“Wow, this tastes just like Starbucks,” I say.
Somehow, Josie’s smile gets bigger. “Mom says I use too much sugar, but my friend Alison’s mom took me and her to Starbucks, like, a week ago, and I ordered a Unicorn Frappuccino, and they put, like, eight pumps of sugar in it, plus all the syrups. So, actually, this latte has way less sugar than Starbucks.”
“You were also bouncing off the walls for two days afterwards,” Kendra says, smiling at her daughter. “And you were three hours late getting to bed.”
“Because I had coffee, mom. Coffee has caffeine in it, and caffeine is supposed to keep you awake for a long time. That’s why people drink it.”
“She’s got you there, Ken,” I say, taking another long drink of the milk-sugar-coffee concoction.
“She does,” Kendra says. “But you’re too young for crackhead energy, Josie, so maybe we’ll hold off on playing barista for a while, OK?”
“Mom, what’s a crackhead?” Josie says.
“It’s what you turn into when coffee just isn’t enough,” I say.
“Vi,” Kendra says, aghast.
“You look tired, Aunt Vi,” Josie says. “If the latte isn’t enough, I don’t mind if you have to be a crackhead to wake up.”
“Thanks, Josie. That means a lot to me,” I say. “One of these days, I just might.”
Outside, there’s a honk and Kendra leans down to give her daughter a kiss.
“That’s the school bus. Time to hurry up, Josie,” she says.
Josie gives her mom a kiss back and then, with arms and legs flailing and her backpack held in one hand and trailing behind her like some kind of wayward kite, she sprints outside to catch the bus.
It’s quiet for a moment once she’s gone; just Kendra, me, the sizzle of an omelet in her frying pan, and the occasional slurp I make as I sip the gateway drug in my coffee cup.
“Last night was scary,” she says after a minute.
An omelet — sizzling, oozing with cheesy goodness and smelling like heaven — follows her words. I pick up a fork and take a bite. It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life. I’m four bites in before I remember I need to say something to my best friend.
“It was.”
“Who were those other guys?”
“Trouble from out of town,” I answer, and then take another too-big-for-my-mouth bite. I wash it down with a sip of the almost-crack in my coffee cup.
“Do you think they’re going to make any more trouble? Should we call the sheriff and see if he can send a deputy by the bar tonight?”
Frowning, I shake my head. “I don’t think they will bother us any more. Well, any more than they already have.”
“Oh. I mean, if they want to come by and have some drinks, that’s fine. They were kind of cute.”
Her words make me freeze. And I stare in her at disbelief over the rim of my coffee cup.
“What? Them? Cute? Are you serious?”
“Well, the one you were flirting with was pretty handsome. In a mean and growly kind of way. I dated a couple guys like him back in college and they were good for some short term fun.”
“No. Ken, don’t even start. I don’t think Crash is handsome and I definitely do not want to spend any more time with him other than the time it’ll take me to mix him a drink and shove his money in my cash register.”
“Really? Cause it sure looked like you were flirting with him last night. And, I’ll be honest, Vi, it’s been over four years since Edgar. Getting divorced is no fun but, at some point, you do need to move on. And maybe doing something easy — like Crash — is what you need.”
I pour myself another cup of coffee and drink half the mug before I answer; to hear my best friend lay out my relationship — or lack of relationship — issues, while hungover, is more than I can bear. The coffee goes down easy and tastes fine enough, but I find myself wishing I had another one of Josie's sugary crackhead lattes.
“No.”
“No what? No to something simple and uncomplicated like getting with that guy Crash being what you need to get over Edgar? Or no to the fact that four years is a very long time to go without dating anybody at all — or even doing something like going up to Aspen to hookup with some rich rando — and that you want to persevere in being so darn severe when it comes to me?”
“To all of it.”
Kendra sighs. “Vi, I know that bar is your baby—”
“Our baby,” I correct her. “Not everyone is as lucky as I am that their best friend will move states with them to help them follow their dream. We’re business partners, remember?”
“Fine. And I love you. But you have spent the last four years doing nothing but work at the Timberline. Don’t you think it’s time you did a little something fun and reckless?”
I sigh. She’s right. It has been a long time and sometimes, when I finish a day and am not totally exhausted and thinking of nothing more than microwaving my dinner and scarfing it as fast as I can before I collapse into bed — all to start the same routine over again the next day — I do kind of miss having someone in my life to share things with.
But Crash?
I shake my head.
“I lost the Pappy Van Winkle last night,” I say.
Kendra drops her fork. It hits her plate with a clatter, and fragments of egg flutter across the table.
“What? You lost your celebration bourbon? What happened? Did it get broken in the bar fight?”
“No,” I say. “I gave it
