Wyatt
Several days after the town hall meeting, I sit in a conference room at Pelican Point's municipal building wondering what fresh hell awaits me. The mayor has called an emergency meeting for all beverage category contestants, which in this town means me, Merri, the kombucha lady who always smells like fermented feet, and Gerald from that pretentious smoothie shop on the beach.
The room is depressing with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, beige walls that haven't had a fresh coat of paint since the Clinton administration, and a conference table that's seen better decades. Honestly, the briefing rooms in Afghanistan were better. Plus, there's a water-stained ceiling tile bulging ominously above my head, and I'm half-convinced it's going to fall on me before this meeting is over. Wouldn’t Merri love that?
The door opens and in strolls the brat, looking annoyingly sexy in her standard work outfit of khaki shorts, brewery t-shirt, and work boots. Merri’s long hair is pulled back in a ponytail and her sunglasses are perched on top of her head. She spots me immediately and her lip curls in a sneer.
"Dalton."
"Gallagher."
My voice comes out flat, emotionless. We've moved to one-word responses since the Fairy Tale Kisses incident, which, for the record, still has people asking me about other possible seasonal blends. Yesterday, a woman from Orlando called to order six bags for her daughter's birthday party. I had to explain for the millionth time that the blend doesn't exist and never fucking will.
Merri's been insufferably smug about the whole thing. Every time I see her, she's got this little smirk on her face as if she's won the lottery. It makes me want to dump an entire pitcher of beer over her head.
She takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, as far from me as physically possible. Good. The farther away she is, the less I can smell that citrusy perfume that has no business being so damned distracting.
Gerald, the smoothie guy, arrives next, dressed in his standard board shorts and a t-shirt that has more holes than a block of Swiss cheese. The kombucha woman, whose name I can never remember, strides in wearing Birkenstocks and a tie-dye shirt. She smells like vinegar today, which is actually an improvement.
Mayor Snyder enters last, followed by the same woman who attended last week’s meeting. She’s dressed in a power suit and cradles a leather portfolio against her chest as if it contains nuclear codes. The mayor looks nervous, which immediately sets me on edge. In my experience, nervous politicians mean bad news.
"Thank you for coming in," the mayor begins, his smile tight. "You all remember Ms. Mitchell from last week’s meeting?"
We all nod politely. Ms. Mitchell doesn't smile. I’d swear the woman eats nails for breakfast and washes them down with the tears of struggling writers. I wonder if she spent time in themilitary as I’ve seen the same expression on a number of drill instructors.
"I’ll cut to the chase," Ms. Mitchell says, her voice as sharp as her cheekbones. "We've decided to restructure the competition to implement collaborations within certain categories that will better reflect the innovative spirit of this coastal community."
I shift in my seat, not liking where this is going. Across the table, Merri’s scowl says she feels the same.
"That’s why we’ve called you in today. As beverage has four entrants, we’ve created the Innovative Beverage Collaboration category."
The room is so quiet, you could hear a whisper in the next county.
"I'm sorry," Gerald says. "Did you say collaborations?"
"Yes." Ms. Mitchell's expression doesn't change. "In particular, our research team was intrigued by the dynamic between The Sassy Siren Brewery and Recon Roasters at last week’s meeting." She glances between me and Merri. "Social media analytics for Pelican Point show significant engagement around your two businesses, in particular, your public feud."
"But that’s just Merri and Wyatt," Gerald replies, adjusting the loose collar of his threadbare t-shirt. "What about me and MaryJo?"
"We believe you and MaryJo would be a great counterpart. Your two teams would compete against each other in this new category."
I jerk upright in my chair. Has this woman lost every marble in her head? Working with Merri Gallagher would be like being handcuffed to a live grenade.
"Wait. Are you saying you expect me and Wyatt to work together?" Merri's voice climbs about three octaves.
"That’s exactly what I’m saying," Ms. Mitchell replies. "We want you and Wyatt to create something entirely new,combining the best of your businesses. In particular, a coffee beer."
I choke on my own spit. "A what?"
"We’ll let you determine exactly what style you want, but it has to be a collaboration." She says this like she hasn't just suggested we merge water and oil. "The same goes for Gerald and MaryJo. We will expect a tropical kombucha smoothie collaboration."
"This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I say flatly, panic setting in.
"Agreed," Merri says. Her face is pale except for two spots of color high on her cheeks. I know that expression, I’ve seen it a thousand times. She’s furious.
For once, we're on the same side, and it's unsettling.
"I think it’s a great idea," Gerald, the ass-kisser, pipes up as he nudges a tense MaryJo. “I’m sure we could come up with an award-winning combination, right?” MaryJo gives him an annoyed side glance, looking like she’d rather be any place but here.
