Chapter 9

Dating casually was easy. All Mel had to do was pretend to be a completely different person forever.

Not that dating Bebe was a chore. They went to interesting restaurants that Bebe seemed to sniff out like a bloodhound; they went on long walks along the East River when the weather cooperated; they told each other about how work was going and laughed at each other's funny stories. And the sex—Mel really looked forward to that. It was like a part of her had been unlocked, and every hour spent in bed with Bebe gave her another chance to indulge in it. Bebe didn't complain that all their dates ended with them sleeping together—and in fact was very vocal about how much she enjoyed herself, both during and after—so Mel didn't feel too bad about it.

Still, it didn't feel natural. Not to Mel, who had only been with one other person in her entire life. And they'd been serious from the jump. Mel was fighting every instinct she had to treat Bebe the same way.

She was chewing on the rising discomfort as she came home from yet another date with Bebe. It was a Monday, which meant Mel wasn't working. Neither was Daniel, and she found him sprawled on the sofa in pajamas watching Casablanca.

"Weren't you supposed to hang with Jackson today?" she asked as she locked the door.

"He got called in to cover for someone. Sad trombone." Jackson worked at a white-tablecloth mainstay up in Midtown. Daniel ate a palmful of popcorn, not taking his eyes off Bogart's flashback. "You're not sleeping over at Bebe's tonight?"

Mel had done that a couple Mondays in a row. And Sundays. And they had been wonderful sleepovers with the condo all to themselves. (Kade had made themself scarce and was, Mel assumed, staying with another partner.) But tonight…

"Nah," she said, hanging up her coat. "I don't want to get too comfortable, you know?" She made her way to the sofa and waited for Daniel to lift his legs so she could sit down.

His legs settled heavy across her thighs. "What do you mean? I thought things were going well with her."

Mel snorted and stole a handful of his popcorn. "They are. Too well." Bebe was—so chill. If Mel wanted to meet for lunch because it was the only free time she had that week, Bebe said yes. If Mel wanted to sleep over in Bebe's huge, amazing bed, Bebe said yes. If Mel wanted to fuck against those huge plate-glass windows in Bebe's condo to see what this exhibitionism thing was about—

Well. She'd definitely said yes to that. Multiple times.

Mel shook herself. "We've got a good arrangement going," she said. "I don't want it to change."

Daniel paused the movie so that Rick and Louis were frozen in the middle of witty repartee. He turned his head to grin at her. "Mel. Do you… like-like this woman?"

Mel crossed her arms over her chest, resting them atop Daniel's shins. "Don't be so juvenile."

"You're the one turning down a sleepover at Casa Bebe because you're afraid of catching feelings."

"I am not catching—!"

"Like you always do," he added with a nail-in-the-coffin sort of finality.

Mel felt her teeth grinding. She hated being a stereotype, but what else could you call a lesbian who married the first woman she'd ever slept with? Dating someone at seventeen and marrying them at twenty-two had been a bad idea in hindsight. Mel knew she should have waited; should have done a lot more growing up before settling down. But even as a little kid, Mel had pictured herself as an all-in, always-and-forever, till-death, etc., kind of person. At the time, she'd thought marriage was as aspirational as it was inevitable.

Now? "I've got bigger fish to fry," she informed Daniel, taking another fistful of popcorn as recompense for his jab. "The competition, for one."

Daniel munched on more popcorn, too. "Have you heard back about your application?"

"No, not yet. But I'm going to assume I'm in and work on my cocktail in the meantime. Hopefully that will give me an extra edge." She made a face. "I need all the help I can get after that Marinara Mary." The pizza-flavored Bloody Mary she'd concocted for Daniel last week had not been her best work. Herby tomato/vodka sauce in a glass? Way too muddled, and not in the fun way.

"Come on, it wasn't that bad. I still think you could shove a garlic knot garnish on that thing and call it a day." Daniel mimed taking a photo with an invisible phone. "Very 'grammable."

Mel pretended to gag. "I'd rather drink broken glass than have that be the reason I win. Play the damn movie."

They watched the last half of Casablanca, Daniel falling asleep before the airport scene like he always did.

The next day, Mel left early for her shift, eager to try out some ideas she'd jotted down in her ratty notebook. She'd been thinking about fat-washing some bourbon (which was just a fancy way of infusing a spirit with something oily) and was wondering if apples would be the right way to introduce fruity notes. Plenty of the contestants were probably going to do some play on the Big Apple, in keeping with the New York theme, so Mel was determined to do something different to set her drink apart. The two thoughts collided in her head while she was walking to TV: apple butter.

It was a play on words, since real apple butter didn't have any fat, but that didn't mean Mel couldn't make a compound butter with the requisite apples, brown sugar, and spices and use that for her fat-wash. She quickened her pace, dodging slow walkers and tiny dogs so she could get to work.

Terror Virtue boasted top-of-the-line equipment in the back for making all kinds of cocktail ingredients, which was a real blessing. The blast chiller could work its magic on the bourbon in under two hours instead of the twenty-four-plus it would take for a normal freezer. Mel was able to stew some apples, make the compound butter, brown it, mix it with the bourbon, and get it separated before the rest of the staff showed up for the evening shift. She was in the middle of straining the mixture off when Daniel appeared in the back, shucking his coat.

"Whoa." He stopped in his tracks instead of heading for his locker. "What is that? It smells like an orchard in here."

"Taste this," Mel ordered, pouring out a small dram of the finished bourbon. "Tell me what you think." She held out the measure for him.

Daniel took it, gave it an appreciative sniff, and sipped at the amber liquid. "Oh my god." He stared down into the glass.

Mel watched his face nervously. "Oh my god, good? Oh my god, bad?"

"Oh my god, you could serve this to the judges with a fucking straw and nothing else." He took another sip, downing the remainder and surfacing with a satisfied ahhhh. "You know me, I'm a pi?a colada girlie, not a whiskey drinker—but this is amazing."

Mel felt her lips stretching into a wide smile. "Thanks, but I don't think I can get away with serving bourbon neat at Food Fest. It'll just be one component of the drink."

"Are you sure? Because I think she's perfect as is." Daniel held out his empty glass and waggled it in the universal gesture for refill, please.

"Sorry, bud, I need to save the rest of her for more tests." Mel capped the bottle and wrote out a label that said MEL'S APPLE THING—DO NOT TOUCH. Her mind was already awhirl with possibilities. She could use the bourbon in an old-fashioned, something that screamed Central Park in the autumn. Warm and spicy and crisp. Damn, Mel couldn't wait until she saw Bebe again so she could tell her about it. She was going to be all over it.

Mel paused in the middle of placing the handwritten label on the face of the bottle. Shit. That was not the reaction of a chill person having no-strings-attached sex with their—not-girlfriend. That was the reaction of a very unchill person who was chomping at the bit to show their not-girlfriend the cool thing they'd made.

"Hey," Daniel said, startling her from her reverie, "you okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Just… thinking." Mel gave him a weak smile.

"Well, don't let me stop you." He unwound his scarf and headed for the bank of lockers, calling over his shoulder as he went, "If you keep this up, you're a shoo-in for that prize money."

Right. The competition. The money. That's what mattered, not her fling with Bebe. Mel finished smoothing the label on the bourbon. She needed to focus. Bebe was like training wheels. Mel could practice dating someone, sleeping with someone, sharing meals and walks and laughs with someone—while not falling in love. As long as she did that, she'd be fine.