Page 28 of Hate You More

Now, what the hell kind of name is Gretch?

“A good thing or unfortunate?”

“I ask myself that every night. Before I forget, Fran and the kids sent you these.” He pulls out a bag of gummy bears from his pocket.

“Ah, sweet!” She snatches them up. “Tell them I said thanks.”

“Get yourself a drink while you’re at it,” he mutters, still disgruntled.

“You’re a doll.” She gives a two-finger salute like she was meant for this.

So maybe I’m wrong and I’m right, because this might be her job, but it’s also a performance. She tends bar just fine, but the armor, the tough exterior, that’s not her.

A stool frees up at the end of the bar, so I make my way over to it. My stomach is a hard knot as my fingers drum the bar top as I wait for my turn. She looks up. Tenses. Swallows visibly. Then squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. Throwing a towel over her shoulder, she moseys over.

“And here I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

Now that was performative and not the Clara I know. I used to know.

“I’ll take a Peroni.”

“And I’ll take a show of manners.”

“Please.” I bite back my amusement. Judging by the regulars’ looks, there might be a universal attraction in taking shit from Gretch.

With the flick of one brow, she reaches for a glass, ignoring the fridge. She pours me a draft.

My mouth twitches as she sets it down. “Recommendation from the bartender?”

“That would be for you to drink somewhere else lest you get a nasty case of indigestion.”

The guy on the stool next to me gives a snort and a muttered taunt of “Oh, shit” under his breath.

“Shut it, Phil,” she snaps without even looking his way. “That’ll be eight dollars.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“You don’t have a tab.”

“I’d like to start one.”

She practically snatches the black Amex out of my hand. It’s not like I expected her to be impressed. A minute later, she flips it back my way without even a glance.

Phil, a heavyset fortysomething, leans in as she turns. “Lest,” he says, his tone the kind that speaks of fascination. “Our Gretch, she has a way with words.”

“That right?”

“A way with words and a backstory.”

“And that’s her name?” Fucking Gretch?

He taps his index finger twice against his nose before turning back to his beer. And that’s the limit of my conversation for the rest of the night. When my glass is empty, someone else fills it as Clara keeps to the other end of the bar. I guess she thinks it’s no more than I deserve after my parting shot.

I can’t say Sunny makes much sense to me, not in the past or now, but Gretch I watch. She’s a take-no-prisoners kind of gal. But finally, the crowd begins to thin. Phil staggers off with a backward wave, and the other bartender goes for her break. It’s not exactly privacy, but I’ll take it.

“How long have you worked here?” I catch her as she clears glasses near where I sit.

“I don’t share my life with customers.”