Page 18 of Girls Will Be Girls
“I’ll be sure to buy you a drink on the big day.”
Her smile grows. “I’ll hold you to it.”
“Okay, well thanks again.” I lift my duffel bag onto my shoulder, digging straight back into its original dent in my skin. “I’ll see you in three hours.”
She waves me off out into the burning sun, my pale skin already begging for an ice bath or another few seconds in that lounge shower. How can I be this sweaty again so soon?
I wasn’t expecting it to be this hot. I mean, I know I’m in Nevada in the middle of summer, but I can see mountains, and I’m by a lake. Shouldn’t that have some kind of cooling effect? I even checked the weather before I left, it was meant to be mild, enjoyable heat — not I want to peel my skin off for release kind of heat.
I’m used to New York summers. I didn’t think anything could be as hot as millions of people sardined on an island without much AC.
But it seems I was wrong.
I wheel my suitcase behind me on the stoned path, hopping from the shade of one pine tree to the next. Two doors down, I find a large log cabin with a neon sign that says‘The BarrenBush’and‘Open’lit up in front. I’m almost too hot to laugh at the name.
I don’t know why I thought the local bar would be a little more… glam.
When your magazine sends you to spend two whole weeks writing stories about the top well-being activities of the Lake Tahoe elite on the Nevada side, you assume, because most of them come from L.A. anyway, that every bar will look like, well, like every bar in L.A.. This place looks decidedly unlike the Sunset Strip and more country tavern.
I kind of love it. The perfect comfort after an astonishingly bad couple of hours.
I step into the dark room and heave myself onto a bar stool, my luggage crashing down next to me. The lack of windows seems to be keeping the worst of the heat out — makes me thankful for the moody decor. Along the dark wooden walls, there are random memorabilia dotted in place of said windows that seem to have no theme. There’s a map of the lake, a few Canadian number plates — why? —, and a bookshelf filled with nothing but old cookbooks.
There are some fairy lights along the bar, the red leather booths framing the room complement the studded black stools in the middle, and the floor looks as sticky as I feel.
It’s the dive to end all dives.
A ridiculously tall guy with a few wispy grays in his dark hair appears from behind the bar and nods at me to ask my order.
“Tequila soda, please.” I let out a sigh as I lean onto the bar.
He gestures to the row of booze. “Any preference?”
I consider the wall for a moment. “Whichever is easiest to reach.”
Someone down the bar chuckles, but before I can turn to look, the bartender slaps a coaster down in front of me.
“Holiday?” He lifts an eyebrow while pouring my drink.
“Work.” I correct and stretch my hand out to him. “I’m Louisa. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of me.”
He wipes his hand on a tea towel before whipping it onto his shoulder like a classic tough-guy bartender.
“Willie.” He shakes my hand firmly. “I hope you’re a good tipper.”
I laugh as he places my drink in front of me, a lime wedge and paper straw in it. Willie gets me.
I take a sip, spinning in my chair, when suddenly the straw falls out of my gaping mouth.
“No way,”I whisper.
“Yes, way.”
“What are you doing here?” I basically screech. “Are you actually, like, for real stalking me?”
Lou lifts his hands up in surrender and laughs. “I swear, honestly, I’m not.”
“What are you doing here?” I repeat.
