Chaotic Love Lunatic lover volume 1

Noelle's POV

If anyone had told me five years ago that I'd end up slinging watered down whiskey to tech bros and broken dreams at two in the morning, I probably would've laughed in their face, hard, Like, full snort laugh, clutch my stomach, tears in my eyes hard.

But here I am. The neon sign above the bar buzzes louder than the hum of conversation, casting flickering red shadows over the worn leather booths. "Bottom Shelf Dreams" the irony isn't lost on me.

Neither is the fact that I'm wearing a ripped Bowie T-shirt, sneakers with a hole in the toe, and jeans that are one spilled drink away from dissolving into dust.

"Another round, Noelle!" someone shouts, shoving a twenty across the sticky counter.

"Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses." I flash my best customer smile, the one that says I'll pretend to like you if you tip well and grab a bottle of cheap whiskey that smells faintly of nail polish remover.

The glass clinks as I set up five shots, my hands moving automatically. Pour. Smile. Nod. Pretend you don't hear the same slurred pickup lines every night.

"Hey, you ever thought about getting into tech? I could...you know, mentor you." Sure, Chad. Let me just quit my two jobs and jump into bed with Silicon Valley's finest.

I used to have dreams.Big ones.

I graduated top of my class in computer science. I had a whole plan: intern at a startup, save up, launch my own mental health app to help foster kids like me who fell through the cracks. But dreams don't pay rent. Dreams don't erase student loans the size of small countries. Dreams definitely don't help when your foster sister, Lila, calls crying because her med school tuition is due in two weeks and she's about to be kicked out. So I took the only job I could find that didn't require me to sell a kidney or my soul.

"Yo, bartender babe," a different voice slurs, snapping his fingers at me like I'm a golden retriever.

I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of my skull.

"It's Noelle," I say, pouring another drink and slamming it down harder than necessary. "Not babe. Not sweetie. Not honey. Try using your adult words next time." The guy blinks at me, stunned, before laughing and stumbling back to his friends.

Cami, my best friend and the only bright light in this hellhole, leans over the bar from her stool. She's working the late shift at the tattoo shop down the block but always pops in to make sure I haven't murdered a customer yet.

"You keep that up, and you're gonna get fired," she says around a mouthful of nachos. I snort. "Please. Tony's not firing the only sober employee who knows how to work the register."

She points a cheesy chip at me. "Sober for now. Talk to me after midnight when the tequila shots start looking sexy." I grin despite myself.

God, I miss smiling for real. It feels...foreign. Like trying on an old jacket that doesn't fit anymore.

The night drags on in a haze of bad music, bad tips, and even worse attempts at flirting.

At least the bar's too loud for anyone to notice the quiet little cracks forming inside me.

I've gotten good at hiding it.

The way my chest tightens when I think about the engagement ring sitting in a dusty box under my bed.

The way I still flinch when someone says the word wedding is too loud.

The way I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what's wrong with me that everyone leaves.

I was supposed to be married by now. Supposed to have a little apartment with a dog, maybe a kid on the way. Instead, I'm serving drinks to men who wouldn't remember my name even if I tattooed it on their foreheads.

It's not like I blame Jason. Leaving me at the altar was probably the smartest decision he ever made.

Who wants to marry a mess like me?

"Earth to Noelle," Cami says, snapping her fingers. "Table seven's starting a fight over darts." I sigh and grab a towel, ready to play referee. As I march over, a commotion near the entrance catches my eye.

At first, I don't recognize him.

He's wearing a plain black hoodie pulled low over his face, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Something about the way he moves like he doesn't want to touch the air around him makes me pause.