Shirley
The next morning at the bar, the clinking of glasses and low hum of conversation did nothing to distract me from the gnawing feeling in my chest. Tessie’s smirk from last night replayed in my head, like a film reel I couldn’t stop. Cousin. She had said it like a weapon, a knife wrapped in silk, and though I hadn’t flinched in front of her, the truth had carved itself deep into me.
I kept wiping the same spot on the counter, over and over, lost in my thoughts until Zara nudged me.
“You’re gonna strip the wood off if you keep scrubbing like that,” she muttered, sliding a tray of empty bottles toward me.
I blinked, forcing a smile. “Sorry. Just tired.”
Her eyes narrowed—she knew I was lying. But Zara had learned that pressing me too hard only made me shut down. Instead, she sighe
