Page 66 of Misery

The familiar ritual grounds me.

This I can do. Mix drinks. Follow recipes. Create something good from basic ingredients.

"It's been a week," she says when I set the drink in front of her.

The foam on top is perfect, the cherry and orange slice arranged just how she likes.

"I can count."

"Mom cries every night." The words land like stones in still waters, ripples spreading outward.

I focus on wiping down the bar, keeping my hands busy.

The wood is already clean but I need something to do. "Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?"

"Neither. Just thought you should know." She takes a sip, leaves a lipstick mark on the rim. Pink, not red. Still trying to find her identity outside Mom's shadow. "Dad's drinking more. Stays at the clubhouse until three, four in the morning. Emil says he's been sleeping in the chapel some nights."

"Helle—"

"You weren't wrong." The words come out rushed, like she's been practicing them. "What you said. You weren't wrong. Just... cruel in how you said it."

I pour myself a shot of vodka.

No one important is here to complain about anyone drinking on the job, and even if they were, the look Oskar sends his way would shut him up. "Sometimes cruel is the only language people hear."

"Maybe. But it doesn't make it hurt less." She runs her finger around the rim of her glass, making it sing. A habit from childhood, something she did when nervous. "You know howthey are. Club comes first, always has. We grew up knowing that."

"Doesn't make it right."

"No. But it makes it reality." She looks at me directly, Mom's eyes in her face. "You can be angry about reality or accept it. Getting angry doesn't change it."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Speaking from therapy. Which you know about since you're in it too." She takes another sip. "Dr. Rami, right? She's good. Helped me process a lot of my shit about growing up here."

"You're in therapy?"

"Started six months ago. After your... after what happened. Made me realize how fucked up our normal was." She glances around the bar, at the weapons we don’t even bother to hide, the violence simmering under the surface. "The club's been their life longer than we've been alive. We can't compete with that history."

"We shouldn't have to compete."

"No. But here we are." She signals for another drink. While I make it, she continues. "I used to be so angry. Why couldn't Dad just be normal? Why did every birthday, every holiday, every important moment come second to the club? Remember when he missed my high school graduation because of a run?"

"I remember." I'd held her while she cried in the bathroom, her cap and gown crumpled on the floor.

"Ihatedhim for that. For months. But then I realized—he doesn't know how to be anything else. The club saved him when he was young, gave him purpose. It's not an excuse, but it’s the understanding I needed to process why he made the choices he did."

A customer needs a refill. Three more want to order.

I handle them all, but I could do this in my sleep.

When I return, she's watching Oskar, who's pretending not to watch us.

"So," she says, voice deliberately lighter. "Want to talk about something else?"

"Gods, yes."

"I'm seeing someone."