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“Okay, okay. I’m done. Lo siento, mi pequeña bootie-butt.” He squeezed her on the shoulder.
“I hate it when you call me that.”
“No, you don’t.” He hip bumped her on his way to the bathroom, knowing damn well he could defuse any situation with her by using his native tongue.
She bit back her grin and cracked open the window. The misty Seattle air carried a trace of fresh laundry from the mat two buildings down. Normally, by this time in the year, she was fully over the rain. The heavy gray clouds that felt like a protective blanket in the fall lost their magic by May. But today, she welcomed the cover.
When Remi had started at Nueve’s, a moderately upscale Puerto Rican bar and restaurant in downtown Seattle, four years ago, she had one goal—become the head bartender. She kept her salty attitude in check, a begrudging smile on her face, and worked her way up from prep to day bartender, to night bartender, and now to senior. She’d earned the title of Head Bartender,dammit. And finally, it was hers.
Mist drifted through the window. She slammed it shut and hand-washed the remaining dishes. She hung a mug back on the hook next to the sunflower-yellow fridge that was probably built with a combo of lead, resin, and formaldehyde, and waited for Ben to finish in the bathroom.
Once his bedroom door closed in the distance, she stepped into the shower and double-checked that no loose tiles were scattered across the floor. Last week, she’d cut her toe on the edge of a chunk that had detached. She almost called the landlord to replace it but refrained. After thatone little incidenton the stairs last month which really wasn’t her fault this time, that resulted in a broken railing, a broken pinkie (not hers), and the third threat of eviction in a year, she was not so sure that the landlord would move swiftly to fix anything.
The heated water of the shower calmed her excitement and nerves, and she whistled.
Whistled.Remi didn’t whistle.
Knuckles rapped against the door.Ugh.Top requirement for their new home: two bathrooms. “No,” she yelled as she rinsed the conditioner from her hair. “Didn’t you already pee? Use the kitchen sink if you still gotta go.”
“That’s disgusting,” he shouted through the door. “Heading out for a run. Be back in an hour.”
After a full body scrub and a twenty-minute hair-diffusing process, she flopped on her bed and pulled out her laptop. Carefully opening it, she sent a quick thankful prayer to the electronic gods that a decade after the Seattle high school district gave kids like her a free laptop, this baby still ran.
Two bedrooms, one bath.Nope, need more bathrooms. Next. Three bedrooms, two baths, south side.Nope, too expensive.Next. Two beds, one-and-a-half bath.Nope, not residential enough.She scrolled through the local listings and scribbled notes down about houses she liked. Then she froze. Right in front of her lay her future via a quaint, mid-century brick bungalow nestled directly in the University of Washington “U District.” She scanned the details—three bedrooms, one-and-a-half bath, pink-tiled bathroom, cement basement, and original hardwood floors.
It. Was. Perfect.
Rolling her neck, she made her way into the kitchen and reached for her relaxation stack. She lined up bottles of vodka, gin, vermouth, liqueurs, and other staples across the burnt-orange ceramic counter, and visualized herself doing this in her new home. Next, she laid out bitters, basil, mint, oranges, lemons, lime, sparkling sodas, and miniature juice bottles. She sniffed each one, in different orders, and arranged them like a boozy puzzle. Maybe mixing three-quarters of vodka with a one-eighth of orange liqueur and one-eighth of elderflower liqueur could work. What if she warmed fresh-squeezed orange juice in a pan and added smashed basil with a touch of fine sugar?
Lost in her trance, Remi transformed into a mixology scientist. Her cheeks puckered at the scent of the freshly squeezed lime she added to the glass. In her alcohol-free mixing glass, she layered lavender syrup with club soda, grated a bit of orange zest on top, and sipped. The sweet tang hit her tongue, and she rolled the liquid in her mouth. Nope, not enough orange. She squeezed a bit more of the citrus and a teaspoon of vanilla.
“Uck.” The drink only needed a kiss of vanilla, and the added teaspoon turned it into a vanilla tsunami.
In her booze tunnel, as Ben called it, she barely heard him come in until the metallic sound of keys hitting the counter next to her almost made her knock over her glass. “Dude. Really? I swear to God sometimes I want to pluck your lungs out through your eyeballs. You scared the crap out of me.”
He snatched the keys and flipped them in his fingers. “You literally suck the fun out of life. You’re like the opposite of a life straw. You’re a death draw.” He grabbed milk from the fridge, sniffed it, and then drank from the carton.
She didn’t even bother chiding him.
The scent of muddled cucumber filled the room. She added a small measure of vodka and orange liqueur, shook, then double-strained into a glass. Two lemon zest swipes were added on top. She held the drink to her nose and inhaled. The burn of the booze was subtle, almost like a fog settling on top of a more powerful, colorful scent.
She handed the glass to Ben. “I need a sip test.”
He put the milk back in the fridge and wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. “It’s barely after noon.”
“It’s happy hour somewhere. Come on. I think this might be good.” Did being a bartender who didn’t drink have some disadvantages? Perhaps. But to her, sobriety was a superpower. Focusing on the smells and mixer pairings allowed her to be creative with accompaniments she may have otherwise ignored.
Ben rinsed his mouth with water, then brought the glass to his lips. He took a small sip and handed it back.
“Well?” she asked.
“Good stuff.”
Satisfied, she grinned.
Ben was fiercely honest, sometimes to a brutal fault. So, when he said something was good, he meant it. He hung his jacket in the closet and moved toward the hall. “Gonna hop in the shower. If you’re gone before I get out, kick some juicy bootie today.”
“Thanks.” She put away her loot and checked the time. One hour left before she could start the rest of her life.
