I laughed out loud. Tiff was a tough love kind of woman, and I loved her all the more for it.
Fifteen minutes later, she was buzzing me up to her apartment, and when I walked in, she was already preparing a cocktail.
“Tiff, you’re off the clock; you don’t need to.” Even when she wasn’t working, she was playing bartender.
A stern look crossed Tiff’s angular face, her features as sharp as her tongue. “Fuck off. We’re celebrating.”
I dropped onto her couch. “Ok. What are we celebrating?”
“That I get the pleasure of your company instead of that loser.”
Tiffany poured an amber liquid into two short, thick tumblers that I knew from experience were as heavy as they looked and then added a fat, square ice cube to each. Honestly, I’d never met anyone more born for their job than Tiff. She was not only a fantastic mixologist, but she was a great listener with a directness I appreciated. Working in sales for so many years had given me a keen sense for bullshit, and Tiff was as blunt as they came. There was compassion beneath it, which she’d deny, but I knew her to be loyal and protective.
Her apartment wasn’t huge, a converted loft space with a single bedroom and exposed brick. But the open living and kitchen area was cozy, and Tiff had replaced the dining table with a bar cart and liquor cabinet. There was no real rhyme or reason to the decor, lots of brass and copper and bottles, and I knew her couch was scored second hand from an apartment block downtown. But it was comfortable and real, precisely like Tiff. No pretense, no time-wasting. There was nothing in her apartment that wasn’t functional. Tiff didn’t care for useless trinkets or having anything “just for show” as she said. During the summer, we’d sometimes visit the markets, and she’d spend at least seventy percent of the time complaining about every decorative piece I bought until she came across some antique cocktail shaker, and then she’d be in heaven.
She brought the drinks over and sat next to me on the couch. We mirrored each other with our feet tucked up, and our bodies turned towards each other. As she settled, a strand of her thick, long blonde hair fell into her face, and she brushed it back into position. She’d added a geometric design into the asymmetrical undercut on the left side of her head.
“Your hair looks good.”
“Thanks, I just did it today.” She traced over the lines, pleased. “The design took forever, but it turned out pretty great in the end.” Her glass clinked against mine. “Cheers.”
Rich, velvety bourbon spread through me as I took a sip. It was good. Really, really good. Familiar, but not. “Old fashioned?”
“Yep, with a spin. I swapped out the angostura and syrup with creme de cacao and peach bitters. I also tried that new bourbon you gave me.”
“The Grumpy Sailor?” The distillery was one of my clients and another reason Tiff and I got along so well. I provided the spirits; she crafted the drinks.
“That’s the one. It’s got a good flavor profile. I’m telling Harry tomorrow we’re adding it to the shelf.”
Harry owned The Basement but had done the smart thing and left the running of it to Tiff, who was a one-woman show. I mean, you don’t get crowned Chicago’s best bartender three years in a row for nothing.
Besides, Harry might have been good with numbers, but he knew shit about drinks. How he came to open a bar was anyone’s guess.
I took another sip, recognizing the flavors more clearly now. “It’s amazing. As is the company. Thank you for rescuing me from my date.”
She waved me off. “It’s the least I could do. So, what happened?”
“The divorce happened.” I grimaced.
“Brad still fucking things up for you even from the afterlife?”
“He’s not dead, Tiff.”
She gestured with her drink, voice firm as she spoke. “He’s dead to us.” After another sip, she asked, “So, he got weird about the divorce?”
“That’s putting it mildly. He went from sixty to zero as soon as I mentioned it.”
“What an ass.”
“I don’t know. He genuinely seemed like a nice guy before then. I just wish it didn’t matter. That I could be honest and not play any of these dating games.” My head dropped back against the couch. “It’s so exhausting.”
“Amen to that.”
“Maybe I should just keep being single. I don’t know if I have it in me to date.”
“Uh, excuse me, but fuck that. I could go to the bar right now and find at least five guys who would easily sleep with you. One idiot shouldn’t turn you off completely.” Her smile turned sly. “You know, it’s still early. You could see if someone’s up for a booty call.”
I laughed. “Okay, I’ve only just started getting out there again. I hardly think I’m ready to be double-dipping in a single night.”
