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Ziggy Barnes, aka a woman who’s sure that her gloomiest days are over and she’s back on a positive life track

The chicken by itself was a bad idea.

It looked good in the moment.

It smelled good in the moment.

It did not settle well though.

I’d say it’s morning sickness—which is totally misbranded, by the way, because it happens all damn day—but I suspect I’d be sick tonight even if I wasn’t pregnant.

Why?

Because my first night at my first job after unexpectedly moving back home when I decided that I wanted to carry and raise this baby involves serving my former best friend’s father-in-law and brother-in-law.

Abby Nora Ewing—now Abby Nora Ewing-Harrison—saved my life when I was thirteen.

While I wasn’t in physical danger, my mental health and self-confidence weren’t so great. My mom had raised me solo since my father died when I was too young to remember him, but when I was thirteen, she married Roland Keating, one of the richest men in Copper Valley, and we moved into his mansion in his fancy upscale neighborhood.

And I didn’t belong. I felt so out of place.

But Abby Nora—the girl next door—took me in and made friends with me and didn’t mock me for my lack of knowledge about makeup and fashion and what the symphony was playing this season.

We started high school together. We planned our class schedules so we’d have as much overlap as possible. We went to football and basketball games and dances together. After graduation, we went to culinary school together.

We both sobbed until we couldn’t sob any more when I left the East Coast for sommelier training and my subsequent first job in Napa. And then we texted constantly and talked on the phone at least once a week.

It slowed down when she met Josh, her future husband, but we still talked all the time.

She got engaged. Then married. And until two months ago, when she didn’t realize I’d called in over video to her baby shower and said some highly unflattering things about me while I could hear, I thought we were still besties.

She made it crystal clear to everyone at her baby shower that we are not, in fact, besties .

And tonight, her in-laws are among the guests I’m serving on my first shift.

This.

Is.

The.

Absolute .

Worst.

Event.

Ever.

Sad, really. The aquarium is beautiful. We’re in the ocean room, a viewing area with a cavernous floor-to-ceiling window into a wide, deep, seemingly endless pool, where sharks and stingrays and schools of fish and even the occasional whale shark float by. The water casts a blue glow into the room, creating an ambiance that the cruise line I used to work for tried to recreate in one of their dining rooms.

The ship’s Blue Lagoon restaurant came close, but this has a magic that can’t be emulated.

I’ll have to come back another day to truly enjoy it though.

Tonight, the only magic I want is for my former BFF’s family to continue to either not recognize me or continue to pretend they don’t.

I manage to keep the chicken down most of the evening, but when I’m finally done explaining the final wine pairing of the evening to the guests, I bolt to the bathroom and let the chicken go.

You’d think this is when my evening would get better—when my stomach is no longer angry, when the guests are relaxed and full and slightly tipsy, when the security guy is on higher alert because of the alcohol consumed so that I can keep stealing surreptitious glances at his gorgeous face—but it is, in fact, the start of something even worse.

Because when I leave the bathroom, Eli Harrison is hanging out in the short hallway, blocking my exit.

Abby Nora’s brother-in-law.

He might not recognize me.

He might not have heard from Abby Nora about what went down at her baby shower several weeks ago, before I came home pregnant and homeless and jobless, which I sincerely hope she hasn’t heard yet.

Or he might not care.

Not only is he blocking my path back to the main event room, but now the man is trying to convince me to join his vitamin-selling pyramid scheme.

“If you talked about our vitamins the way you talk about wine, we’d be unstoppable,” he’s saying.

Seven years of working cruise ships in Europe, mostly on the Med, trained me for situations like this. Flat smile. Minimal eye contact. Call them sir or ma’am or their chosen honorific if they provide it.

“I’m sorry, sir, I need to see to the other guests.”

“No, see, these vitamins will change your life,” the tall, bulky man says.

It seems unlikely that he recognizes me from Abby Nora’s wedding. Could be the wine.

Could be his “vitamins”.

No telling.

But I do know he shouldn’t need to sell vitamins. His family is in real estate, and if they don’t run at least half of the vacation rental homes in the city, they’re close. They’re here tonight for a community service awards banquet because of how well they do with their local empire.

I continue to smile with bland professionalism while my stomach rolls over. It’s been hard enough being home, moving in the same circles where I know I’m likely to run into Abby Nora and having to play that game where we both pretend we’re still friendly.

But tonight? Right now, with her brother-in-law trapping me outside the bathroom ?

No matter how excited I am about my own pregnancy and the new opportunities here at home, I wish I were still in Europe. “I’m sure they’re wonderful. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the bar.”

“These vitamins, they’re not like normal vitamins. They’re like vitamins that take vitamins to be better vitamins. Get it? Vitamins on vitamins.”

He chuckles at his own joke, making the melting ice in his rocks glass rattle as his hand shakes along with his chuckle.

“Drink service closes in fifteen minutes, sir, and I need to be available for all of the guests.” I angle to sneak around him, but he shifts once again, trapping me in the small hallway outside the bathrooms. While it’s not as dimly lit here as it is in the ocean room, it’s not as brightly lit as I’d prefer.

And we’re completely out of view of the other guests.

None of whom have needed to come down the hall to the bathroom.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to extricate myself from a situation like this, and I don’t expect it’ll be the last.

The guest is always right. Don’t make a scene. Defuse with firm politeness .

When the guest is related to the woman I thought was my best friend until she told the attendees at her baby shower that I’m a selfish cunt who uses people, and when my stomach is knotting itself tighter at that memory bubbling to the surface over and over and over again all night, I wish firm, polite professionalism involved a wee bit of violence.

Eli rubs a spot on his red cheek while he looks down at his rocks glass. The man’s more than a few glasses deep and his complexion shows it. “You know what? We should go into business. You and me. We’ll put my vitamins in your wine and make it healthy . Call it winetamins . Heh. And you can be the face because pretty girls always sell things better.”

He winks, then gives me the wiggly brown eyebrows of yeah, you’re cute, and yeah, I’ve noticed . Probably some come on, flirt back with me in there too.

I hope I’m staying blank-faced in response. The last thing he needs to know is that I’m ready to panic.

Why aren’t any other guests coming to use the restroom? Or the staff? Where’s security? “My current contract prevents me from going into alternate wine-related businesses,” I tell him as I try again—unsuccessfully—to ease around him.

His chuckle makes my arm hairs stand on end.

“Oh, I can take care of that.”

My brain does that thing it’s been doing since the day I video-called in to Abby Nora’s baby shower to witness her full opinion of me, and it starts spinning out of control.

No one’s coming.

I’m stuck here forever.

I need to puke again.

If he hurts my baby, I will hunt him to the ends of the earth and make him pay.

If this is another elaborate ruse by Abby Nora’s family to make me feel like someone who doesn’t belong in my own life, I’ll—I’ll?—

Fuck .

I’ll cry.

That’s what I’ll do.

I’ll cry because it hurts, and then they’ll know they hurt me, and I don’t want them to know they hurt me.

I want to move on with my life .

Hunt for a house that’ll be perfect for me and my own baby.

Get a dog.

Start a garden.

Plant grapes.

Study for my level three certification.

Have lunch with my mom and stepsister.

Take a chance at trusting people to be my friends again.

“There’s nothing my family can’t do in this town,” Eli Harrison says. “I’ll take care of your contract.”

My feet ache and my stomach is doing that uncomfortable grumble that’s been my constant companion for the past month, but worse, because anxiety . “Excuse me, sir, I need to return to the bar to help the other guests before drink service closes.”

Wonderful. He’s frowning now. “I’m a paying customer too. They can wait. Do you take vitamins? I don’t sell them because I need to. Clearly. I’m here getting an award for how I use my millions, aren’t I? I sell them because I believe in them. And you’re pretty, but you could be prettier on vitamins. You join my team, you’d make enough that you wouldn’t have to work second-rate jobs as a bartender either.”

If I were on the ship, someone would’ve come to check on me by now. My colleagues and I—especially the other women—had a system. We watched out for each other.

No one is watching out for me tonight.

Ever since Abby Nora told everyone at her baby shower that the only reason I worked cruise ships was so that I could talk about living on the Med like I’m better than I really am, I don’t know who I trust to have my back.

I can’t even trust myself at this point .

I’m the one who buried my grief in ouzo and a one-night stand with unexpected consequences.

Mostly good, but being home again definitely has its struggles.

And now I’m getting pissed that I need someone to protect me tonight. What about the rest of the staff? Have I failed at keeping an eye out for them?

Oh god.

Am I a shitty coworker who hasn’t been caring enough for my fellow staff?

I square my shoulders when I’d really like to barf again. “I enjoy my job, sir. Thank you for the offer, but I don’t think it fits my life plan right now. If you’ll accompany me to the bar, I can refill your drink for you.”

“You know, your life could be longer if you took the right vitamins. I take them every day, and look at me. Yeah? See? Look at this.” He flexes his arm. He’s tall—at least six feet—and broad like a former college football player, and when he flexes, he takes up the entire hallway. “Solid as a rock. Here. Feel it.”

“It’s against the rules for me to touch guests, sir.”

The asshole angles closer. “C’mon, honey, you know there’s more here than just guest and bartender .”

Anxiety is giving way to anger, and neither is good for my stomach. “Sir, if I’ve given you the wrong impression, I apologize. I?—”

“She doesn’t apologize,” a voice interrupts from behind him. “Stop harassing the staff and return to your table.”

Goosebumps race over my arms and up my neck as Holt, the security guy, muscles his way around Eli.

If I were letting myself contemplate men right now—which I’m not, but if I were—Holt is exactly the type of guy I’d stare at from across the bar while debating how to best make my move.

Okay.

Okay, fine .

I’ve been staring at him at every opportunity since he interrupted my chickenfest.

Where Eli Harrison is tall and thick, Holt is taller and thicker.

Holt’s nearly black hair is neatly trimmed but still falling over his forehead. His deep-set brown eyes telegraph danger and his square jaw and the way his biceps are testing the limits of his polo sleeves promise that he can back up any threat he makes. And when he turns around—just holy hell .

An ass like that should be illegal.

The relief that he’s here to help me mingles with carnal attraction and makes my belly flip for a different reason.

“You spilled my drink,” Eli growls at Holt.

In my fantasies, this is where the hot security guy pulls me to his side, growls back and you made my girlfriend uncomfortable , and carries me past the man who’s harassing me, apologizes for calling me his girlfriend but says he was going nuts trying to find me, and then we kiss dramatically, and?—

And nobody wants a single pregnant woman and I need to get a freaking grip.

Holt stares Eli dead in the eye. “Does your wife know you’re hitting on the staff?”

And while my fantasy wasn’t the right way to defuse this situation, neither is that question.

Eli’s jaw visibly clenches. The ice in his empty glass rattles while his knuckles go white. “Watch yourself, you little pissant. I can get you fired with one phone call.”

“Ziggy, go back in the bathroom,” Holt says .

Defuse defuse defuse .

It’s ingrained in me after seven years of close-quarters hospitality service.

Even when the vengeful parts of me want to see someone in Abby Nora’s family hurt the way she hurt me. “Oh, look, the whale sharks are at the window.” I can’t see the whale sharks from here, but the question should distract them both. “Is there a magic show tonight? I heard a magician was making a surprise appearance. We’re not missing it, are we?”

“Shut up, you little whore,” Eli says.

“And we’re done here,” Holt says. “Ziggy. Bathroom. Sir, you have ten seconds to leave on your own before I make you leave.”

“You can’t make me do a goddamn thing.”

“You’re harassing my staff. The exit is behind you.”

“She’s hitting on me. Little cunt knows?—”

There are approximately five words in any of the three languages I know that will set me off.

And that one?

After Abby Nora used it at her baby shower, that’s the biggest trigger of all.

I elbow my way around Holt and get up in Eli’s face. “What did you just call me?”

He leans into my face with his whiskey breath. Holt grabs my arm and tries to tug me back while shoving between us.

“I said, you’re a little cunt. You know you want me.”

My brain fills with memories of that video call in to the shower.

Oh god, don’t say her name. I’m so glad she’s not here. Such a cunt, thinking she’s better than the rest of us because she has a fancy job on some cruise ship. She shits in an airplane toilet on fish piss water all day, but ooooh, we’re supposed to lick her feet because she knows all about wine and sails around the Mediterranean. Whoop-de-fucking-do .

They hate me. They all hate me.

Such a cunt, and I don’t call people cunts .

Everyone in Abby Nora’s circle thinks I’m a terrible person.

Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!

I have to make this stop.

You guys… Ziggy’s on the phone. She can hear you .

I don’t know where I am, and I don’t care.

All I know is a blinding hot rage at being called that word again .

Does he know who I am? Did Abby Nora tell him I’m one of those ?

Is that why he’s using it?

Better question—do I care?

“Ziggy,” a voice says beside me.

I don’t listen.

I’m beyond listening.

I don’t want to fucking defuse .

“Ziggy—” Holt repeats as I duck around his attempt to push me behind him once more.

I have to get up on my tiptoes to get even partially close to Eli’s face, but I do it. “You’re a rude, uncultured waste of oxygen who can shove those vitamins that you bought with your daddy’s money right up your ass.”

His cheek twitches and his lip curls. “Someone needs a lesson in where her place is.”

“ Ziggy .” A firm hand clamps down on my left arm.

There’s no universe where I’m stronger than Holt.

Until adrenaline and pent-up grief and rage get involved .

And that’s exactly what I’m feeling as Eli sneers at me. “ Ziggy . That’s such a whore name.”

I’m only partially in control of my body. There’s a whisper in my head saying don’t do it but a bigger voice chanting show them they can’t use you as a punching bag .

Show them you’re done with their shit .

Show them they can’t talk to you like this .

I’d like to tell you that it’s the voice that propels my fist into Eli Harrison’s nose.

But that’s not what happens.

What happens is that all of the turmoil inside of me decides to depart on its own, in its own fashion, and I haven’t been paying close enough attention to know that I should’ve done exactly what Holt told me to do and gone back into the bathroom.

I don’t feel my mouth open, but I see what comes out of it.

And lands square in the middle of Eli Harrison’s chest.

All over his arms.

In his rocks glass.

Splatters up to his chin.

I finally feel the heave in my stomach. Taste the acid in my mouth. Notice the hard grip on my arm.

Oh, shit.

Shit shit shit .

Eli screams. “You cunt , this is Armani.”

He lunges for me, but there’s no impact, because a large man in a black polo and khaki uniform pants is tackling him to the ground.

I’m going to puke again.

This time, I turn and dash for the bathroom .

“Get the fuck off me, you asshole,” Eli’s yelling as I push into the ladies’ room.

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before trapping a woman in a hallway, you fuckwanker,” Holt replies as I dash into a stall.

I’m fired.

I am so fired.

This is exactly why I’m not on the ship anymore.

Because you don’t puke on cruise ships.

And you don’t puke when you’re working with a catering staff either.

I want this baby.

I do.

Even if this isn’t where I saw my life going immediately. It wasn’t in my plans so soon. But I’m choosing this.

Not because Abby Nora’s pregnant and I want what she has.

Not because my mother is thrilled to be a grandmother.

But because I want this .

This baby is the new start to my life after the most significant relationship I’ve ever had fell apart.

But why does it have to be so hard?