Bullies Sl-apped the Waitress in a Bar — She Dropped Him Instantly Like a Strike
Chapter 2
Theme:
Font Size:
24px
She picked this town because nobody knew her here. She picked this job because it was simple: pour drinks, bring food, smile when she could, listen when people needed listening to. And most nights, that was enough.The town itself was called Millbrook, though most folks who lived there just called it home and never bothered saying more than that. It sat tucked between two low ridges, far enough from any highway that people had to mean it when they came to visit. There was a church on one end of Main Street and a small cemetery on the other, and most everyone in between knew everyone else by name, or at least by their family's name.Millbrook had once been a mill town, back when the river still had enough current to turn a wheel. The mill closed decades ago. What kept the town alive now was farmland, a handful of small businesses, and the Whitmore family's various enterprises, which employed a good chunk of the county, whether people liked it or not.The Anchor belonged to a man named Hollis Reed: 61 years old, thick forearms, a laugh you could hear from the parking lot. Hollis had inherited the place from his own father. He liked to say the bar had outlived three recessions, two floods, and one very stubborn health inspector.Hollis liked Wren the moment she walked in looking for work. She didn't talk much. She didn't ask for anything. She just worked.And there was one thing about her that Hollis noticed right away: she had a soft spot for the old folks who came in alone.There was Walter Hodges, 78 years old, who sat in the same corner booth every single night. He always ordered the same thing: coffee, black, and a slice of apple pie he never quite finished. Walter was a veteran. Everybody in town knew that much. But nobody knew the details because Walter didn't offer them, and nobody was rude enough to ask. He just sat there most nights watching the door the way men do when watching the door becomes a habit they never lost.And there was Margaret Doyle: 73 years old, small, silver-haired, always dressed a little nicer than the occasion called for. She had lost her husband six years back. She came to the Anchor twice a week, ordered the same roast chicken dinner, and sat by herself at the small table near the window.And there was also Frank, a regular who came in most weeknights for a burger and whatever game happened to be playing on the television above the bar. Frank had a good heart most days and an easy way of making conversation with anyone who sat near him. He wasn't the type to cause trouble, and he wasn't the type to go looking for it, either.Wren always made time for the ones who came in alone. She refilled Walter's coffee before he had to ask. She brought Margaret extra bread on the house and never made a big deal out of it.