Letters to Matt by Tara Lin Mossinghoff Page B

dad passed away last spring. He’s extremely fit for his age. I think he could have been a cop or gone into the military if he hadn’t had to take over the bar. And he had a great head of shaggy, brown hair. He was easy on the eyes, too. The divorced house wives that came in loved him, and the younger women had some sort of Daddy fantasy about him. “Susie feels terrible. Her little boy got sick this morning and he’s been throwing up all day. She says she owes you big time,” he continues to talk as he slides the drink, looks like a Screaming Orgasm based off what I watched him put in it, to a pretty middle-aged woman sitting at the bar. “Enjoy,” he tells her, handing back change from his apron. She drops two dollar bills on the bar and winks at him. No doubt she ordered that particular drink on purpose. He smiles and thanks her as he shoves the bills in a different compartment of his apron.
    He walks over to the register and starts ringing up her drink, dropping the money in it. “I’m thinking about stopping by and taking the little tyke some chicken noodle soup.” There are three of us that work at the bar besides Marty. Me, Susie, and our cook, Sandy, works in the kitchen seven nights a week. Marty is always offering to find someone part time, but Sandy doesn’t mind. He’s a sixty-year-old retiree whose wife left him a few years back. His children are grown. He claims it gives him something to do with himself.
    Marty is more than our boss. He treats us all like family. We, along with this bar, are all he has. It surprises me how someone so good-looking and charming never settled down. He always tells me that he’s married to the bar when I ask about it. He truly is, and his employees are his children, even Sandy. Marty’s always bringing in books he thinks Sandy will enjoy. And he’s constantly checking up on Susie and me, and our kids.
    “It’s no problem,” I tell him as I walk around and clock in while tying an apron around my waist. “I just hope Carlos starts feeling better.”
    A worried look crosses Marty’s face. “Me too.” Before I can respond, he’s speaking again. “I just have some inventory to do and then I’m out of here,” he tells me. I acknowledge him with a nod as he walks to the backroom.
    A guy with a single gold earring and a polo shirt whistles at me from down at the end of the bar. I roll my eyes. First off, I’m not a dog. Second off, the bar isn’t even crowded and he easily could have come to stand by the register to get his drink. I plaster on a smile and walk toward him.
    An hour later, Sandy walks in. He’s got a book clutched in his hand that Marty brought him earlier this week. He will sit and read it in between orders. I say my hello. Sandy is a sweet old man, but he doesn’t talk much. He goes back to his post and starts getting everything set up. Everything is all ready to go, because Marty has been manning the grills all day, but Sandy likes things a certain way.
     

     
     
    The night goes by quickly. I’d call it successful. No one hit on me. No one threw up on the floor. And there were no fights. It was a nice, quiet night filled with regulars. Sandy stands beside me as I lock up the doors. It’s one thirty in the morning, one of the downsides of working the night shift at a bar.
    “Have a good night, Miss Jaden.” It’s the most he has said to me all night. We have learned to work in a comfortable silence with each other.
    “You, too, Sandy. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
    He heads toward his car. I know he sits in it and watches me until I’m safely in my car and pulling out of the gravel parking lot before turning on his own car and heading home. Sandy doesn’t talk much, but it’s small gestures like that that lets me know he cares. I don’t know exactly what he would plan on doing if I were attacked, but I appreciate the thought.
    The roads are barren as I drive home. I’m quiet as I unlock the door and step inside. The sight that greets