“I forget you have that guy from the city.Boyfriend or something more?”
I ignore her question.“What if my mom were visiting?”
“Is she?”
“No, she was here in July.But I put in my time off months ago.”
“Tell it to Ginger’s hangover.Come on, Carol.Double pay and tourists with fat wallets.Wear the green sweater.”
I look at my reflection.Dark hair, red lips, hopeful brown eyes I hate.“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Christmas Eve, on my way to work, I hum along with the choir when I pass the square and smell cinnamon on the air like the whole town is baking.But after last night, it all grates on my nerves.Tonight, I feel like the figurine trapped inside the snow globe, cute but stuck, just smiling while some giant hand shakes meuntil I’m dizzy.
Maybe Evervale glitters like it’s trying to distract us from how lonely Christmas really is.
Sno-Globes sits off the square, close enough to hear the bells, far enough that locals pretend it’s not part of the tourist trap.But it is.The sign’s a wooden board, carved with a busty reindeer with a wink.We have those inflatable igloos for folks to sit outside and freeze their asses off, because in Evervale we commit to the bit.Inside, we’re not just a regular bar Christmas threw up on.
Sno-Globes is far from regular.Name doesn’t just refer to the outdoor festive seating.It’s a double entendre.And the reason our sweaters dip lower than they should.
I step inside, and the familiar blast of warmth hitting me brightens my bad mood.It’s not the only thing.The aroma of spilled beer, pine cleaner, and the sticky-sweet peppermint we use in everything from martinis to sweet pretzel bites fills my senses.
I love it.The peppermint, that is.
The bar’s already packed, bodies shedding snow-covered coats while the speakers boom some old crooner promising a blue Christmas without you.Inside Sno-Globes, Christmas is overflowing, and my cheer instantly grows.
Gliding off my red coat, the room immediately gets much colder.Thankfully, I’m not working the patio.I slide behind the bar and tie on my candy-cane striped apron.My green elf sweater’s snug and low across my chest, the hem flirting with the black skirt I wore in the faint hope Blake might be inspired.Instead, I’m pouring joy for strangers.Maybe that’s better.Joy’s easier when it’s measured in ounces.
“Barmaid!”A tourist in a Fair Isle sweater waves like he’s hailing a rescue helicopter.“Three cocoa bombs, please.”
“Our famous flight?You got it,” I say, smiling like it’s my job because, well, it is.
Leaning over, I drop spheres of chocolate shaped like boobs into mugs and drown them in hot milk.They bloom into a yummy mix of sugar, marshmallows bobbing up like survivors.
“God bless you,” the tourist says, already filming for the ’gram.
Way overqualified to work here, I don’t have to worry about them getting my face in the picture.
“Merry Christmas,” I say and ring him up.
For a while it’s just hustle.I slide beers, shake candy-cane martinis, rim glasses with crushed peppermint that gets everywhere.The regulars nod.The strangers stare.My tip jar fattens, and my Christmas cheer stitches itself back together in small, sticky ways.
I’m good at this, reading moods, mixing medicine disguised as martinis, being the big-boobed big-smiled bartender trying to make a living, promising nothing and giving a little relief anyway.I can pretend I’m fine while I hand someone something that makes them think they are too.
Then he walks in, and the temperature drops a million degrees.
The biker eats the doorway, huge shoulders, leather jacket with the bottom edge dusted in snow.His hair’s grown in rough, shot through with gray that looks like it earned its place.Don’t forget that kind of face because it’s broken in interesting ways and healed harder.He takes off his gloves slowly, like every finger matters.Guy doesn’t look like he’s celebrating Christmas.He looks at the bar like it owes him money.
Biker takes the stool at the corner like he’s claiming territory.He doesn’t look at the twinkle lights strung along the ceiling, or the garland wrapped around the beer taps.Biker just scowls at it like Christmas personally insulted him.
I wipe down the counter in front of him.“Let me guess.Whiskey, neat.”
He looks up, eyes a dangerous shade between gray and storm cloud.“You psychic or just good at readin’ bad moods?”
“Bit of both.”I pour the shot.“You the kind of man who bites the head off gingerbread men for sport?”
He huffs, not quite a laugh.“Don’t do Christmas, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, I gathered.”I beam as the music changes.“Most people smile when ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ comes on.You look like you wanna strangle the radio.”
