Page 6 of The Wedding Shake-up

“Hey,” I say.

Gabe’s expression could scare off a shark. “You’re back for more.”

I see. We’re picking up the fight right where we left off. “The wedding is over. The reception was only a dinner.”

He dries a hurricane glass. “You aren’t worried about attracting another case of crabs?”

Mendo laughs so hard, he chokes on his spit.

I scoot the menu away. “I figure I’ve already been exposed.”

The woman with the colored drink taps her long fingernails on the bar. “Get her one of these on our tab. She looks like she could use it.”

Gabe sizes me up. “It’ll be on the house.”

I don’t want to insult the woman or her choice of drink, but that looks like a sugar bomb with the alcohol content of a Shirley Temple. “Maybe I’ll just have a beer.”

“You have to try it,” the woman insists. “It’s his own invention, created in honor of his great love, who turned out to be a mermaid.”

Oh, the things I could say. I pinch my lips to keep my mouth shut. Gabe has the good sense to avoid commenting.

The woman realizes I’m not convinced. “And it’s a love potion.”

I drop my shoes to the sand at the base of the chair and set my clutch on my lap. This is definitely more entertaining than staring at the wall of my hotel room.

I nod at the woman. “You’re right. If it’s his tribute to his mermaid enchantress, created to make others fall in love, then I guess I can’t pass it up.”

Gabe heaves a sigh, shooting a dagger look at Mendo.

He shrugs. “Give the people what they want.”

Gabe pulls a collins glass from the rack near his head and fills it with ice. Even if I’d rather not ingest something so sweet, I’m curious to watch his technique. Layered drinks aren’t easy, especially with that many colors.

Red, orange, green, blue. The green and blue interest me the most. Midori shouldn’t go above juice or below blue curaçao. The density is wrong. He must be cutting it with something.

The bar where I work doesn’t encourage us to make drinks this complex. It’s a hole-in-the-wall, catering to cheap well drinks and beer. Even a margarita machine is too far-fetched.

But my sister Ensley likes her fruity drinks, so I practice on her. We’ve all lived together outside Atlanta for the last two years.

Only when we return, Ensley will be gone. She’s married now.

The thought sobers me. I still have Lila and little Rosie, of course. But it’s hitting me. The big sister we’ve relied on for decades is officially somewhere else. We’re on our own.

“Why the long face?” Mendo asks. “You’re getting a free drink at a beautiful beach on the most glorious island in the world.”

I straighten my expression. Maybe I’ve listened to a thousand sad tales from the other side of the bar for years, but I’m not about to become one.

“Post-wedding blues,” a woman says, taking a sip of her drink. “Nothing like weddings and funerals to make you take stock of your life.” She stirs absently as her gaze drifts to the ocean, and the various layers mix and swirl, spoiling the effect.

I glance at Gabe to see if he’s noticed or cares, but he’s carefully sinking the grenadine to the bottom of the glass. “Go light on the sugar,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow, as if I’ve asked him to paint devil horns on theMona Lisa.

“Itissweet,” the woman says. “So watch out. It goes down like Kool-Aid.”

“I like my drinks subtle,” I say.

Gabe pauses. “This drink is about as subtle as a rainbow unicorn farting cotton candy.”

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