“Scraps or not, the corned beef special sounds right up my alley,” Lark purred.
“And here, I’d think she was the Irish one.” The bartender grinned, nodding to Tabitha.
“Not everyone with red hair is Irish, you know,” Tabitha mumbled, glancing down at her menu.
“Don’t mind her. We had a long drive,” Lark excused behind her hand in a mock whisper. “She’s a little cranky when she’s hungry. Or tired. Or stressed. Or . . . come to think of it you’re always a little cranky with me.”
The bartender chuckled and rested his tattooed forearms on the bar. Leaning in close to Lark he teased, “Ever consider it’s ayouthing?”
“Not a chance, babe. I’m a delight.”
“I’m inclined to agree.” He winked and continued. “Welcome to The Rooftop Tavern. I’m Kendrick, the owner of this well-loved establishment. It’ll be my pleasure serving you ladies. What are you drinking? Beer? Wine? Shots, perhaps?”
“I’m Lark, and I’m sober, so I’ll take a root beer,” Lark said happily.
Tabitha glanced over to her companion. “I didn’t know you were sober.” But then why would she have known that? They got along on assignments and chit-chatted at work events, but they’d never met for happy hour or made plans outside of work. And even if they had, the chaotic, terminally bubbly photographer wasn’t exactly the type of woman Tabitha would have become super close with. “Earlier in the RV you said—”
“I was messing with you. I’m proud of my sobriety, but don’t go around announcing it to the masses. Plus, you’d be shook if you knew everything about me. But”—she glanced around with mock drama—“this isn’t the time or place.”
“What about you, Lark’s friend,” Kendrick teased. “What’ll you have?”
“Tabitha. I’ll take a root beer too.”
Kendrick took their food orders and poured a couple draft root beers. The creamy, vanilla-hinted soda enveloped Tabitha’s tastebuds. It had been years since she’d had one, decades even. Not since before she started competing. She’d given up a lot of things once she’d gotten serious about climbing.
Sugar for the sake of sugar.
Fried foods.
Spending time with girlfriends.
Dating.
Except for that one time.
And even though she no longer competed, the discipline stuck.
“It wouldn’t have bothered me if you had a drink, ya know. Wouldn’t want to keep you from enjoying yourself.”
“Nah. It’s fine. I need to be at my best tomorrow morning anyway.” Her glass paused halfway to her lips as Lark scoffed. “What?”
“I’m trying to picture what ‘not at your best’ would even look like on you, but I’m drawing a blank.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Tabitha worked hard to project a certain air of togetherness in public. It’d been a habit ingrained in her from a young age. It was crucial to play your cards close to your chest because you never knew when someone might use them against you. She could easily count on one hand (with a few fingers left over) the number of people who had seen her out of sorts.
And of the two, one disappeared from her life without warning many years ago.
“Nothing, I guess.” Lark took a pull of her soda and shrugged. “As long as it serves you.”
For a long time it had, but for a flicker, Tabitha thought that maybe it no longer did. It had been necessary in her climbing career. The pattern carried over into her journalism career and afforded her job security. But would that be true after this trip? And if she didn’t prove herself a valuable asset toR ‘n’ Rand they let her go, would all that effort matter anyway? Had she wasted too much of her life trying to be her very best? Never allowing her messy humanity to show?
“Ketchup? BBQ? Tartar sauce?” Kendrick’s inquiry chased away the urge to dissect her existential crisis. Tabitha turned back to her drink and the steaming hot plates of food placed before them. The savory scent of the freshly fried onion rings had her stomach rumbling. She relished the sensation of an easy problem to solve: hunger.
“Yes to all of it. I’m a dipper.” Lark laughed and smacked Tabitha’s arm like they were sharing some inside joke only one of them had been privy to.
Kendrick patted the glossy wood bar and strode away.
Tabitha wasted no time picking up a hot, battered ring. She sunk her teeth into the crunchy golden coating and moaned as the sweet pop of onion joined the party. Though it was borderline too hot and scalding her tongue, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She was lost in the pleasure, the taboo of consuming something so decadent. Kendrick returned with a large plate covered in sauce-filled cups, and Tabitha plunged a half-eaten onion ring into the nearest one before the plate settled on the table. The spicy, creamy dip enhanced the onion’s natural sweetness.
