Page 109 of Don't Tell

"I have not lost it."

"Tell me you are going through with it."

"I'm going through with it."

"Cade."

"What?"

"The bartender told me, to my face, that if I order my drink the specific way one more time she will close the bar."

"Beau."

"She is anightmare,Cade."

"You hired her."

"Because she is the best bartender in the city and I'm not dying on this hill. But you shouldseethe look on her face when —"

"Beau."

"What."

"I'm going to propose to my girlfriend in twenty minutes. Could you summarize the bartender problem for me in one sentence so I can move on with my life."

"Shehatesme."

"That is one sentence. Thank you."

I walk to the bar.

The woman behind it is mid 20s. Dark hair pulled back tight. She is not smiling. She is holding a bottle in one hand and pointing at a guest with the other in a way that makes the guest take a step back from the rail. The guest leaves. She returns to her station.

"What."

"A glass of the white. Whatever's open."

She makes it in under thirty seconds without looking up and slides it across the bar.

She does not ask if I want anything else.

I take the glass and look at her name tag.

Sabrina.

I have a more pressing matter than the bartender Beau is going to be miserable about for the next year.

I walk back to Suzanne.

Twenty minutes later, Beau steps onto the small raised platform at the front of the room. The string quartet pauses as he takes the microphone.

He does the scheduled auction announcement. He thanks the patrons. He announces the highest bids of the evening — a Vargas piece at $180,000, a Diego at $220,000, a sculpture I don't catch the name of at 300,000.

He pauses, then grins.

"Now. My brother has something he would like to say."

Suzanne turns to me.