Chapter 4

Mel went first, reminding herself not to mention the divorce. This was a party, and her divorce, while probably the biggest life change she'd ever experienced, was not a fun topic. She took a deep breath and started speaking as soon as Bebe pressed the timer: "Bartended my whole life; not really in touch with my folks; no drama or anything, just drifted apart; grew up on the Jersey Shore; moved to New York at twenty"—no need for further details there—"childhood was fine and a little boring!" The final syllable coincided perfectly with the beep of the timer. Twenty seconds.

Bebe's turn was even more impressive: "Born in Austin, law school in Boston, got the job I wanted, parents in Jakarta, I was the apple of their eye as a kid, still am, BOOM! Seven point three-five seconds." She proudly brandished the phone.

"Jakarta?" Mel said, stunned.

"They like the heat." Bebe shrugged. "But forget all that. We're past boring now. I get to start asking the real questions." She wiggled in her seat as if gearing herself up.

Mel smiled despite herself. All that enthusiasm was infectious. "Okay, go ahead. I'm an open book." She took another bite of her food and hoped that Bebe wouldn't ask about past relationships.

Bebe took a sip of her mimosa, staring at Mel over the rim like she was seriously contemplating her line of questioning. She certainly had the dramatic flair for a courtroom, though Mel's knowledge of that world was based solely on early seasons of Law Order.

Finally Bebe set her drink down and asked, "What's your biggest dream?"

"Oh," Mel said, covering her discomfort with a sip of her drink, "so we're not messing around here, huh?"

"Nope." Bebe popped her lips on the word. "Come on, spill. Do you want to see the northern lights? Run with the bulls? Hike the Appalachian Trail? What?"

Mel smiled down at her glass. "Nothing that cool, I promise."

"So there is something." Her soft hand made the lightest smack of contact against Mel's biceps. "Whatever it is, I want to hear it. Rules are rules, Mel."

Mel downed her drink and poured herself another. "Okay." She'd had a few; she could stand to be honest at this point. "I want to open my own bar."

Bebe's mouth fell open in undisguised delight. "Really? That's amazing!"

"Is it?" Mel took a healthy sip of her fresh mimosa. "It's a ton of work for not a lot of reward, usually. Plus I'd need capital, a business plan, investors. Not to mention the real estate and permits and—"

"Okay, while I appreciate the realistic outlook, I'm more interested in the non-nightmare part of your dream," Bebe said, her smile growing. She leaned closer, her chin propped in her hand. "What would it be like, your bar?"

Mel told her. She described a menu that was hers from top to bottom, a veritable journey through her bartending career, all the drinks she'd ever poured into a glass with her blood and sweat metaphorically mixed in. She noted especially the low- and no-alcohol options. Prices would be as reasonable as she could make them. Wherever it was located, Mel would make sure it offered community space because a bar, in her dream world, should be more than a place to get a drink. She wanted book clubs and knitting circles and activists rotating through on a regular basis. She wanted queer people to feel like they were being catered to, not merely tolerated. If she could ever open her own place, it would be a complete reflection of her. It would be everything she wanted in a bar: good ventilation, comfortable seating, no frills.

And it would have a fucking ramp, because honest to god, how did anyone with a cane or wheelchair live in this city without going absolutely apeshit on all the establishments that didn't give them access?

"Well, actually," Bebe broke in at that point, "the issue of ADA codes in New York is pretty fascinating if you—" She glanced at Mel's face and saw her incredulous look. "Sorry. Lawyer brain. Switching over to ‘bowled over by your amazing vision' brain." She mimed turning a key next to her ear.

"Yeah, right." Mel pitched her voice into a goofy register. "My vision."

"Hey, Mel," Cilla piped up from across the table, "if you plan on opening your own bar someday, you should definitely check out Food Fest. Are you going?"

"Uh, no. Not this year," Mel said. She'd almost forgotten the other people at the party. "But I've been before."

It was technically true. Tickets for the weeklong event started at nine hundred bucks, way too much for a bartender who'd blown all her savings years ago on a farmhouse wedding upstate. (Her ex-wife had insisted on the farmhouse.) To help pay off the credit card bills, Mel had picked up a gig serving Finger Lakes Riesling at one of the many Food Fest stalls. Her experience with the event was limited to an endless stream of out-of-towners demanding more generous pours and leaving her sad tip bucket empty. She guessed that at nine hundred a pop, people thought they were entitled to as much free booze as they could put away. Toward the end of the first day, the Javits Center had been heaving with drunk people. The restrooms were a war zone. Fights broke out over taxis. It was a total shitshow. Mel had barely escaped with her shoes free of puke.

"Isn't it fun?" Cilla asked with a pleasant smile. "Anyway, you should look into entering the cocktail competition."

Mel almost choked on her mimosa. "The what?"

"The cocktail competition at Food Fest," they repeated, absorbed in cutting into their piece of frittata. "They're making an effort to include more mixology in the lineup. The winner gets two hundred thousand dollars."

Mel nearly choked again, this time on a bite of coffee cake. "How much?" Then, realizing that no one else at the table had so much as batted an eye at the number, she cleared her throat and said, in a much more level tone, "Not bad for a day's work, I guess."

"That's not all," Cilla said, politely skipping over Mel's embarrassing reaction. "The winning cocktail becomes the Official Drink of New York for an entire year." They spoke in unmistakable capital letters. "Which means it'll be on the menu for lots of hoity-toity official events and fundraisers, that kind of thing."

"So the mayor will have to try it?" Bebe's red lips quirked into a grin. "Are cocktails vegan?"

"Who cares about the mayor?" CJ scoffed. "Everyone who's anyone in this town will be drinking it by the bucketful. The prize money is nice, I imagine, but it's the potential investors that are really valuable." He lifted his brows at Mel meaningfully, then made the international "money" gesture by rubbing his fingertips together.

Mel's thoughts were in a whirl, but they were interrupted by Callen, who chimed in once more. "Adam Lavender is going to be one of the judges, I think. He owns that place in Toronto—dear, what was the name of that bar? We had those edible woodland dioramas with the moss that was actually cake?"

"Ill Intentions," CJ said.

"That's it! Oh, he's a genius."

"I've heard of him," Mel offered. That was putting it mildly. Everyone knew who Adam Lavender was. He'd practically invented molecular mixology. Or reinvented it. Put it on the map, for sure. Half the cocktails in Manhattan lounges were rip-offs of Lavender originals. Mel couldn't imagine having him drink something she'd made. "He's really judging the competition?"

"Oh yes. We insisted on a big name," Cilla said. "The city and the Fest are expecting a lot of attention for this competition. The theme is supposed to be ‘The City That Never Sleeps,' so I bet you'll get a ton of coffee-flavored drinks." They made a face.

Mel knew that look; it was the look of someone who'd had one too many espresso martinis at some point in their life and lived to regret it.

CJ groaned. "Boring! Everyone knows how to make an Irish coffee. A child could do it."

"Well, we probably shouldn't allow a child to try," Kade said, making a rare comment instead of focusing on eating their fruit salad as they had been for the last several minutes. "I imagine we'll see an awful lot of everything-bagel seasoning, unfortunately. The judges will be picking seeds out of their teeth after every sip."

The dry tone was so cutting, Mel felt her face heat. She mentally excluded bagel-flavored anything from her list of possible ingredients.

Not that she was going to enter the competition. But if she did—

"What would you make, Mel?" Bebe asked. She swept her hair over one shoulder as she turned to pin her with a look. "You're the professional here."

All eyes trained on her, making it impossible to think. "I'm not sure," she said. What screamed New York in a glass? A Bloody Mary with pizza seasoning in the tomato juice? A dirty martini with a kosher pickle instead of an olive? A tribute to Harlem—both the cocktail and the place—with a pineapple shrub and cayenne pepper? Could you try to encompass all of Queens and Brooklyn with a wild mixture of spirits imported from Asia, Latin America, and the Caribbean? Probably not, but damn if it wouldn't be fun to try.

Not that she planned on trying.

Mel felt a gentle nudge at her ribs, dispelling her ill-conceived daydreams. She turned to find Bebe leaning close, her elbow still winging out to the side. "Something to think about."

Before Mel could protest that she wasn't going to think about it because she had no intention of entering some bullshit competition, Bebe turned to Dez and asked her about her last trip to the Poconos. The conversation moved on, and Mel was left feeling—some kind of way.

She poked at the remaining bits of food on her plate. Almost a quarter of a million dollars was more money than she'd ever dreamed of having in one lump sum; even with her paltry rent and minimal expenses, her savings account was practically nonexistent. Money like that might actually get her concept off the ground, a bar of her own. A place where she had creative control over curation, where she wouldn't have to sling a bunch of shitty fizzes just because the owner had signed a deal with some liquor label that was desperate to be top shelf.

She guessed it wouldn't hurt to look into the competition. See what the rules were. Professional curiosity, nothing more.

Brunch came to a close once everyone had eaten their fill, and the guests drifted back into the living area. Some people were already getting into their coats and saying their goodbyes.

Mel figured she should use the bathroom before she left. Her personal rule of one glass of water per one alcoholic beverage was great for keeping her head clear, not so great for her squirrel-sized bladder. CJ was in the downstairs bathroom, so Bebe pointed the way up the stairs. Mel left her, Kade, and Dez all chatting about plans they had for a shopping excursion.

As Mel ascended the stairs, teal and pink walls came into view, the candy colors a big contrast from the downstairs' muted earth tones.

Soon the murmur of conversation below her fell away, and she found herself in the quiet world of Bebe and Kade's private life. There were three framed black-and-white photographs on the wall of the hallway that showed the two of them artistically posed with their faces close together. Mel let herself contemplate them for a moment, then padded down the hall, nudging open doors as she went. She found what must have been two guest bedrooms—although one bedroom looked kind of lived-in: a blank sketchpad open on the desk under the window, a pair of socks crumpled on the floor. Maybe Kade used it as an office? At any rate, no attached bathrooms in those.

Finally, she reached the largest bedroom.

It was an incredible space, all done in dreamy creams and light blues with a velveteen wallpaper behind the upholstered headboard. Mel's eye was drawn helplessly to the bed, which dominated the room, impressive especially given the constraints of most New York apartments. It could probably fit the entire Knicks starting lineup. Mel's fingertips itched to touch the silky-looking comforter.

She opened a door that turned out to be a walk-in closet before finally finding the bathroom. It was as well-appointed as the rest of the place, and Mel used it quickly. As she made her way back, Mel could hear low whispers in the living room. Her steps slowed at the top of the staircase. She thought she heard her name—but that was ridiculous. Lots of things sounded like "Mel." Tell. Sell. Well.

Fell.

Mel cleared her throat before she could be accused of eavesdropping.

"So it's settled?" Bebe's voice carried, even at a whisper. "I'll ask her?"

Mel's hand froze on the banister. Maybe they had been talking about her. Or possibly Dez, the only other "her" at the party.

"It's fine with me." Kade's deep rumble was so quiet compared to Bebe. "But don't be too disappointed if it doesn't pan out, Love."

So Kade had a cute epithet for Bebe as well. Maybe they weren't the immovable glacier that Mel had assumed.

Wait. Rewind. Disappointed about what? Mel frowned to herself. She couldn't picture Bebe allowing anything to disappoint her.

"I promise in the unlikely event that things don't go as planned, I will manage," Bebe said with a throaty laugh. Then her voice got quieter, but only a little. "Come here, you." Mel could hear the sounds of two people kissing. A soft, distant smack of lips meeting again and again.

Okay. Overhearing a couple's conversation was one thing. Listening in on their make-out session was approaching creepy. Mel made a show of coughing into her fist, hoping it would give Bebe and Kade plenty of time to break it up while Mel clomped down the stairs.

She nearly ran into Kade, who was coming up the stairs. They both made apologetic eye contact, then did that awkward dance of trying to get out of each other's way.

"Sorry—" Mel said.

"Sorry," Kade muttered.

"I'll just—"

Kade finally managed to duck around her. "It was nice having you here," they said, painfully sincere. "I hope you had a good time." They headed up the stairs before Mel could even thank them for the hospitality.

She turned instead to Bebe, who was beaming up at her. "Thanks for inviting me. This was really great," Mel said. She crossed the living room, gesturing at the coatrack that held only her lone jacket. "I should get going. Shift starts in a few hours."

"Of course, here, let me get that for you." Bebe beat Mel to the rack, holding her coat open so she could more easily slip into it.

"Full service," Mel joked as she turned around to stick her hands into the sleeves. "You're getting a five-star review for sure."

"Listen, before you go, I wanted to ask you—" Bebe lifted Mel's coat over her shoulders, then waited for Mel to turn around and face her. "Would you like to have lunch sometime next week?"

"Lunch?" Mel parroted. Her foolish brain registered the words and computed them as a date, even though she knew that couldn't be what was being offered.

"Kade and I would like to take you somewhere. If you're available?"

Right. Kade. Bebe's wife. See, brain? Not a date.

Bebe's smile turned gentle. A lock of honey-blond hair fell across her eyes, and she swiped it away with her hand, her gaze never leaving Mel. "I thought lunch would be best, seeing as you work nights and probably need to eat before you go in, but if I'm wrong about that—"

"No, no—you're not wrong." Mel should have felt vindicated by the invitation. Clearly she'd comported herself well at brunch if this cool couple wanted to take her out for another meal. And yet her first reaction—instinctual and unwelcome—was that she hadn't done enough to deserve Bebe's friendship. She was still struggling not to be attracted to her, for a start.

Mel steeled herself. She had to get over this mental block that kept telling her to retreat from everyone. She was divorced, not dead, damn it. She could have lunch with new friends. She could even have a tiny crush, so long as she didn't act on it. No harm in that. "Lunch is perfect. Any day, really."

"Yeah?" Bebe's eyes were bright. She gave a pleased wiggle. "Wonderful! It's been so lovely getting to know you today. I thought, ‘Why not keep it going?'?"

"Yeah," Mel said. "Let's… keep it going."

"Oh, you have no idea how happy that makes me." Bebe's hand slid over hers and squeezed for less than an eyeblink before falling away. "Do you like Mediterranean food?"

"Sure. Who doesn't?"

"I'll text you all the details." And with one final grin and a swirl of fabric, Bebe swept toward the door to see Mel out.