“An unparalleled Adonis,” I reply. “And not for me. Because, like I’ve told you both on multiple occasions, I’m not interested in dating right now. I need to stay focused on school if I’m ever going to—”
Ali holds out a hand, cutting me off.
“Yes, yes, we are all well aware of your intended career trajectory. I still don’t understand what that has to do with getting your needs met. Honestly, you’re wound too tightly for your own good.” She takes a long sip of her margarita. “Just imagine how muchbetter you’d perform in the kitchen if you had someone to”—she wiggles her eyebrows—“loosen you up a bit.” She leans back in her chair and grins. “Speaking of which, I’ve got a date tonight with a guy I met on Hinge. An ob-gyn teaching fellow. For once, I’ll be with someone who doesn’t need a map to find his way around my vagina.”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe he can teach your vagina to have better taste in men.”
Chloe snorts, then picks up her phone again. “You two make me grateful I’m gay. I don’t know what I’d do without these weekly reminders of what I’m not missing.”
I kick her underneath the table, swinging my legs out to the side before she can reciprocate. The two of us have been inseparable since the day Mrs. Stoker paired us as lab partners in ninth-grade biology. So many of my friendships fell apart when Mom died, but Chloe never left my side. We’ve been through everything together over the past decade: boyfriends and breakups, bad grades and first jobs. In many ways, she’s like the sister I never had. Sometimes it feels like she’s the only family I have left.
“So, how are classes going?” Chloe asks, typing furiously.
“They’re going… fine,” Ali answers, doing her best not to meet my eyes. I appreciate her discretion, but frankly, I’m in the mood to vent.
“Yeah, they’re going fine for Ali, because unlike me, she’s mastered the oh-so-difficult technique of adding salt to her food,” I grumble.
“Uh-oh,” Chloe says. “Did your teacher go all Gordon Ramsay on you or what?”
“Something like that.” I grab the pitcher, refilling my glass. “But he does have a point. Maybe I’m not meant to be a chef after all.”
“Not with an attitude like that!” Ali sniffs. “Now cheer up. I can’t have you killing my vibe. My friend Jackie from barre washere last weekend and said the new musical act is fine as hell. And some of us have not taken self-imposed vows of celibacy, thank you very much.”
We order a second pitcher and a side of mozzarella sticks as we wait for the show to begin. But an hour and a half later, the stage is still vacant, and Ali, having realized she has no idea when the show actually starts, has lost interest. She stands, announcing she needs to get ready for her date. Chloe gets up to leave, too. She’s got dinner reservations with a client turned friend at a new fusion place downtown. She invites me to join, but I decline. It’s been a long day and my social battery is drained.
Still, I could use another drink, an excuse to linger and forget about school for a little while longer. So when Chloe and Ali walk out, I hang back, slide onto a barstool, and order my favorite cocktail, a whiskey sour.Just one more,I tell myself. Then I’ll call it a night.
But what appears in front of me moments later is a brutal disappointment. A quick sip confirms it’s got all the key ingredients: bright, biting lemon juice; warm, fragrant bourbon; and a hint of simple syrup. Yet it’s missing its jewelry, the pièce de résistance: the Maraschino cherry.
As usual, I’d requested not one, but two cherries. I like to slide them off the wooden spear with my teeth, rolling them over my tongue to release their tart juices before taking my first sip. But like the rest of the week, this cocktail falls short of expectations. Even the napkin, soggy with condensation from the frosted glass, seems disappointed.
I press my elbows against the sticky, mahogany countertop and lean forward to get the bartender’s attention. “Excuse me?”
It’s no use. He’s deep in conversation with two guys at the other end of the bar, and the Lizzo song on the overhead speakers is drowning out my voice.
Somewhere behind me a woman cackles, and wooden chairlegs scrape noisily against the floor. My face grows hot with irritation, and a dull headache begins to form just around my temples. I should have called it a night when my friends did. I could be wallowing on my sofa right now, remote in one hand and a glass of Chardonnay in the other. At home, I could have as many goddamn cherries as I want. Turning back to the bar, I make one last attempt at getting the bartender’s attention.
“Excuse me?” I say it louder this time, so loud that I’m practically shouting. But it’s no use. Frustrated, I sulk back against my barstool. I’m just about to grab my purse and slap a few bills on the counter when I hear a voice: “Rough day?”
I look up. There’s a guy sitting a few stools down, a faded white baseball cap emblazoned with a large “G” slung low on his brow. Beneath the brim, his full lips stretch into an amused smile.
“You could say that.” I flash a perfunctory smile, hoping he’ll take the hint.
He doesn’t. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Just a long week at culinary school.” I sigh. “Turns out soup tastes better when you season it.”
White-cap guy chuckles. It’s a warm, melodic sound that cuts right through the background noise. Normally, this is the point where I’d cut off a conversation with a stranger. But there’s something about him that makes me continue.
“And to add insult to injury, I’m trying to drown my sorrows in a whiskey sour, and the bartender forgot my cherries.” I cringe internally as I hear myself ramble.Why am I telling him all of this?
He studies me, dark eyes flitting over my face. Then he leans over, reaches an arm over the bar, scoops up an entire handful of cherries with a napkin, and hands them to me.
“Hey! You can’t just take those!” I glance around nervously, wondering if the bartender saw.
“You said you wanted cherries.” He shrugs. “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you.’”
My face flushes. “Yeah, thanks.” I turn away, burying my face in my drink. Great.Now I’ve offended a well-intentioned stranger. Bang-up day all around, Lexi.
