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I shrug easily. “You’ll obviously have to find another bar to drink at.”
A loud bark of laughter echoes along the empty bar. I watch eagerly as he picks up the glass, lifting it silently in cheers before taking a generous sip.
His eyes shine with pleasant shock. “Holy fuck, Henley. This might be the best sours I’ve ever had, and I’m not just blowing smoke to try to get you to fuck me.”
“Thanks.” I laugh. “I think. People sub ingredients on the cheap, or they use college marketed mixers. It’s blasphemy. Cocktails are an art.”
“Well.” He takes another hefty swallow. “You should be revered.”
“They should also be sipped,” I tell him, my brows pinching together. “Not slung like a shot.”
Tipping the last mouthful of my hour's work down his throat, he places the empty glass in front of me gently.
“You said you’d buy me another . . .” The side of his mouth quirks upward.
“We’ll share a simple beverage, andifwe decide our conversation hasn’t yet finished, maybe I’ll letyoubuy me one.”
As he leans back on the barstool he’s perched upon, his entire face lights up in amusement. “Has anyone ever told you you’re quirky as fuck?”
Brooks's smile flashes across my eyelids as I blink, and I distract myself by pouring two shots of tequila. “It’s a curse.”
He takes the salt on offer, dusting a small line across his hand as I move his shot toward him. “I’d say more of a gift.”
Licking the salt off my skin, I tip the shot back, grimacing as I grab a slice of lime to suck on. “If you say so.”
I watch the line of his throat swallow as the tequila rushes down it, an almost indecipherable scowl at the taste before he sucks leisurely on a wedge of lime.
“Lick, shoot, suck.” I pour another, tapping my shot glass against his before swallowing the potent liquid.
“You’re a native New Yorker,” I say on a grimace.
“What gave me away?” he whispers, sliding the second empty shot glass across the bar.
“Buggin’,” I tell him. “And the accent.Tawwk,” I attempt to replicate the cadence in his voice, and his head tips back with a loud laugh aimed toward the ceiling.
“Where are you from?”
“Nowhere,” I tell him honestly. “Everywhere.”
“You’re American,” he pushes, and I nod and shrug, the answer noncommittal.
“I live like a gypsy. I belong nowhere.”
He frowns. “You have to belong somewhere. A place in the world you can be unequivocallyyou.”
How do I tell him the place in the world I feel unequivocallymeisn’t a location. It’s not anywhere you can pinpoint on a map.
It's someone.
A person.
A heart of another that brings me peace. That also brings me turmoil.
“Nowhere,” I lie.
“Family?” he prods.
“None.”
