“Yeah, well, you were there for me when Justin Kovic broke my heart in seventh grade. I owe you.” She turned out the light, then paused in the doorway. “Maybe I’ll even let you give me a tattoo.”
****
Kiara’s voice cut through the rowdy crowd’s din. “Eddie, we need more Pirate Punch.”
Jittery under the press of impatient, thirsty patrons, Eddie glanced again at River’s laminated recipe card. “Four ounces white rum, four ounces spiced rum…” He hollered across the bar, “Jojo, we’re outta rum.”
“Can’t.” Jojo hollered back from his stool at the entrance. “Checkin’ IDs.”
“On it.” Gus wiped his beer-sticky hands and shuffled toward the storage room—at a snail’s pace.
Eddie covered his sweaty face with his bar towel and let out a muffled scream. He figured there’d be less interest in Bangers’ Superbowl Party after the Seahawks got knocked out of the playoffs, but fans packed in so tightly Dawn had to count heads and make sure they didn’t exceed the fire marshal’s limit. He’d been here since nine that morning, stringing up twinkle lights and balloons in team colors—the perfect excuse to delay a much-needed truth session with his parents. Last night his mom was simply too drunk and hysterical to listen to reason. They were still asleep when he slipped out, and though he half-expected his mother to storm in during the game, he’d heard nothing from them so far.
He and Kiara had scrounged River’s file of cocktail recipes for tonight’s offerings, a fruity rum punch for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and a cider and rye concoction called the Buffalo Bill. They hadn’t counted on how thirsty the crowd would be.
Might as well double up. He dumped cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and orange juice into twin pitchers, measured in Amaretto, then made sure the garnish trays were loaded with cherries, oranges, and pineapple chunks. Passing with a basket of prizes for the Pick ’Em game, Dawn slapped the bar with her palm. “What’s the hold-up, kiddo?”
“Gus is getting more rum.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s probably back there sampling the bottles. I swear—” She poked his chest. “When you open your bar, think twice before taking on a partner.” She elbowed her way toward the storage room.
“Right. Like that’s ever going to happen,” he muttered. Flattened by last night’s bad news bomb, the only way to force himself out of bed was to focus on the demands of today. After this party ended, he had no fucking idea what his future held. But every time he saw Rosie’s blue curls bobbing past, the hollow ache in his stomach reminded him what his future wouldn’t hold.
How could she smile like that, flirting with customers, laughing at their stupid jokes, toting tater tots to people who, at the end of the day, didn’t give a shit about her? Yet there she went, wiggling her lush ass and tossing her hair. To look at her, you’d think last night never happened. Clearly, she was over it—over him.
It had taken hours to talk his mom off the ledge. Every time he thought she’d yelled herself out, she started in again, wailing about his ingratitude and Dad’s impending doom. She even hollered at him for denying her grandchildren. By the time they got her bundled up and into Dad’s car, the whole family network knew something awful was up with the Tacoma Volkovs. God only knew what stories were burning up the family text string this morning.
“Be here now,” he muttered. Tomorrow was soon enough to sit down with his parents and try to explain. Hopefully by then the yelling would’ve stopped.
Rosie stepped up to the bar and caught his eye for a micro-second before dropping her focus to her cash box, where she meticulously arranged singles and fives. “I need five pirate punches and two Seahawks-tinis.”
Just at that moment, Dawn bustled up and deposited two half-gallon jugs of rum. She clapped Eddie’s shoulder. “Would you believe he was rearranging the shelves?” She patted Rosie’s hand. “How’s my girl? You’re both looking a little peaked tonight. No better party than a wedding, right?”
Again, Rosie’s gaze flicked to his, revealing dark circles beneath puffy eyes. A dull heaviness clogged his chest, making it hard to draw a full breath. He reached for her hand. She drew it back with a sharp shake of her head.
Dawn chuckled. “When I said no relationship drama at work, I didn’t mean you couldn’t hold hands.” She turned away to fill beer glasses at the taps.
Eddie twisted the caps off the bottles the way he’d like to wring someone’s neck. But whose? Now that he knew about his dad’s illness, Rosie’s interference seemed less like sabotage and more like a clumsy attempt to help. And he’d jumped down her throat for it. With cleats on.
While he poured her drinks, she grabbed a cocktail pick and speared fruit from the garnish tray. Their hands collided, sloshing rum punch onto the bar.
“Sorry,” they chorused.
He picked up a bar towel. “I got this.”
“Just trying to help,” she grumbled. “I should know better.” She hefted the tray and spun away.
Kiara nudged him with her sharp elbow. “What’s your deal, Eddie? Servers always help with the garnishes when orders back up.”
His stomach dropped to his knees. Could I be more of a dick? He should run to her and apologize, but the flood of customers kept him pinned behind the bar, just like his parents’ expectations kept him pinned to a life that didn’t fit him. Or clipped his wings. Too many bug metaphors. He wrestled his focus back to the task in front of him, taking out his frustration by muddling oranges and limes. It felt good to smash something.
Hours later, the post-game crowd filtered out, leaving the bar nearly empty when Diego and Shelby emerged from the kitchen, flushed and sweaty. Diego waved to Eddie and bee-lined to the booth where Anna, Charlie’s younger sister, greeted him with a hug. Shelby groaned and leaned on the bar,
