Camila
Running a bar and grill can be a challenging experience, especially when you have customers who don’t know when to stop drinking. Unfortunately, some of these customers end up causing trouble, breaking glassware, and even starting fights. It’s not a fun situation to be in, but as the owner of a small-town establishment, I have to deal with it.I didn’t grow up here. I came to Spring Valley looking for a fresh start when I was 25 when I left the city life behind and decided to take things slow. I didn’t have any family left, and I needed to fend for myself. It wasn’t easy at first, especially since some people in town weren’t exactly welcoming. I think some folks just don’t like change, but over time, I’ve come to feel like part of the community. After almost ten years here, I can honestly say that most of the people in this town feel like family to me. While going about my duties of wiping down some tables at the bar, I was taken aback when the door opened and in walked a few members of the local motorcycle club. Among them, Mr. Tatum, who was fondly referred to as Risk by his biker brothers, instantly drew my attention. Risk was one of the first people I met when I moved to this town, and he was always eager to help me get settled in. He introduced me to his friends who eventually told me about the apartment above the bar that was available for rent. He even went as far as securing me this job. However, whenever I see him, my heart races with excitement. I have had feelings for him for quite some time now, but he’s made it clear that he wouldn’t be able to provide me with the kind of love and commitment that I truly deserve. As I catch his gaze, he flashes a wide grin, causing my heart to skip a beat. However, my joy is short-lived as a woman suddenly emerges from behind him, latching onto his arm. My heart sinks to my stomach as I struggle to understand who she is. “Hey doll, how are you doing today?” he asks me in his deep, rugged voice, using the affectionate nickname he’s given me. But my mind is preoccupied with trying to figure out the identity of the woman by his side, leaving me unable to respond to him. I felt a surge of frustration as I watched the woman cling tightly to his arm. However, I recognized that I had no control over the situation. In order to avoid any further discomfort, I chose to leave the area rather than stand there and stare at the woman holding onto a man who was not mine to control.I hastily make my way out of the bar through the back door, desperate to regain control over my emotions before appearing as an irrational and jealous ex-girlfriend. I understand fully that I have no right to be as upset as I am, and I want to avoid directing my anger towards him. Taking a deep breath, I lift my gaze towards the sky, focusing my efforts on regaining emotional stability. “Care to explain what just happened?” I hear a voice call from behind me, as I scramble to come up with an excuse for my behavior. I simply reply, “Just having a rough day, feeling suffocated. I just need a minute. So, how are you? Who’s your friend?” Trying my best to sound composed, but the expression on his face tells me that he’s not buying it. “You know you can talk to me, right? I’m here for you, you know that,” he insists. “Right now, I really need you to not be the nice guy,” I respond, my sad expression reflecting my internal turmoil. However, I hesitate, not wanting to be unkind to him, knowing that he is not the cause for my overreactive emotions. In a soft voice, he reassures me, “I’ve only ever been nice to you. I don’t know how to be any different when it comes to you.” Is this because of her? He says. Because if it is, I cut him off before he can finish his statement. Please, don’t explain. You don’t have to say anything about it. I don’t need to know. It’s none of my business. I have no rights to you. We are just friends. I really am just having a bad day. I didn’t get much sleep, and the days are starting to blend into each other. I needed some air. I look at him, hoping that this time he buys what I am saying so we can drop the subject, and he can go back to whatever he was planning on doing. As I make my way back to the bar, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder. I reassure him that everything’s cool and suggest we head back inside. But he’s got his head down, looking all bothered. So, I walk back over to him and say, “Hey, maybe it’s you who needs to spill the beans. What’s eating at you?” He slowly lifts his gaze and spills, “I gotta go on a run. Things ain’t looking good for the town or the club, but I swear I’ll fix it.” Then, he steps closer, cups my face with both hands, and kisses my forehead. “We’ll chat later,” he says, before striding off, leaving me totally puzzled and even more curious about this mysterious woman and what the heck is going on.
