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“But what am I saving it for?”
“You don’t know?” She watches me curiously. “Did you plan to work this beach hut to old age? It’s not a bad gig, for sure. But is it your dream?”
And now we come to the real crux of everything. My whole life rushes at me in an unsettling swoop. Aimless. Untethered. “I take each day as it comes. You’re doing better than me at planning already.”
She laughs. “Right. I can barely pay rent. Don’t listen to me. I like to spin ideas. Doesn’t make them good.”
Everything she’s said so far has been sound advice. She should be more confident about her skills.
She starts pulling bottles off the shelf. She squats low, rummaging through the liquor. When she looks up at me with fire in her eyes at the possibilities, I can’t even speak.
I’m sunk. It’s happening. Right now, in my bar. I can finally see what’s next. Us, making cocktails. Working together. Living together.
Being together, always.
Never in my life have I seen my future like this.
Why her? Why now?
But I know. It’s how we fit. Our being together isn’t hard. It isn’twork. No treachery. No posturing. Just sand, sun, cocktails, and sex.
We match.
And the realization that she’s the one, the woman who has pushed me out of my dead zone, who’s got me looking forward to a future, comes at a price.
Because there is no way to make this work.
I’ve figured it out, only to have to let her go when she returns home.
The universe really has it out for me.
She has no idea my thoughts are so heavy as she lets out a happy squeal at her discoveries among the bottles. “Can I get a highball glass with ice?”
I’m happy to escape my own thoughts. “Coming right up.”
She examines her choices on the bar. “Where did you learn the trade?”
I force myself to focus on her question and set everything else aside. “One of the resort bars. We had highly specific recipe cards to memorize, and we never strayed.”
“That’s no fun.” Tillie measures coffee liqueur into the glass. She works concisely, with minimal extraneous movement. I see how she can manage a busy bar on her own. She knows exactly how quickly to fill a shot glass for a perfect pour. I’m surprised she needs to measure.
She must read my thoughts, because she says, “I’ve never worked with this liqueur. I want to measure so that I can adjust the next one if I get it wrong.”
She locates a bottle of bitters and adds only a drop. “Bar spoon?” she asks, and I smile as I open the drawer.
“Not for amateurs today?”
“I can’t use a cherry in this drink. It’s too serious.”
“A serious drink.” I pass her the spoon. “With your surgical precision, this feels like the bar version ofGrey’s Anatomy.”
Her face lights up. “I love that show. Which characters would we be?”
“Dr.McDreamy, of course.”
“Hmm. I can’t picture myself with hair as short as his, but I do rock the curls.” She grins up at me, and my chest catches.
“I guess I’ll fall upon the sword, then. But you’ll have to be my Meredith Grey.”
