The bar fills up fast, faster than I'm prepared for. There's a whole line of people wanting drinks, and suddenly I'm supposed to know what aWhiskey Souris.
I pour whiskey into a glass.
I stare at it.
Is it sour yet?
Devon rescues me again, adding lemon juice and simple syrup like it's obvious, which maybe it is to people who aren't having a breakdown.
"You're panicking." He says it quietly, matter-of-fact.
"I'm not."
"Your eye's twitching."
Fuck, is it? I press my palm against my face. "This was a terrible idea. Why did I agree to this?"
"Because you're a good person who wants to help." He squeezes my shoulder. "Breathe. Nobody's died."
"Yet."
"Yet," he agrees, already moving on to the next customer.
I'm mixing something that's supposed to be a vodka cranberry—hard to fuck that up,I hope—when Groover walks in with Jinx and Snooze trailing behind him. Groover spots me, and his face splits into the kind of grin that means I'm about to be mocked relentlessly.
"Well, well, well." He leans against the bar, taking in my probably-panicked expression. "How's it going, bartender?"
"Fuck off."
"That's not good customer service."
"You're not a customer." I slide him a beer bottle. "Here. Drink and shut up."
Wall appears next, towering over everyone. He orders a tap beer—that fucker—and I grab a glass with something that might be confidence but is probably just denial.
I tilt. Pour.
The glass is half-filled, giving me a false sense of security before the tap coughs and foam explodes everywhere. The glass is maybe fifteen percent beer, eighty-five percent foam, and there's foam on the bar, foam on my hands, foam on my shirt. It's like the beer tap vomited.
Wall stares at the glass. Then at me. Then back at the glass.
"Impressive," he says finally, failing to conceal a grin.
"Don't."
"No, I mean it. That takes skill. You've created something that defies the laws of physics."
Devon's laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the back counter. "How did you— That shouldn't be possible."
"I hate you both." I dump the foam-glass in the sink and start over.
This time it's better. Marginally. At least there's some actual beer in there.
"See?" Devon wipes his eyes. "You're learning."
Hendrix has been uncharacteristically quiet up until now, perched on the end of the bar watching everything with those beady little eyes that definitely contain sinister intent. He's bobbing his head to the music playing overhead, occasionally letting out a quiet "What the puuuck?" like he's commentating on the chaos.
Mama Paws walks past with one of the dogs—the terrier mix who doesn't believe in personal space—and Hendrix ruffles his feathers importantly.
