Tomorrow! My first real shift at Mountain Springs’ most exclusive nightclub. The job is competitive for everyone staying over summer because apparently the tips areinsane.
And, of course, I text Alex. I can’t resist sharing the news. She replies quickly.
She programmed in her own name, obviously. We came up with "Very Bestest Friend Forever" one night when we were wasted. It's corny and we know it, but we keep using it because it's true.
Alex the greatest VBFF
OMG YOU GOT IT!! My best friend is going to be the hottest bartender in Mountain Springs! Also, pls learn to make a spicy marg for when I visit.
Already got the YouTube tutorialslined up
That’s my girl! But seriously Tara, I’m so proud of you. I’ve been gone like a day and you’re already doing cool things!
I miss you already.
And Freddie
But you too.
I miss you too, VBFF
My apartment feelswrong without Alex’s terrible music bleeding through the walls. It’s only been twenty-four hours since my best friend left for her internship in California, but the silence is already getting to me.
I’ve tried playing her “Summer Sad Girl” playlist (yes, that’s really what she called it), but it’s not the same when it’s not accompanied by her off-key singing from the next room.
Still, I’m determined to make the most of my first real night alone. I’ve got pasta boiling on the stove—actual pasta, not the instant ramen noodles that get me through finals week—and there’s a bottle of wine on the counter that cost more than eight dollars.
I’mcrushinglife right now.
“Carbonara,” I announce to nobody, reading from the recipe on my phone. “How hard can it be?”
Truthfully, I don’t usually cook. Troy and Alex usually handle that department and I let them. But I am not doing that anymore. No siree.
I am looking after myself now. I am being a badass independent boss bitch.
I prop my phone against one of my celebration wine bottles, rewatching the cocktail tutorial for the fifth time. The bartender makes the perfect pour look effortless, liquid streaming in a graceful arc between shakers. I’ve been binge-watching these videos since I got the job offer—three hours of “Basic Bartending Skills” and “Top 50 Cocktails You Need to Know.”
You can basically learn anything in 3 hours with an internet connection.
My orientation packet from Luzia sits on the counter, already coffee-stained and dog-eared from repeated reading. I like to be prepared.
The dress code alone is three pages long. All black everything, but not just any black – “sophisticated black attire that reflects our establishment’s premium status.” No logos, no patterns, no cheap fabrics. I glance down at my current outfit, cozy pajamas covered in dinosaurs. Besides my sleepwear, my entire wardrobe is basically a color explosion. I like to think of clothes as my self-expression, and my self-expression is very rarely black.
I’ve already ordered two black button-downs that I definitely can’t afford, but they’ll be worth it once those rich-people tips start rolling in.
This is why I am cooking carbonara tonight. You know, something fancy and sophisticated.
The initial batch of sauce failed because apparently you can’t simply dump hot pasta into beaten eggs. Who knew? But the second attempt actually works, and soon I’m twirling perfectly creamy fettuccine around my fork,feelingveryclassy and grown-up. I even put the pasta in a real bowl instead of eating it straight from the pot.
I head to our couch—technically, my couch for the summer—with my fancy pasta (that is now cold) and my cheap wine, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that kind of looks like Australia if you squint.
The hangover from Alex’s going-away party on Friday has mostly faded, thank God. I open my banking app, already calculating how many shifts it’ll take to afford my own place after graduation.
Our apartment is the kind of mess that comes from a year of college life colliding with hasty packing. Alex’s room is half-empty, drawers hanging open like she left in a hurry (which she did, nearly missing her flight because we’d stayed up too late watching reality TV). There are still fairy lights strung across the living room from the party, twinkling mockingly at me in the afternoon sun.
“At least we didn’t get caught,” I mutter around a mouthful of pasta, then immediately knock on the wooden coffee table because I’m not taking any chances. The party started innocently enough—a small gathering to give Alex a stylish send-off. But then Ethan showed up with his “special punch,” and it all went toshit.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Troy’s contact photo pops up—a ridiculous selfie of us from his high school graduation, me on his shoulders wearing his cap.
