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For the first time tonight, I smile when Birdie slides her empty glass across the top of the bar for me to refill. Not only is she my BFF, and seeing her always puts me in a better mood, but she’s the only person in this room tonight wearing a ridiculous Christmas sweater that I approve of. It just has two giant red and green Christmas ornaments on it and says Balls in pretty cursive lettering.
“Oh, good, that one’s getting some traction. That squirrel one’s my favorite,” I tell her as I remove the clear plastic Christmas ornament from inside the glass of melted ice, toss it into the trash, and dump out the water. “You want another Jingle Ball cocktail?”
She nods emphatically, and I get to work making Birdie her signature Christmas cocktail that coincidentally goes perfectly with her sweater—pine-infused vodka, soda water, and cranberry juice garnished with a sprig of pine and a few frozen cranberries. All served inside a clear plastic Christmas ball with a red-and-white straw coming out of the ornament’s opening at the top, nestled into a glass filled with ice.
“Another Jingle Ball cocktail for the woman who never shuts up about her fiancé’s balls,” I announce to Birdie as I slide her finished drink across the bar top to her.
I haven’t come up with a signature cocktail for all of my loved ones yet, but the ones I have invented are pretty genius, if I do say so myself. The Naughty or Nice for Wren with vanilla vodka and Godiva chocolate liqueur, the Snow Dance for Emily with Bacardi rum and coconut, the Holiday Glitter Cosmo for Shepherd, which is just a regular Cosmo with a shit-ton of edible glitter on the rim, and even though he doesn’t drink hardly ever aside from a beer with the guys every once in a while, the Snoop Noggy Nog for Bodhi, consisting of vermouth and heavy cream.
“Palmer’s balls are as delicious as this cocktail,” Birdie muses, and I grimace while she takes a sip from the candy-cane-striped straw. I’m beyond happy for my best friend that she’s engaged to the love of her life, but Palmer is like a brother to me, and it’s continuously difficult to look him in the eyes when I know the exact size, shape, and flavor of his holly berries. “Remind me again why you keep telling everyone Bodhi is dead instead of working as an elf at the fire station’s Christmas party tonight?”
“Technically, most of those things really did happen; he just didn’t die from them.” I shrug as I dunk two dirty glasses someone sets onto the bar into the hot soapy water in the washing sink, then into the rinsing sink, followed by the sanitizing sink, before setting them next to the other glasses on the mat to dry. “He actually did get ran over a little bit by the Polar Express golf cart train people can ride around the island to see the lights. He really did fall off the roof hanging Christmas lights the day after Thanksgiving. And his dick was out of commission for three days after an intense Nerf gun war with Owen, followed by the two stitches he needed in his head after sliding into the fireplace during tag and taking out all my stockings and their cast iron stocking holders. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he tries to splice the wires of broken twinkle lights while taking a bubble bath and he really does die.”
“He’s a giant man-child pothead with no redeeming qualities, but I sure do love the guy.” Birdie laughs.
A low, rumbling growl comes out of me, and Birdie quickly grabs her drink from the bar and starts backing away, much like Jan did a few minutes ago. It’s one thing for me to call my boyfriend a man-child pothead, but no one else is allowed to do it.
Yes, my boyfriend smokes a lot of weed. And eats a lot of edibles. And owns more bongs than articles of clothing, and always has his vape pen on him for emergencies. I know people look at him and think he’s ridiculous, and never takes things seriously, and will never grow up, and does nothing all day every day but smoke pot and take naps.
But I know why he is the way he is, especially after he told me about his past. I know that once he left his old life, he finally found some freedom and happiness, but he also found a debilitating case of social anxiety along with panic attacks. I know if he’s completely marijuana-free, he can’t even pick up the phone and order a pizza. He won’t leave the house. He can’t handle large crowds of people or too much noise. He doesn’t laugh easily, his smiles are forced, and he just completely shuts down and feels like he can’t function. I’d much rather he utilizes “organic” ways to get himself in the right headspace than develop a drinking problem or have to be on so much prescription medication it turns him into a zombie.
