It's officially the second-worst day of my life.

The first was when I found a red lacy thong underneath my fiance's passenger seat, which I knew didn't belong to me from the pricey logo sewn into the band. After an ugly confrontation, a bit of gaslighting on his side, and a thrown hairdryer, I knew my two-month-long engagement to Blake Andrews was over, making it the worst day of my life.

Now, on the second worst day, I am attempting to pump myself up and hold my head high as I walk back into the bar I swore I would never come back to. Well, never come back to work at anyway, I'd still come to visit my good friend Maggie who manages the place.

It was only two months ago, (sixty-eight days but who's counting?) that I stood in this very parking lot and yelled at Jack Dalton that hell would freeze over before I stepped foot behind a bar again. And judging from the ninety-six degrees it reads on my car's thermometer, hell is Phoenix, Arizona and it has not in fact, frozen over.

I look to my right and spot Jack's stupid black Jeep Rubicon with the top off already parked across the lot, away from the dumpsters. At least he was smart enough to remember to park it far away from the reeking trash. I'll never forget how bad his car smelled when he dropped me home after work one night, having left his Jeep next to the rotting garbage for seven hours on that one-hundred and twenty-degree day. I squint my eyes at a flash of light that beams off his visor and wonder if he still has that stupid cat pin I stuck up there. I'm surprised he didn't chuck every memento of our friendship into that very dumpster after I peeled out of here for the last time. Or what I thought was the last time.

I glance to the dash and see that I'm about to be late. I don't want to go in there. I hate confrontation and tension and I haven't spoken to Jack since I left two months ago. I don't even know if he knows I am starting back up at Mag's today. I have no idea what Maggie has told him and I am devastated having to be dressed back up in bar clothes to go sling drinks for tips. I acted like I was such a bougie bitch the last time I was here. Waving my 2-carat engagement ring around and bragging that Blake's apartment in New York is blocks away from Times Square. I've now been humbled and humiliated.

My stomach squeezes knowing that stupid Jack is already inside, probably slicing lemon and lime wedges or changing out a keg. Prep work I used to hate doing. I had casually asked Maggie if all the crew still worked there when I first called asking for my old job back, hoping that Jack had found another job while I was gone. When she informed me he was still working the back bar and desperately needed my help for the upcoming busy season, I frowned but took the job.

Jack, just his name gives me an angry hot flash. What makes me the angriest, is that he was right. I did make a huge mistake by leaving for New York with a man I had doubts about. I just wanted a certain life so badly that I was blind to every red flag flowing in the breeze in front of me. Jack was the only one to question my motives and I hated him for it. He hated Blake and told me as much the night before I left with him to Manhattan. It was phenomenal timing on his part and now he knows he was right. I hate it.

I dart my eyes to the visor mirror and quickly plump my lashes up with mascara. I'm trying to care about my appearance but I just can't muster up the energy. This time last week, I was flipping through Bride magazine while getting my roots done, completely unaware that it would be my last week living the high-life. I run my fingers through my freshly chopped hair and it still feels weird to have it fall through my fingers at my shoulder instead of at my waistline. I had hoped a shorter cut would make me feel like I was more grown-up and chic, but instead, I'm frustrated that I can barely get it into a ponytail. I look over my appearance in the tiny mirror (which is the most unforgiving mirror in existence) and release a dramatic sigh. It doesn't matter how good I look when my ego is flat on the floor and my tail tucked between my legs. Jack is going to look smug. I can already see his signature smirk taking over his face, wanting to say, "I told you so."

I kick my door open and adjust my black jean shorts and Budweiser tee before crossing the parking lot. I'm glad to be working at a dingy college bar where appearance really doesn't matter. Before Mag's, I used to work at a bougie bar in Scottsdale where they cared about everything from my nail polish to my shoelaces. At Mag's, any old outfit will do. The sluttier the better. However, since I am president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, I hardly wear anything that would bring those kinds of tips in.

Maggie Valentine, the manager, is always sporting tees she cuts low V-s into or ties black bandanas around her tiny torso to reveal her body covered in tattoos. Ashleigh's silicon enhancements are always front and center of any outfit she dons and I don't think Hannah B. owns a pair of shorts that covers her full ass. I was the only female bartender at Mag's that could pass for a light pole. Twenty years of ballet made it so I'd never have any real curves and according to Jack, my strict training also forced a stick up my ass about everything. It was his dedication to loosening me up that eventually pulled it out.

The thought of Jack makes me flush with anxiety again and I tell myself to breathe. That every little thing was going to be alright.

While reciting my mantra, I yank the employee's door open a little too hard. They must have fixed the sticky door while I was gone because it swings right into my nose. I feel the crack as I hear, "Lucy!" My hand flies up to my stinging face as Maggie rushes forward.

"Oh my god! Are you okay?" I lean my head back as I check for blood and she continues, "Yeah that door flies open now!"

"Yeah, I've managed to figure that out," I reply as my fingers come away without any blood. "Do you think that was a sign? Literally smacking me in the face?" I ask and her blue eyes dart between my hazel ones. She scans my face and then gently touches my sore nose with her fingertip as she asks, "A sign?"

"Yeah like, hey you're stupid. This is to remind you that you shouldn't be bartending anymore," I confess as I wince at her touch.

"Um, you're literally saving my ass coming back just in time for spring break. I'm pretty sure you were meant to come back here." She finally stops inspecting my nose and smiles a soft, reassuring smile. I drop my hands to my side, defeated and the smell of sticky alcohol and freshly tapped kegs blankets me. Maggie tilts her head to the side before grabbing my hands, "I know this isn't New York fucking City or some chic ass bakery but...I'm glad you are here." She pulls me in for a hug and I notice she reeks of some sort of spice. Her purple hair is coated in a chai tea-like smell I can't quite place. When she pulls away, she waves a little wand around, "I'm going to take a quick ten and then I'll be back to give you your employee number and all that. Jack is already at the bar, go help him stack the shot glasses." She notes my grimace and adds, "Go kiss and make-up. I need my dream team back." She pushes me forward and I watch as she raises the wand to her lips. I realize it's a vape pen and then frown at her with disgust, "You vape now?"

She nods, "Blame Sabrina. And this bar. And my parents." She shrugs and then continues outside. That was a change I wasn't expecting. It took her three years and a variety of tricks to get her to quit smoking cigarettes. We threw her a little party when she was cig-free for ninety days.

I continue down the narrow hallway and swing into the office, successfully avoiding any co-workers. My eyes find the employee lockers and land on the colorful picture of a fighter jet flying onto the locker next to mine. I know it's mine because it has "Goose" scribbled in paint pen and connects to Jack's, who has a fighter jet crossing onto my locker. He used to call me Lucy Goosey which led to Goosey which led to Goose. I then started calling him Maverick and it became a thing around Mag's. He used his phenomenal drawing skills to paint our lockers and Maggie must have kept them colorful after I left.

I shove my purse into the metal square and glance at "Maverick's" before striding back into the hallway. I linger by the room that holds the kegs as nerves finally settle in and wonder what kind of mood Jack is going to be in. It wasn't too long ago that being on the same shift was something I looked forward to. Now, after he told me everything he hated about me, I wonder if he is just as nervous as I am to reinstate the "dream team". Will Goose and Maverick ride again? Or will I end up spraying him in the face with the soda gun?