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The roar is loud as I hold on to her. I have to get comfortable with this feeling of being off-center. It will be a long night, and it’s only just begun. I have to get past the idea that I’m not in control of my thoughts and emotions around her. That she’s different. That something has happened here that will require a reckoning.
As our bodies press together and that full-body overwhelm comes over me a second time, I plan to say to her, “I’ll do the cocktails, you man the blenders.”
Or maybe even, “You’ve been an epic help. I’ll figure out how to split the take.”
But what comes out instead is, “Will you stay awhile after we shut down the bar?”
She tilts her chin up to look at me. “The strong, surly native is asking to see more of the tiny, bouncy tourist?”
It’s a saucy question, but I have to push forward or I’ll melt back into that astonishment and panic I felt after the kiss. “He is.”
Her expression is full of mischief, but I’m not making it past her lips, anyway. If I’m headed to doom, then I might as well take the first step.
Her grin makes the ground shift beneath my feet. “The tourist says yes.”
When midnight comes, the party is going strong, but it’s closing time. We work through last call, and then I pull down the metal shutters as Tillie loads the last round of glasses into the dishwasher.
“Did you pay Pete and Bodeen?” she asks.
“Yeah. They killed themselves, but they made a haul.”
She shuts the dishwasher door and punches the buttons. “Okay, good.”
I close the last shutter and lock it. It’s immediately stuffy, so I turn on the oscillating fan hanging in the center of the roof. Normally by the time I close, all the shutdown work is done. But tonight, we made drink rounds right to the bitter end.
Mom stopped by to kiss my head and Tillie’s cheek. Tillie’s sister came by to introduce herself with her baby girl.
Anya, Morrie, and Chuck are on the beach somewhere. Mendo missed the competition, but showed up a couple of hours ago to hang out and hear all the details from our friends.
I rinse out the sink while Tillie dumps a few leftover fruit preps into the compost. I’m nervous. I asked her to stay, and now I don’t know what to do with her.
“Should we have a drink?” she asks. “Or are you the type of bartender who doesn’t partake of his own creations?”
“I’m good for that.”
She hops on the counter. “What should we make? I don’t think I’ll be able to look at another lava flow for a year.”
I nod. “I’m not going to want to make another mermaid sunrise for a long time.”
“Good thing it’s not on the menu.”
“Exactly.”
I want to impress her, but how do you surprise someone who’s at the top of her game?
Then I remember something. I open one of the back cabinets and pull out a high-end bottle of Japanese gin.
“Hey, you were holding out on me!” Tillie cries.
“These bottles aren’t for customers.”
“But I get some?” She tilts her head, completely carefree with her easy smile.
I feel like I’m made of rocks, bumbling around like I can’t find my own feet.
But I manage to sound somewhat smooth. “Absolutely.” I pull two shallow coupe glasses from the far end of the rack. They’re dainty and fragile, etched with the outline of lilies. I pour gin in each without measuring, then move to the fridge for the bin of limes. I squeeze a quarter wedge in each glass, then garnish it with a spiral slice.
I hand her a coupe.
