Shrugging, I move some of the bottles around just to give my hands something to do. Aunt Gloria has always supported my interest in creating cocktails. My mom tells me it’s a waste of time and talent, that I could be creating real art and sharing it with the world. But there’s something about the science behind creating these drinks, the subtle touches and flair that transform simple elements into something beautiful. If all I’ll ever be is a ”lousy bartender,” my mom’s words, at least I’m committed to something that makes me happy.
“There’s something I want to ask you about.” Aunt Gloria sets her glass down.
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to say anything right away,” she begins, and I can feel my nerves twitch up, “but about the store… I want you to consider taking over it for me.”
What? My eyes snap to hers to confirm she’s not saying this with a smirk, not making a joke. She’s not smiling but her expression is sincere. “Aunt?—”
“Just… think about it, okay? I’m not cut out for these Midwest winters anymore. And you… well, just think about it.” She reaches out, placing her hand on my cheek, a loving gesture that shakes me from my stunned silence.
My aunt turns and walks away with a determined stride, leaving me to process her unexpected request. Take over thebookstore? The store that she poured her heart and soul into creating?
Fifteen years ago my uncle passed away while commuting from work, when the gate arm at the railway crossing failed to lower and his car was struck by the passing train. The wrongful death suit against the train company provided my aunt with enough funds to quit her mundane nine-to-five job and openEver After, her dream bookstore.
Beyond being a fun and caring aunt, Gloria is brave and courageous as hell. Starting over in her sixties couldn’t have been easy, but she took the challenge and ran with it. Asking me to take over the store feels like a privilege and an honor that I don’t deserve.
My brain is going a million miles a minute and I need something— anything to just calm me down. Picking up the bottle of bourbon, I begin to make another drink. Calling over to the group, I ask, “Anyone need a refill before I head out?”
The snowflakes are thick and heavy as I trudge along, and I can't help but curse the seemingly endless winter. When will this snow ever stop? As I walk, the sun begins to set, casting a cool orange glow on the horizon. Unfortunately, the clouds carrying this cursed white substance above us block our view of it.
As I round the corner, Penelope’s house comes into view, a familiar shape half a block away. I’ve only been here once before—after she vanished from Trivia Night, when I coaxed her address out of Aunt Gloria. I told myself I just wanted to check on her, to be sure she made it home. But the memory tugs at me now: Penelope framed in the glow of her front window, hairknotted into a hasty bun, drowning in soft pajamas. The sight had lodged in my chest and hasn’t quite let go.
I probably should’ve driven here, given how cold it is with the snow, and the fact that the drink shaker in my hand is giving me frostbite. But I need some time to process the bomb Gloria just dropped on me. She did it so casually too. Why are people like that? It’s distressing.
Pen’s house is adorable. There’s no other way to describe it. Somehow it's like a physical representation of her. She lives in a small bungalow with soft-yellow siding and white trim. Landscaping is sparse, but I don’t peg Pen for having a green thumb. A small, one-car garage is attached to the side of the house, and I can see her in the big front window. She’s perched in what must be a window-seat, with a pillow behind her back, her legs stretched out in front of her, and a sleepy dog sprawled over her legs. And of course, she’s reading a book.
The sight gives my heart a wistful tug. Pen doesn’t notice as I walk up her front path, step up on her front stoop, and ring her doorbell. Her dog gives a half-hearted “woowoowoo” before falling quiet.
“Oh! I wasn’t expecting you,” Penelope says as she opens the door. “Come in, it’s cold out.” She ushers me into the small entryway. When I say small, I mean so small that I have to duck slightly so I don’t knock into the light fixture hanging above us.
I take quick stock of her living room— the window seat, as I expected, a small sofa, coffee table, and dog bed fill the space. Piles of books are everywhere— the floor, the end table, the coffee table— and yet not a bookshelf in sight. The sleepy dog hasn’t moved from his space on the window seat; he’s lying on his back, paws in the air, looking at me upside down with a goofy grin on his face.
“Oh, that’s Carl.” Penelope laughs, stepping over to give the dog some belly rubs. In response, Carl’s tail goesthump thump thumpagainst the window.
“He’s cute.”
My eyes land on Pen and, damn, it’s really hard not to blatantly stare at how beautiful she looks. She’s wearing pajama pants, an oversized sweatshirt, and her dark-blonde hair is twisted up in a bun on top of her head.
She’s so damn beautiful it hurts.
“You can take your shoes off,” Pen says, gesturing to the mat in the entryway.
Shaking my head, I say, “I’m not staying.”
“Oh. Um, okay.” She crosses her arms over her chest and bites her lip. “Why are you here?”
“Do you have a glass?”
Confused, Pen furrows her brow. “You walked all the way here to ask if I have a glass?”
Sighing, I hold up the drink mixer. “So I can pour this out?”
“Er, yeah. Sure.” She disappears down the long hall to the end, where I’m assuming the kitchen is. Cabinets open and close, there’s some shuffling, and then Pen shouts, “Do you need a specific glass or?—”
“Any glass will do.”
Within a moment, Penelope’s striding back down the hall and I have a sudden urge to set down the drink mixer and take her into my arms. She looks so warm and soft. I wonder if I wrapped my arms around her and buried my nose in that spot on her neck, what she would smell like? If I sucked the skin there, what noises would she make?
