Will visibly shudders. “That’s somehow worse.”
I shake my head, walking past him, and leaving him to deal with what he does best.
Behind me, I hear him mutter, “God help me, I’m going to have to disinfect the whole damn bar.”
“So he’s like Batman.”
Demi pops a grape into her mouth with the same ease most people reserve for commenting on the weather, not unpacking a weekend murder confession.
I blink at her. “No. Not Batman. Batman doesn’t kill people.”
“Are you sure?” She lifts a shoulder, unconcerned. “Okay, The Punisher, then.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Demi.”
She leans forward, eyes lighting up. “Wait. Hold on. Did he kill someone while you were on your date? Like, mid-pancake challenge? Did he just get up, murder a guy, and come back all, ‘Hey babe, wanna head to the next stop on my sexy as hell motorcycle?’”
I stare at her.
She glows with amusement. “That’s a yes.”
“Notmid-date. I mean, technically we were still on the date, but I wasn’tthere… just nearby…allegedly.”
Demi sighs dramatically and slouches back into the couch. “Lame. Would’ve been more exciting if you got to watch. A fucking rapist? I’d have asked to do it myself.”
I throw a pillow at her. She cackles.
Across the living room, I spot my mom at the bar cart she just bought “me” for my birthday, humming as she experiments with her latest questionable cocktail. Her short, tousled dark hair—laced with unapologetic gray—looks effortlessly stylish. She’s tall and athletic that makes people assume she once played competitive tennis or hiked remote trails. But her confidence doesn’t come from adventure or sports. It’s just who she is.
She waves a hand at us while the otherpours vodka into something that looks suspiciously like darkened pureed watermelon.
“Girls, I’m telling you, this is going to be the next big thing. Came up with it last weekend at Gloria’s lake house. She threw one of her ‘Sangria and Seniors’ parties.”
Dabbing her finger and tasting her concoction, she smacks her lips. “Oh, that’s good.”
I side-eye Demi, who perks up instantly. “Oh! Tell me about it?”
“Oh, yes,” she stirs, adding a dash more of black licorice?What else would be black?“Everyone talked a big tequila game, but by nine, half of them were barefoot in the grass, belting Cher’s greatest hits. Anyway, one of the new gals helped me concoct this drink, and let me tell you—theylovedit.”
“Name it, Marilyn,” she challenges, pointing at my mom.
Mom lifts the shaker proudly. “The Black Velvet Meltdown.”
Demi holds out her hand. Fingers wiggling. “Pour me one.”
I groan. “Demi, for the love of God, she just made that up five seconds ago.”
“And? You know I live for this.”
I shake my head. “I’ll pass. The memories of the Chartreuse are still too fresh.”
Mom rubs some glittery sugar on the rim of the martini glass and hands it over to Demi.
No matter what life throws my mother’s way, she finds a way to turn it into a good time. Tornado warning? Marilyn’s making cocktails by candlelight. Car trouble? She’s befriending the tow truck driver. The woman has never met a stranger.
Demi takes a sip, considers, then nods approvingly. “Ten out of ten, Marilyn. Would black out again.”
Mom beams. “I knew you’d love it.”
