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WEDNESDAY NIGHT
(Three days before the wedding)
THE GREAT THING ABOUT TEQUILA IS THAT IT’S NOT JUST A DRINK.IT’S ANactivity.
Lick. Shoot. Suck.
Salt. Tequila. Lime.
And an activity is something we desperately need.
Earlier this afternoon Sybil and I dropped our bags in the cottage we’re sharing, at least until she marries Jamie on Saturday—then I’ll bunk with Nikki. Her eyes had gone wide when I fanned out four identical, laminated copies of our itinerary on the white oak coffee table.
“Emma, this is so… thorough.” And it was.
Complimentary hotel golf carts arrive at 7:10 p.m. Disembark at the Pelican Club at 7:25 p.m. Enjoy sunset and take photos 7:30 p.m.–8:00 p.m. Seated for dinner at 8:15 p.m.
Some might call it anal, but I just call it being prepared.
We had been progressing right on schedule. Five-star dinner: check. Oceanfront views: check. But now, a lull seems to have settled over our party. Full bellies and weak drinks will do that to you. Nikki has been sipping the same glass of rosé for an hour, while Willow nurses a nonalcoholic black pepper mango spritz. And Sybil has barely touched the rosewater and pistachio martini the bartender spent ten minutes concocting.
I covertly glance at my phone. It’s only nine forty-five. This is bordering on pathetic. We’re four women in our prime. Well, that is, if you consider “prime” to mean heartbroken (Nikki), pregnant (Willow), and possibly about to be fired (me). But no one can deny that Sybil is a woman in her prime, and this night was supposed to be about her. The wedding had come together in such a whirlwind that we didn’t have time for arealbachelorette, but I had at least hoped that the Core Four coming to Malibu a day early for the festivities would allow us one unforgettable night to toast away Sybil’s singledom. After mentally flipping through my itinerary of activities for the evening to see if there was anything I could shuffle around to revive our flagging group, there was only one option.
“I’m going to get us tequila shots!” I stand and adjust the sweetheart neckline of my most recently purchased Reformation sundress, brushing at the wrinkles.
Nikki perks up a bit. “I would do a shot.”
“We’re all going to do one. It’s tradition.” We do shots whenever one of us has a big win or life event. We did them when Nikki got picked to go on the reality showLovedBy, when I got my first big design job, when Willow got married last year. I’d even scheduled it to make sure we didn’t forget:11:15 p.m. tequila shots. We had to have shots for Sybil’s wedding. She may have been engaged three times, but she’s only going to get married once. “Sybil, you’re drinking Willow’s too. I’ll be right back, and then we can play the game!”
Sybil’s eyes narrow. “What game?”
“It was on the itinerary!” I call over my shoulder, already halfway to the bar. “You’re gonna love it.”
The bartender—a white guy in his early thirties—is fairly cute, if only in a this-bun-and-beard-make-up-most-of-my-identity kind of way. I flash the smile that’s worked on bartenders since I was a freshman at the University of Texas trying to convince them that I actuallywasCarly Mulherin, twenty-two and from Elk City, Oklahoma, not Emma Townsend, an eighteen-year-old Pi Phi from Dallas with a $120 fake ID. It’s been a decade since those desperate days, but we need to get this show on the road, so I crank the charm to eleven.
“My friend Willow says the spritz you made her is the best drink she’s had since finding out she was pregnant,” I tell him, even though what Willowactuallysaid was that it tasted like air freshener and she’d kill for a moscato. Drying a wineglass, the bartender just nods, so I plow ahead. No use wasting charm on an unreceptive audience. “Four tequila shots, please.” While I wait for the bartender to pour our drinks, I take a moment to look at the material of the bar. It’s a bone-colored marble witha sleek waterfall edge that adds a much-needed tension with the more boho vibes of the rest of the decor. I’m surprised that it’s still in such good shape after being outside in the elements. I don’t usually recommend using marble outdoors to my clients since it’s so soft. Maybe it’s brand-new, otherwise I need to ask what sealant they used.
“Unfortunately, I can’t serve shots.”
I look up from the marble. “Pardon?”
“It’s against the hotel’s policy.” He seems entirely too pleased to be telling me the hotel’s policy on alcoholic portioning. I feel the flicker of a challenge, and I fixate on it. I haven’t had a ton of wins lately, but I’m not going back to our table without these shots. We’re going to celebrate Sybil whether this bartender wants to help or not.
“What about four tequilas, neat,” I ask, and shift my smile from friendly to conspiratorial. He looks like he’s about to refuse, so I follow with a kill shot. “That man at the table by the firepit has a glass of whiskey. Neat. It really wouldn’t be fair for us not to have our tequilas neat. Would it?”
He gives me a look that says he isn’t particularly impressed, but must decide it’s not worth the fight.
“I can give you sipping tequila,” he says tightly, turning to the collection of bottles behind him. Instead of pouring the alcohol into shot glasses, he lines up four tulip-shaped glasses.
“This is an aged añejo. On the nose, you’ll find a soft bouquet of lemongrass, melon, and a touch of butterscotch.” He unscrews the top. “The palate opens with a hint of charred grapefruit rind, harvest grasses, and a light scent of caramel.” I nod along, as if I have any idea what “harvest grasses” are supposed to taste like. “It finishes with a strong pepper spice.”
“Oh, I love some spice. Could we have four lime wedges?”
He looks at me like only an absolute heathen would shoot his sipping tequila and destroy the aftertaste of “pepper spice” with a wedge of lime.
“I don’t have any limes.”
