Page 59 of Every Beautiful Mile

“You aren’t allowed to touch anything unless I say,” I tell him, pulling my hair up into a messy bun and rolling the sleeves of my flannel shirt up. “You’re a disaster.”

I assess the bar. Tickets are still hanging from the printer and at least five empty glasses sit in front of customers.

“What the hell have you been doing back here?” I grab a couple of empty bottles set on a random ledge and drop them into the trash. “It looks like you let a bunch of frat boys run rampant.”

I pluck the line of tickets out of the printer and skim through them.

“Look.” He grinds his teeth and rubs the back of his head. “Obviously, I know this isn’t going well, or I wouldn’t accept your help. So, please. Just. Help!”

He emphasizes the last words with an irritated bark in his voice, which I ignore.

“Take this.” I hand him a highlighter. “I want you to go through and mark off the ones you can handle, which, based on what I’ve seen, is only beer or wine. Maybe.” I shoot him a doubtful look. “Leave the cocktail tickets here.” I point to a ledge. “I’ll catch the bar up while you do that. I’m not bothering to learn the computer system; you can eat the cost of these drinks until we get caught up.”

He snatches the highlighter from my hand with a curt, “Fine.”

“Miss, do you know how to make a cocktail that doesn’t taste like piss?” a man with an amused look asks across the bar, loudly enough for Ethan to hear.

Ethan shoots him a glare.

I grin.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Then we’ll take a couple of Manhattans, and the ladies here would like some margaritas on the rocks.”

“You got it,” I say, feeling a sweet buzz of adrenaline crackle through me.

The bar is a mess, but I make myself at home, switching bottles out on the well rack and making a mental note of the garnishes. My rubber boots squeak as I move across the thick mats that cover the floor. As far as I am from home, it feels just as familiar.

I grab the shaker, making a show of spinning it in my palm then throwing it from one hand to the other before grabbing the tequila and pouring it in.

I laugh and take a playful bow as I get small applause, then make quick work of halving and juicing limes before adding the rest of the ingredients. I shake, strain, garnish, and serve the margaritas like I have hundreds of times before.

Only this time, it’s different. Like I’m a musician making my comeback tour, it’s my hour of reinvention. I’m not the sad, stuck bartender on Key Largo that everyone knows. I’m just… me.

“Margaritas.”

I hold them up proudly and place them on the napkins in front of the two women, then move quickly to make the Manhattans.

The man who ordered sips his and hums out a moan.

“That’s damn good, miss. A helluva lot better than whatever Ethan made me.”

He mockingly lifts his glass toward Ethan and laughs.

“Funny, Mike,” Ethan says flatly over his shoulder as he highlights tickets and puts bottles of beer on trays.

“You have a name?” the man asks me.

“Thank you very much.” I beam. “And my name is Nel.”

“Well, Nel.” He pauses, taking another sip.

I freeze, waiting for the fallout from hearing those two familiar words stitched together, shocked when it never comes.

He smacks his lips with an ah! “You make a mean drink.” He holds up his glass in approval before turning back to the group he’s with.

I continue to work like it’s the most thrilling thing in life while Ethan stays quiet aside from random mutterings I ignore. I’m having too much fun—feeling far too alive—to deal with his devolved personality.

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