Gary decided that honesty was overrated and pain was temporary.

“Honestly,” he said, waving a hand vaguely between them, “it’s nothing. Just one of those days.”

This was a bold claim from a man whose face looked like it was actively filing a complaint.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him again. Gary got the distinct impression she was diagnosing him without saying a word, like a human X-ray with better hair.

“Right,” she said. “One of those days.”

Gary laughed, too loud, and immediately regretted the facial movement. The tooth flared in protest, sending a sharp reminder that it was still very much part of the conversation, even if he pretended otherwise.

“So,” he continued quickly, before she could ask follow-up questions, “new behind the bar, yeah? How’s that going?”

“Alright so far,” she said. “Though I didn’t expect my first night to involve being lied to.”

Gary froze.

“I’m not—” he started, then stopped, then recalibrated. “Okay, maybe downplaying.”

She smiled. Not cruel. Amused.

“That tooth’s bad, isn’t it?” she said.

Gary sighed. “I was hoping it wasn’t obvious.”

“It’s obvious,” she replied. “You’re talking like a ventriloquist who hates his puppet.”

Somewhere nearby, a glass shattered. Gary flinched like it had happened inside his skull.

He could still salvage this. Make a joke. Admit partial defeat. Or double down and pretend pain was a personality trait.

What does Gary do?

Finally admit the tooth is a disaster → Page 23

Laugh it off and keep flirting → Page 22