The pavement was rough beneath my worn sneakers as I stumbled onto the familiar sidewalk of the town square, the chill in the evening air pressing against my bare arms. Here I was again, back where I'd started this impossible errand — tasked with fetching alcohol for my parents, a twenty-dollar bill clenched tightly in my hand like a lifeline I didn’t want to hold.
I glanced down at the crumpled bill, its edges soft from being folded and unfolded so many times. I could give it away to the homeless man who’d smiled at me earlier, the one with kind eyes and a worn coat, but I couldn’t. Not today. Not after Dad’s threat. His words echoed in my head, sharp and unforgiving. I swallowed hard, wishing I could just punch him in the gut, make him feel a fraction of this pain.
They wouldn’t even let me drive here. Not anymore. The accident had drained every ounce of energy and confidence from me. I used to be active, running and laughing, but now even getting out of bed left me breathless. The thirty-five-minute walk from home to the town square felt like an eternity.
After what seemed like endless steps, I finally reached the closed door of Danny’s shop — or Donny’s? I was never sure. The name was painted in faded letters on the glass, but the lights inside were dark, the shop shuttered like a secret I wasn’t meant to uncover.
Squinting at the handwritten sign taped to the door, I read the hours: Wednesday through Friday, noon to ten, Saturday and Sunday, two to ten. Not today. My heart sank. I’d been set up to fail by Dad, who was too drunk to remember anything but his rage. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back, unwilling to let my weakness show. I closed my eyes and pictured something sweet—a big red velvet cupcake—to steady my trembling breath.
I couldn’t return home empty-handed. Last time I did, the tension in the house had been so thick I could barely move my back for a week. The thought made me shudder, steeling my resolve.
Turning away from the shop, I headed toward Red Street, where bars lined the sidewalks, spilling light and noise into the night. It was my best hope, a risky choice but the only one I had.
The wind whipped around me, tugging at the edges of my too-short shorts and the thin fabric of my t-shirt. I wrapped my arms around my torso, shivering as clouds thickened overhead. I had no jacket. Why was it that every time I tried something like this, it ended up harder than I’d thought?
The first bar I found made my stomach twist. I pushed open the door and froze as two women danced on poles, their movements sultry and out of place in my world. I bolted back to the street, heart pounding. God, forgive me for judging so quickly.
Desperate, I walked further until I found a place with a more neutral glow, no flashing signs or suggestive silhouettes. The faint thrum of music and chatter spilled out when I pushed the door open. Inside, a crowd gathered—some swaying to the beat, others huddled at the bar, their laughter slurred and loud.
It reminded me of that movie, Coyote Ugly, minus the wild dancing on the bar. The air smelled of spilled beer and sweat, thick and heavy. People stumbled around; one man tripped over his own feet, while another leaned heavily against the wall, supported by a friend’s steady hand.
My breath caught. I didn’t have an ID. I wasn’t even twenty-one—barely a shadow of the age requirement. I looked so young, almost like a child in this adult playground. What was I thinking? Maybe someone would see the desperation etched into my face, the helplessness, and offer me a drink out of pity—a sweet moonshine, something that tasted like cherry pie or peach. I closed my eyes and hoped.
Suddenly, I felt a gaze burn into me. I looked up and caught the eyes of a man at the bar, his focus sharp even though his movements betrayed his drunken state. He was older, maybe in his mid-thirties, with a half-empty glass trembling in his hand as it spilled down the side.
I turned away quickly, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck, and settled into the nearest empty stool at the bar. My heart hammered fiercely as I tried to steady my nerves. This was new territory. I’d never been inside a bar before, never ordered a drink. How did people even do this? "Hi, I’d like some cherry pie moonshine, please," I imagined saying, voice barely above a whisper. Or maybe, "Bartender, peach moonshine for me!"
Ridiculous. They probably didn’t even have those flavors. Most likely just some nasty White Lightning or worse.
"Shout 'em out!" a voice boomed over the noise, cutting through the chatter. The bartender, a young man with light hair that fell over his forehead, moved swiftly behind the bar, pouring drinks with practiced ease and a bright smile.
The bar erupted into a chorus of requests as glasses clinked and orders flew. I was frozen, unsure what to say. The bartenders’ eyes flicked up to me for a moment, making my pulse spike.
“You haven’t said a word, pretty lady. What’ll it be?” he asked, voice loud enough to be heard over the din.
I swallowed and blurted, "Peach moonshine," hoping to get this over with fast. The bar's frantic energy slowed to a steady rhythm, drinks flowing every ten seconds or so.
When I lifted my gaze from my trembling hands, his eyes locked onto mine, a puzzled expression softening his features.
“Strong drink for such a small person,” he teased gently. My mind flashed with an urge to leap over the counter and show him just how dangerous this 'small person' could be with a few moves learned from late-night CIA documentaries and karate classes. But I bit my lip and kept still.
“Cherry pie could work too,” I offered, uncertain if it was any less potent. Science was never my strong suit.
He smirked now, a spark of amusement in his gaze. “You got an ID?” His voice dropped to a teasing challenge.
I looked down at my feet and noticed a small step nestled beneath the bar. Relief washed over me—maybe I could at least reach the counter better than I thought.
“I just got it a few weeks ago,” I admitted softly, remembering the long wait and the excitement of finally holding that little card in my hand. Years of dreaming, and now it was real.
He gave a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Well, then. Let’s see if you can handle your ‘strong drink.’”
As he poured the amber liquid into a small glass, I wrapped my fingers around it, the cold bite of the moonshine a new experience on my tongue. The warmth spread quickly, chasing away some of the chill and fear that had wrapped around me all evening.
The man from before, still watching curiously, finally looked away, lost again to his own blurred world. I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves, and glanced around the bar once more. Though the crowd was rough and the night far from gentle, in this moment, I felt a small spark of control, a thread of courage weaving through the shadows of my fractured life.