticky marble top.

All those revelations aside, my attention snags on Jack. Still looking like the after version from some nineties teen-makeover movie. And he’s sitting next to some girl, his head bent low so she can whisper in his ear.

I want to lie and say it has no effect on me, because clearly, no matter how great the glow-up, Jack and I will never be a thing. But I do feel a little burst of a stabbing pain, right in the chest, as I watch him bust up laughing at something the girl says.

And yeah. I’m definitely not here for that.

He never laughs with me like that.

So I turn away from their table once again, focusing all my energy on wiping down some already spotless glasses.

Gemma and her new friend leave first, Gem blowing me kisses and giving me the Call me tomorrow hand signal.

Once she’s safely vacated the building, Nick and Harley head out soon after, not fooling anyone with the tiny sliver of space they keep between them as they walk out the front door.

I side-eye Jack’s table and definitely do not breathe a sigh of relief when I find him sitting there alone.

I pour him a beer and finally head over. The rest of the bar is mostly empty, everything winding down for the night. My coworkers are in cleanup mode, and everyone’s anxious to get out of here as soon as we can.

Setting the glass down on a fresh coaster, I stack up the empties still sitting on the table. “What happened to your friend?”

He furrows his brow. “Everyone left. Didn’t they say goodbye?”

I pull a rag from my apron and wipe down the marble high-top. “Not them. Your friend.” I wiggle my eyebrows a little so he gets the hint.

“Oh.” He shrugs and takes a long pull from his beer. “I’m not sure actually.”

“Oh.” I keep wiping, even though the table is now spotless and stickiness-free. “I like your new look.”

He glances down at himself, and when he raises his eyes again, his cheeks are flushed. “It’s an old look, actually. Believe it or not, I haven’t spent my entire adult life dressing like a hormonal teenager.”